‘Exactly,’ Josh replied. ‘How does your bloke feel about you being out here? Surrounded by menfolk away from their womenfolk?’

‘He’s not bothered,’ Cat said quickly, wondering quite what Josh was trying to ascertain, ‘he knows that consummate athletes have very low levels of testosterone.’

Josh roared with laughter. ‘Should have! We’re in cycling – the levels should be low but most of the peloton probably have pretty normal levels.’

‘Hmm,’ Cat acted, holding her finger to her lip in exaggerated contemplation, ‘how can that be? Can you imagine! If all that training depletes their testosterone level to that of a normal man – imagine their levels if they weren’t pro cyclists. Stallions!’

‘Oh my God,’ Josh feigned, ‘Cat McCabe, is that sarcasm? You wouldn’t be suggesting that their testosterone levels are unnaturally enhanced?’

‘Doping?’ Cat gasped theatrically. ‘In cycling?’

‘Where does medical care end and doping begin?’ Josh said with a serious edge. ‘Low testosterone can cause osteoporosis.’

‘Too true,’ Cat replied honestly, ‘let’s not talk about it.’

‘You sound like the UCI,’ said Josh accusatorially, referring to an accusation frequently levelled at cycling’s international governing body.

‘Doping is cheating,’ Cat defined, ‘but health is another matter altogether. How does the UCI set this arbitrary level? They’re saying that if the cyclists take stuff to boost their levels to within a hair’s breadth of the set line, it’s not doping. But they’re taking stuff – period.’

‘There’s the rub,’ Josh said, ‘let’s not talk about it.’

‘More banned substances than any other sport,’ Cat continued quietly, looking out of the window at wheatfields winking in the sudden sun after the rain, ‘and more dope controls too. Let’s not talk about it. Not today.’

‘Sure,’ Josh said, ‘because there’ll be many occasions when we will.’

‘Is it still rife?’ Cat asked.

‘Some do, some don’t,’ Josh said, ‘it’s difficult to quantify, what with sophisticated masking agents and the fateful turning of blind eyes – which I would rank as being more criminal than substance abuse itself.’

‘Let’s not talk about it,’ Cat said for him.

Don’t fall from grace, heroes mine. Don’t shatter my admiration. Or that of that lovely old boy by the roadside over there with his grandson, waving. Don’t bring shame on your beautiful sport. Don’t harm yourselves. Ride well. Ride from the heart, but use your heads.

They drove on, noting banal agricultural details of the route that would nevertheless add essential colour to their reports.

At least I’ve deflected attention away from my love life.

‘Anyway,’ Josh said, ‘before diving off on such an unsavoury tangent, I do believe we were talking about testosterone and your bloke.’

‘Who?’

‘Your boyfriend.’

No he’s not. Not any more. I don’t have a boyfriend. I’ve lied and I don’t know why and I don’t know how to get out of it.

Cat, you should say something. Your silence is too loaded. Josh might read into it; might think he’s in with a chance if that’s what he’s into.