Ultimately she was glad not to have seen the finish live. She would not have been accountable for her behaviour in the salle de pressé had she done so.

‘Fen! It’s on, come on!’ Pip yelled, opening two packets of crisps in preparation. ‘Salt and Vinegar or Beef and Mustard?’

‘S.A.V.,’ whispered Fen, taking a seat on her settee next to her sister and passing her a bottle of Seize – a daily tradition since their return from France. They watched in informed silence and phoned Django during the adverts.

‘That’s Cat boyfriend’s young rider,’ Pip informed her uncle of Luca.

‘So is Hunter,’ Fen added.

‘Hunter is her boyfriend too?’ Django asked, a little disconcerted, wondering whether yet another of his nieces was hopelessly bigamous.

‘No!’ Pip laughed.

‘Same team,’ Fen explained.

‘Well,’ said Django, clearing his voice and taking a glug of gin and tonic, ‘you can’t blame me for asking – she may have taken a leaf out of your book, Fenella.’

Fenella bit her lip.

‘Fen still can’t make her mind up, Django,’ Pip informed him.

‘Can’t she palm one off on to you?’ Django reasoned very earnestly. ‘Am I going to meet this boyfriend doctor of Cat’s?’

‘Not unless you jet out to Colorado,’ Fen said glumly.

‘Quick! It’s on again!’ Pip exclaimed, ordering her uncle to phone them when the programme finished.

The Stage was fast and furious and in the 350 metre finishing straight, the unthinkable, the terrible, the desperately unfair happened.

‘Oh, fuck,’ Fen gasped.

‘Luca’s down.’

‘So’s Jesper.’

‘Sassetta’s won the Stage.’

‘That means he’s taken the green jersey.’

‘Jesper’s up.’

‘Luca isn’t.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’

Luca regained consciousness in the ambulance and was in absolute agony.

‘You’ve broken your collar bone. You have concussion,’ someone was telling him.

‘I’m fine,’ said Luca valiantly, ‘I need to get back on my bike.’

‘You need to get X-ray,’ the paramedic told him.

‘But my bike!’ Luca cried. He tried to sit up but searing pain prevented him. This could not be happening. He had to finish the Stage. There were less than 100 metres to go. He knew just how he was going to ride them. ‘Let me out!’ he yelled, the paramedic’s shrug of pity serving only to aggravate Luca’s emotional pain and physical frustration. ‘I have to finish the Stage – you don’t understand.’

‘Sure I understand,’ said the paramedic with typical Gallic defensiveness that his judgement should be so questioned, ‘you need to finish the Stage or you are out of the Tour de France.’

‘Exactly,’ Luca said croakily, ‘so fucking let me out – please.’

‘You are out of the Tour de France,’ the paramedic said excruciatingly slowly, a matter of fact, a subject closed, a dream denied, before giving Luca a shot of sedative.

The information filtered through on Radio Tour before Cat had left the team car which then turned on a sixpence and roared off, under police escort, to the hospital. Ben was already there. He walked briskly to converse with the directeur, hardly acknowledging Cat’s presence, indeed turning his back on her as the Megapac personnel discussed the situation.