Cat felt much sicker and far less steady on her feet than she had for any exam, or even on the ferry. But she made it to a space on a run of trestle conveniently close and which, to her relief, had an expanse of at least three metres between where she set up and the next journalist.

I’m in Babel. Did no one say hullo in Babel? Isn’t my pass enough – do I need a password too?

After a quick, furtive scout around, Cat plugged in her laptop, positioned her mobile phone near by and fanned out a selection of the booklets she had been given at accreditation.

See, now my workspace looks no different from any of those around me. I’m one of them, now. So, now someone should say hullo. I’m going to busy myself I’d like to scrutinize this one: ‘Les hotels, les equipes’ – see if any of my other hotels during the Tour might house teams too. Better not – that’s something I can look forward to doing later tonight when I’m in my room pathetically deluded that Jimenez or Lipari might come and find me.

I’ll start by flipping through this booklet – ‘Les régions, la culture’. Fuck, it’s all in French. I’ll just skim the pages as if I’m speed reading – oh God, but if I do, they might presume I’m fluent and come up jabbering away at me. PR packs from the teams. That’s better. I’ll start with Zucca MV.

She was staring at photos of the team when her mobile phone rang, causing her to jump and fumble with the handset.

‘Hullo?’ she whispered, her hand guarding her brow, her eyes cast unflinchingly down towards the keys on her laptop.

‘Bonjour!’ boomed Django so loudly that Cat glanced around her expecting to find the entire press corps listening in, knowing it wasn’t work, that she was but a pseudo journaliste. However, her presence, let alone that of Django’s voice, was obviously still undetected. Now she was relieved.

‘Hullo,’ she said, ‘Django.’

‘How are you?’ he asked, slurring his words in his excitement. ‘Where are you? What’s happening? Keeping a decorous distance from all that lycra, I do hope?’

Though she’d hate herself for it later, Django’s enthusiasm irritated Cat.

I’m working. This isn’t a holiday. Take me seriously.

Ah, but don’t deny it is a pleasure for which you yourself cannot believe you are being paid.

I bet nobody else’s uncles are phoning them.

Well then, you should pity them.

‘I’m fine,’ Cat said quietly, ‘but busy – press conferences, deadlines – and then some.’

Haven’t actually been to a press conference. My first deadline is tomorrow.

‘And the people?’ The pride in Django’s voice caused Cat’s eyes to smart. ‘Are they nice? Have you made friends? And the riders, girl – have you met and married?’

‘Oh,’ Cat sighed, swiping the air most nonchalantly, unaware that it was a gesture wasted on Django, ‘loads – great. Everything.’