‘Yup, absolutely, thanks so much,’ Cat rushed.

‘This is your first Tour,’ he told her.

Am I that transparent?

Cat shrugged and nodded, trying to wipe the daft grin from her face.

But this is my first Tour – I’m here at the Tour de France – automatic smile drug.

‘It’s my seventh,’ Josh continued. ‘I read your Tour of Britain report for Cycling Weekly – I thought it was quite good.’

‘Thank you,’ Cat smiled, closing her eyes temporarily, revelling in such praise from a seasoned and respected journalist.

‘Good,’ Josh said. ‘How’s Taverner doing at the Guardian?’

‘My boss?’ Cat smiled on. ‘He’s fine – stressed out, as ever, but fine. Still racing a fair bit, winning not a lot but forever exhibiting his war wounds!’

‘I bet he was pissed off having to delegate this job out – it would have been his thirteenth tour.’

God, I have so far to go. So much to catch up on. Shoes to fill. A spectre to cast off. An impression to make.

‘Well,’ Josh continued, ‘nice to meet you. I’ll see you around.’

‘Thanks,’ said Cat, watching Josh blend with the press corps and suddenly kicking herself for not asking for his mobile number, or where they should meet on Sunday for Stage 1, or what she should do with her bags and what sort of car it was she was to help drive.

Why didn’t he invite me to sit by him? Or suggest coffee or sandwiches? Or ask where I’m staying?

Because you’re at work, not at a dinner party. Anyway, he was friendly and he did come to find you. Now write. Work.

I don’t know where to start. I’m still starving. Anyway, it’s the Saeco-Cannondale press conference in twenty minutes and I want to get a seat near the front so I can concentrate on Mario Cipollini.

Ten minutes later, as Cat was on her way out of the main ice rink to the press conference room, she came across Josh Piper headed in the same direction. It transpired they were staying at the same hotel.

‘Cipo, Cipo,’ Cat whispered as they took their seats and waited for the team. She turned to Josh and regarded him earnestly. ‘Mario Cipollini,’ she said, eyes asparkle. The sentence was complete, the profundity of its meaning and the depth of associated emotion were encapsulated in those two words.

‘I fucking love Cipo,’ said Josh, ‘I love him.’

‘So do I,’ Cat breathed, ‘I love Cipollini too.’

Josh shook her hand. ‘Can I call you Cat? We should meet for dinner this evening,’ said Josh, ‘there’s a few of us at the hotel.’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Cat earnestly, ‘and of course you can. Can I have your mobile number?’

Josh tipped his head. ‘Won’t it be easier if I just call your room from my room?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Cat, biting her lip and hoping that a grin might, in some way, counteract her inanity. Josh looked ahead and nudged her. She grinned at him again.