Only she isn’t on the Champs-Elysées. She’s nowhere near anywhere the cyclists’ wheels have been. I don’t know where she is. I can guess. But she’s permitting no access. No laminated pass can provide entry. No eavesdropping allowed. She wants no interference. She doesn’t need me. She needs privacy. We can give her that. She’s entitled. We trust her. We know she’s strong enough.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Alex, pretty pissed, demands jovially when Cat turns up an hour later, at the infamous James Joyce pub just a stone’s throw from the Concorde Lafayette hotel. She gives Alex a friendly whack. She stands still. Takes stock of where she is. Takes a deep breath.

‘I need a drink,’ she says.

Alex goes to the bar and Cat turns to Josh. ‘It was tough,’ she says, ‘I left before pudding. It’s good to be back.’ Josh nods, Alex returns and while he rambles on, Cat looks around her. Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen are supping pints. She sees Rachel and André sitting on bar stools, heads close, his hand on her knee, her hand over his, Rachel talking animatedly, André listening attentively. They suit each other. In some ways, they hold a mirror to Cat; being thrilled for her friend is being happy for herself too.

My God, it’s Greg LeMond. Alex has great pleasure in introducing Cat to the legendary American three-times Tour winner, still the same fresh-faced bright blue-eyed boy whom she has revered for years. The decibel level is as high as people’s spirits, the Guinness is as rich as the experiences being recounted. Laughter flows with the conversation, warmth envelops the proceedings. Luca and Ben turn up soon after and Cat whiles away the night until the early hours; the morning of the day when she will leave France, leave all of this, all of them, to return home.

She and Ben go to bed at 4 a.m., rather drunk and absolutely exhausted. They don’t have sex. They can’t keep their eyes open. They’re too tired. Like everyone else who, in whatever capacity, has done this year’s Tour de France.

DAY 27. MONDAY

Cat McCabe

Here she is. On the ferry. Was it only three and a half weeks ago that she clung to the railings, dreading the white cliffs of Dover disappearing from view and the great unknown unfolding before her? She is scorning the direction of travel to gaze wistfully at France, longing the land mass to remain in view. Oh, to time-travel backwards. That it all could be starting again.

Alex and Josh, where are they?

They’re down in the bar, of course.

And Rachel?

She’ll be on the road, driving the truck, everything shipshape and in order.

And Ben?

He’s just phoned.

But where is he?

At the airport, accompanying Luca to the specialist in Colorado.

And the other riders?

Some will take a few days’ respite from competition to train, of course. Others go headlong in to a round of Criterium races where, as heroes of the Tour de France, they’re paid a sizeable start fee. August is a month full of Classics, of World Cup rounds. And then, of course, the grand tour of Spain, the Vuelta, in just under five weeks’ time.