Vasily Jawlensky and Fabian Ducasse ride side by side in truce and mutual respect. Vasily is about to win the Tour de France by a paltry 31 seconds. He ensures Fabian rides a wheel ahead, that he rides a pedal turn behind. Fabian accepts the gesture with good grace. They don’t fight for the final line, they cross it together, a photofinish of the two greatest professional road-race cyclists in the world. Their soigneurs are soon upon them, skipping wet flannels up and down their bodies, but the two men just want to hug each other silently right there in the centre of the media scrum; regardless of how this impedes their soigneurs’ jobs, blind to the barrage of photographers, deaf to the presse firing questions in various languages. Vasily Jawlensky has won the Tour de France, having cycled 3,761.8 kilometres in twenty days, in 91 hours 27 minutes and 44 seconds. Fabian Ducasse took a second over half a minute longer. The Lantern Rouge of the Tour cycled for an extra 3 hours 2 minutes and 39 seconds.

Did Cat cry when Stuart O’Grady took the final Stage win just ahead of Stefano Sassetta and Robbie McEwen? Did she cry when Vasily and Stefano and Carlos Jesu took to the podium? Did she cry when the riders cycled in their teams a final lap of honour? Did she cry when the TV monitors in the salle de pressé were dismantled for the last time? Did she cry when she was handed the final sheets of race results? Did she cry when she placed the last full stop at the end of her final report for the Guardian? What do you think?

She’s dried her eyes, washed her face and donned sunglasses for the sake of anyone who might catch a fright when catching sight of her. She goes to the foyer to check on Ben’s room number. She doesn’t need to. He’s there and, joy of joy, so is Luca.

‘The Babe!’ Luca proclaims, looking far odder for his jeans, trainers and denim shirt than he does for having his arm in a sling.

‘Come to the Megapac dinner,’ Ben suggests, ‘Mitch would love you to be there.’

‘I can’t,’ Cat white lies, ‘I ought to convene with my own team, the press gang.’

‘Later, then,’ says Ben.

‘Of course,’ Cat replies, feeling how Ben makes her bubble, remembering how the other man made her flat. It seemed extraordinary, therefore, that she was to forsake the one in favour of the other tonight.

‘You dance with me later, Gatto?’ Luca asks.

‘Of course,’ Cat assures him.

It’s 10 p.m. Josh and Alex can’t find her. She isn’t in her room and her mobile phone is switched off. Ben says, I thought she was with you. The boys say, we thought she’d be with you. No, haven’t seen her. No, don’t know where she is. Leave a note under her door. She’s probably gone for a stroll. Gone to be self-indulgently metaphysical amidst the debris on the Champs-Elysées which is all that remains of the Tour de France. Yes, that sounds like Cat McCabe.