The village at La Chaux de Fonds was extremely crowded. The caged area in the centre of town delineating those with passes from those without was anathema to the memory of architect Le Corbusier whose birthplace this was. Accredited people mooched about within the confines, avoiding eye contact or establishing it quite brazenly with the clamouring members of the public who circumnavigated the enclosure and craved the rectangle of laminated plastic that would permit entry. Children outside clutching autograph books whose pages were bare, stared imploringly at the children of guests who milled about, bedecked with freebies and collecting autographs from any rider they saw. Cat contemplated how many of those outside would probably be far more appreciative of a pass than those who had them. She herself felt humbled, privileged; but also proud and just a little smug.

Look at me. I’m part of this club, this family. And I know you wish you were too. But I appreciate my very good fortune. I will nod at riders for you. Aren’t I lucky?

‘Cat,’ said Ben, presenting two men to her, ‘this is Mitch Mulready, General Manager of Team US Megapac.’ Cat beamed at Mitch, a portly man in his fifties, with mirrored sunglasses and a toothsome smile.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Mulready,’ she gushed, her hand swallowed between both of his in a lengthy handshake.

‘And this,’ said Ben, touching her elbow, knowing instinctively when to curtail what would otherwise be a stream of sycophantic cyclespeak from Cat, ‘this is Jeremy Whittle.’

‘Hullo,’ said the man, extending his hand for the shaking.

‘Hullo,’ Cat responded, though her hand was practically numb from Mitch’s grasp, ‘weren’t you English?’

‘I still am!’ Jeremy laughed.

‘I mean – you were big in cycling correspondence in the UK?’

‘That’s right,’ Jeremy confirmed.

‘He’s now big in cycling correspondence in the US,’ Mitch interjected, slapping Jeremy firmly between the shoulder blades.

‘Jez now heads up the cycling division of Sportsworld,’ Ben furthered, referring to America’s premier sports publishing house.

‘Cycle, Pedal Power, Road Race, Mountain Bike, Jersey,’ Jeremy listed affectionately, as if naming his pets.

‘How fantastic,’ breathed Cat, excited to learn of two new titles and hoping they’d be available in England.

‘I’ve enjoyed your reports for the Guardian, I used to work with Taverner,’ Jeremy said. ‘I might well have some work for you – Ben said Luca gave you an exclusive?’

‘Yes,’ said Cat forlornly, remembering Maillot’s lack of enthusiasm, ‘but that was before he won his Stage, you see.’

‘He’s a rider to be reckoned with,’ Jeremy said soberly. ‘Perhaps you could let me have a read?’

Cat grinned from ear to ear, humbly accepted Jeremy’s business card and gave him one of hers.

‘Fancy a ride in the team car?’ Mitch asked her, as if it was an invitation no more enticing than a cup of coffee from Maison du Café. It was as if the ground beneath her feet began to undulate, as if a shaft of sunlight shot through her from a break in the clouds to radiate out from every pore.