‘Podium girls?’ Ben repeats.

‘Yeah! I want to be flanked, Ben – flanked, kissed and zipped into that yellow jersey – just for a day. I’d die happy.’

‘You can’t die,’ Ben reasons, ‘or you won’t be able to bask in glory, sign more autographs, dish out more kisses and increase your female fan base.’

‘I want to have fun,’ Luca says, ‘you know? On the Tour. On my bike and off. It’s the fuckin’ Tour de France, man – it’s my dream. I’m going to be living it. My goal is to finish in the top thirty in Paris. My dream is a Stage win. My ambition is recognition for my skill, to be recognized by the spectators, the media, my sponsors. Yeah, and the girls!’

They pedal thoughtfully, virtually tasting the imminence of the Tour, the hopes that might be realized or could be dashed.

‘You know,’ Luca says imploringly to Ben as they arrive outside the doctor’s apartment, ‘I don’t mind the hills, I like the flat, I enjoy Time Trials.’

Ben pats him on the back and bids him a good night’s sleep, stressing the word sleep with a slyly raised eyebrow.

‘You’ll have a great Tour,’ Ben says, ‘and it won’t end there.’

Luca grins and spins away.

I want to have fun. I am twenty-four years old and I want the world to know who I am. Luca Jones and the Tour de France – awesome.

Ben closes his apartment door and regards his suitcase, packed and waiting.

‘Let’s have a good race, boys,’ he says, wandering over to the window and rolling down the blind. He sits on the sofa and looks at his fingers. ‘I would rather they ride well enough and safe enough that I end up twiddling my thumbs instead of using healing hands.’

I know what the team are doing with their hands right now, Ben muses as he slips naked between his sheets. Hunter and Travis are running them all over their fiancées’ bodies, with courtesy and their partners’ sexual gratification leading the route. Luca, no doubt, now has a minimum of two pairs of tits to choose from and grope. I’ll put money on him having cycled back to the bar. No amount of sport – indoor or outdoor – alters his testosterone levels.

He switches off the light and wonders whether he’s too tired to masturbate or tired enough not to have to.

Shit, when was the last time for me? And not by me? That girl in Paris with the gecko tattoo?

What was her name, Ben?

Annabel? Annie? It was three months ago. I can’t remember. Well, I can add another month now – I would say that there’s not going to be time for anything on the Tour de France unless it’s cycling-related.

Cat’s mind is meandering while she deliberates over the pros and cons of a rucksack versus a suitcase for three weeks in France.

It’s not so much an ‘if I meet Hunter or Travis’ as ‘when’ – because I know that they’re happy to talk to any journalist who expresses an interest in their ride. So, when I meet Travis and Hunter, what shall I ask them? Dare I tap into their feminine sides and ask about the importance of their girlfriends to their performance? Would that be acceptable? Maybe I could find the girlfriends and ask for their stories – that would be a great idea. I could branch out, perhaps pitch an article to a women’s magazine.