Maybe I should go back to my room and just order room service.

‘Who’s “our David”?’ Pip asked in a whisper as if, unbeknown to her, he might be related.

‘David Millar is a British rider in the French team Cofidis,’ Cat elaborated. ‘He’s not a specialist climber but a very promising rouleur – all-rounder. At this stage in the Tour, the hills are not taxing enough to be the exclusive domain of the grimpeurs, the specialist climbers, who are wiser to save their energy and steer clear of trouble in anticipation of the main mountain Stages later.’

If I say ‘I’d better go now’, they’ll ask why. If I tell them, they’ll make me go to the bar and not my room.

‘So it’s fifteen minutes of fame for Our David,’ said Pip.

‘I think he’ll have more than that,’ Cat said, ‘just you watch him in the Time Trials.’

‘Not another bloody jersey,’ said Fen.

‘No,’ said Cat, ‘no jersey for Time Trials.’

‘I think we understand,’ said Pip, ‘do we?’

‘Yes,’ said Fen, ‘we’ll ring Django and tell him. Who should we look for in tomorrow’s Stage?’

‘I’d better go now,’ said Cat.

‘Why?’ said Pip. ‘It’s our call – we don’t mind.’

‘I’d better go to my room,’ said Cat, who’d noticed that the bar was filling up.

‘Why?’ Fen probed.

‘Where are you?’ Pip asked.

‘In the foyer,’ Cat said, a little deflated, ‘near the bar.’

Both her sisters were silent.

‘So?’ said Fen.

‘Sounds good,’ Pip commented.

‘Don’t you scurry away,’ Fen said, ‘you’re no mouse, Cat.’

‘I know that,’ Cat remonstrated, ‘but it’s a tough call, trying to carve a niche in unfamiliar territory – especially in a new world where everyone but me seems so at home, so au fait with the routine.’

‘But you said they’re a friendly bunch,’ Fen said.

‘He is,’ said Cat, quickly changing it to ‘They are.’

Back in England, Fen winked at Pip who grinned back.

‘Who is he?’ Pip whispered.

‘Just a team doctor,’ Cat whispered back.

‘Just!’ Pip shrieked.

‘Just have a drink,’ Fen said nonchalantly, glowering at her sister who was doing a jubilant handstand against the wall.

‘OK,’ said Cat, who quite liked being told what to do.

Cat has switched her phone off. She has taken two deep breaths. It took courage not to go back to her room. It’s going to require pluck to walk in to the bar. In she goes. There he is. He’s sitting on a small settee in front of a low table. He is sipping from a bottle of beer. Cat doesn’t really want to notice that he has lovely forearms.

‘Sorry about that,’ says Cat, ‘my sisters are watching the Tour for the first time.’

‘And they are calling on your expertise,’ Ben reasons, ‘can’t say I blame them.’ He smiles at her. It is unclear to Cat whether this is a compliment for her knowledge, or a critique on the vagaries of the Tour de France rules.