Suddenly, Massimo exclaimed, ‘StefanoStefanoStefano!’ through a mouthful of cereal. ‘Big trouble,’ he declared, ‘very big trouble for Stefano.’

Though the riders discussed their errant team-mate’s aggressive swerve animatedly, Rachel did not comment. The directeur had already forewarned her that Stefano would be coming for his massage after a strict pep talk; consequently, the rider would be either deeply despondent or darkly defensive. It would be Rachel’s job to massage his psyche into fit shape for the next day’s Stage.

When she had finished Pietro, she asked Massimo if he had had enough to eat and pinged back the earphones on Gianni’s Walkman to ask him if he needed anything. Massimo had eaten sufficient but took another banana, slipping it down his tracksuit bottoms so it poked out like an erection. The first time Rachel had seen this, she hadn’t known where to look. The second time, she hadn’t known how to react. The third time, she’d laughed heartily. Now (and Massimo was in to double figures) she just ignored him. As did the other riders. Massimo still found himself thoroughly amusing. Gianni asked Rachel if he could borrow the Cosmopolitan,

‘What’s mine is yours, Gianni,’ Rachel said magnanimously, ‘you know that.’

Massimo grabbed the magazine, flipped through it with much exaggerated ogling, fingered his goatee lasciviously, performed some lewd pelvic thrusting until the banana slipped down his tracksuit and poked out at the side of his leg like some gruesomely broken bone.

With the three riders gone, the room seemed temporarily vast until Stefano entered without knocking and filled it entirely with the thunder that was swept about him like a cloak. In fact, it was a voluminous, somewhat incongruous peach towelling robe but his blazing eyes and the muscles in his cheeks twitching furiously deflected attention from it.

‘Never do I be speaked to as that!’ he spat, his command of English suffering in the clasp of his indignation.

‘Never have I been spoken to like that,’ Rachel placated, smoothing a fresh towel on the massage bench. Stefano stripped and stood before Rachel in his naked glory though she had ceased to see it long ago. She handed him a towel, which he slipped between his legs nappy-style once he’d climbed aboard the table.

‘Lomers!’ Stefano growled like an expletive directed at the vigour of Rachel’s massage. Rachel took her hands away from his body, wiped them and put them on her hips.

‘Stefano,’ she said, ‘shut up. It’s Lomers who should be spitting your name.’

‘It was my line,’ Stefano protested, sitting up and regarding Rachel squarely, ‘I rode it correctly. I did not flick him.’

‘On the life of your mother?’ Rachel challenged him. Predictably, Stefano, ever the dutiful Italian son, fell silent.

‘Take risks by all means,’ Rachel said, gently pushing the rider’s shoulder so he lay back down. She looked down on him, her hands on her hips again, ‘but don’t ride dangerously. You will either get hurt or disqualified. Then Lomers will wear the green jersey and you will be watching him from the TV in your apartment. And your mother will weep.’