‘The press are starting to turn up,’ Mitch said and hospital staff ushered them through corridors to a small ante room. The doctor came in, took Ben to one side and spoke in medical terms that transcended language barriers.

‘His collar bone will need pinning,’ Ben explained, ‘they want to do it tonight. I say we give them the go ahead – he’ll be ready for Spain and the Vuelta next month.’

‘Can we see him?’ Cat pleaded.

‘They need to operate now,’ Ben said, tension tangible in his voice, signing forms with the directeur.

‘But he’s all on his own,’ Cat said, her voice trailing off when the directeur regarded her with a certain exasperation.

‘You may see him for a moment,’ the hospital doctor decreed, putting out a hand to prevent Cat from advancing with Ben and Mitch.

‘No presse,’ the doctor said.

‘But I’m Gatto,’ Cat protested. Her distress was of no interest to the Megapac doctor, directeur and chairman who were led through to see Luca.

Ben appeared a few minutes later and put his hand to the back of Cat’s neck. ‘Luca’s devastated, he needs to rest. You can see him tomorrow.’

Ben rubbed the back of his own neck hard. There was a greyness to his skin. He looked exhausted. Cat did not protest though she felt excluded, a little hurt and still desperate to see Luca, to comfort and commiserate. It was a little disconcerting to have Ben as a doctor foremost, rather than her beau. To see him work, suffer, his attention directed elsewhere than on her. Her status was vague.

I feel both flimsy and in the way. I’m not part of the Megapac team. I’m not here to represent the press. My thoughts are for Luca Jones – yet on the face of it, I’m not entitled to feel the same concern as Megapac – and my distress is disproportionate for a member of the press corps.

‘Pardon me, Cat,’ Mitch said, still wearing his mirror sunglasses but not the wide smile. ‘Ben, we need you to give us his condition in normal folk’s language, we have a press conference to prepare.’

‘Sure,’ said Ben.

‘You OK to make your own way back to the salle de pressé?’ the directeur asked Cat. She nodded. Ben and Mitch were too deep in conversation to notice her go.

Feeling a little forsaken for herself, and devastated for Luca, Cat returned to the salle de pressé, today a voluminous tarpaulin on the edge of a serene lake with a McDonalds obviously sent from heaven to be in such close proximity. Not that she was hungry. Neither Josh nor Alex were around. Not that she wanted company. Zucca MV, Système Vipère and US Megapac press conferences were happening one after the other. Not that she was interested.

Cat contemplated her workload.

I have to write 700 words on today’s Stage but I want to devote them entirely to one Luca Jones, noble soldier, brave boy, who fought valiantly for almost three weeks and is currently under the surgeon’s knife.