‘Oh, all right!’ she snapped whilst laughing and covering her face, ‘I’m not just pursuing the peloton because there’s a job at the end of it if my freelance work is good enough.’

I wish I had my bike. I could just ride and ride and be on my own.

‘You are pursuing the peloton—’ started Fen.

‘Because there’s a—’ continued Pip.

‘Hope of adventure?’ Cat tried contemplatively, still covering her face.

‘Lashings of lycra,’ Fen shrugged as if resting her case.

‘Silky smooth shaven thighs,’ Pip said in utter agreement. ‘Big ones.’

‘Over the sea and far away,’ Django mused. Everyone mused.

Cat nodded. ‘It’s time to move on,’ she said thoughtfully. Everyone agreed. No one had to say anything more.

‘I am Catriona McCabe,’ Cat muses to herself, sitting under a cedar in the grounds of Chatsworth House, not two miles from where her uncle lives and from where she was brought up when her mother ran off with a cowboy from Denver, ‘and I’m twenty-eight years old.’

And?

And I’m going to the Tour de France, with full press accreditation, to report on the race for the Guardian newspaper.

And?

If my reportage wins favour, I might land the job of Features Editor for the magazine Maillot.

Jersey?

Maillot.

And?

I’ll be sorted. And happy.

OK. But all things on two wheels aside, what else?

I’m twenty-eight.

We know.

I live in London. In Camden. In a tiny, rented one-bedroom flat with gay neighbours, a tapas bar opposite, and my two sisters near by.

We met them.

Fenella is a year older than me, Philippa two. Fen’s an art historian. Pip’s a clown. We’re close but different.

Certainly. And you’re into journalism?

Actually, I’m into cycling. The journalism part just enables me to indulge my passion.

Isn’t a passion for pedal sport rather unusual for a British female? Wouldn’t it be more common for you to be into three-day eventing? Or tennis? Or soccer, even?

Cycling is my thing. It is the most beautiful, hypnotic sport to watch. The riders are consummate athletes; so brave, so focused, so committed. My heart is in my mouth as they ride and I watch.

But how and why?

Because I.

That’s a fine sentence, Cat.

Because I was … with … a man who kindled my interest. He left. The interest didn’t.

When did he leave?

Three months ago.

A time trial indeed.

Indeed.

So France will be good.

France is my dream. France can mark a new me. France can help me heal. Can’t it?

I’m sure.

Cat was helping Django prepare supper. Though the McCabe girls visited their uncle monthly, it was rare for them all to be there at the same time. June was turning into July but with his three girls with him, Christmas had come early for Django.

‘I’m going to do a Spread,’ Django announced. For three girls whose mother had run off with a cowboy from Denver and who were brought up by a man called Django in the wilds of Derbyshire, the Spread was nothing to raise eyebrows at. For normal folk of a conventional upbringing and traditional meal times using regular foodstuffs, a Spread by Django McCabe would cause eyebrows to leave the forehead altogether.