‘I love it that, whether making love or shagging each other senseless, post orgasm we frequently talk about some fine point of cycle sport,’ Cat muses.

Paris dawned bright, cloudless and absolutely freezing cold. Ben and Cat strolled through the courtyards of the Louvre, through the Tuileries gardens to the Place de la Concorde before catching a cab up to Porte Maillot, to the Palais des Congres de Paris for the launch of next year’s Tour de France. The foyer was packed. For Cat, it was like a family reunion and she wove her way through the throng, hugging and kissing and beaming at everyone; greeting people whom she had known previously by face alone but as if they were established close friends. The expansive grin that she wore, her face full of light and colour, contrasted with her sober black poloneck, black skirt of demure length, opaque black tights and black pumps. ‘I’m working!’ she had protested to a lengthy wolf whistle and a theatrical salute from Ben when she had dressed that morning. ‘I’m a journaliste, remember.’

Is it seemly that a member of the press corps, one who hopes for recognition and respect, should then scurry around collecting posters and goodie bags and swiping the branded anti-macassars from the seats?

But everyone does. See! Look at Josh, he’s asking Vasily Jawlensky for his autograph. And Alex has taken three copies of one poster. Those who follow this fabulous sport do so because they are passionate about pro cycling. We are fans foremost, the luckiest, most blessed of all supporters of the sport, for we are paid to indulge our love for it.

‘Ms McCabe, hullo.’

It was Jeremy Whittle from Sportsworld.

‘Hullo,’ she replied, shaking his hand warmly, ‘you know Ben, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Jeremy replied, giving the doctor a congenial slap.

‘How are you, Jez?’ Ben said.

‘I’m fine – but I want to talk business with Cat before the presentation starts.’

‘I’ve spoken to Rachel McEwen about a profile,’ Cat enthuses, ‘and can I do one on Biarritz – many young riders are choosing it as their base? And I thought, how about a physiological cross comparison of Vasily and Fabian – their resting heartbeats, height, weight, V02 max?’

‘They sound great,’ Jez said, ‘and as Assistant Editor of Pedal Power, you can write whatever you like, really.’

‘Please could I do Paris-Nice for you?’ Cat continued, Jez’s statement way too enormous to even hear, let alone contemplate.

‘As Assistant Editor of Pedal Power, you would be expected to attend,’ Jez tried again. It is a squeeze around her waist from Ben that jolts Cat into listening, absorbing and at once trying to fathom just what Mr Whittle means.

‘Pardon?’ Cat tries. ‘Assistant Editor? Of Pedal Power? Who?’

‘You,’ Jez laughs, ‘you’d be brilliant. It would mean moving to the States, of course.’

‘Me?’ Cat mouthed.

Jez nodded. ‘We’ll talk about salaries and the job spec after the presentation.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘Close your mouth, Cat,’ he said affectionately before walking away.