‘Not a good time,’ Rachel said, barely looking up. Though momentarily taken aback, Cat quickly reminded herself where she was and why she was there and thus held her hands up in affable surrender, telling Rachel she’d give her a call.

‘Cheers,’ said Rachel, who was hot and tired, ‘that’d be great.’

There’s the Megapac lot. Where’s Luca? There’s Hunter.

‘Hullo, Hunter,’ says Cat, ‘great ride.’

‘Hey, thanks,’ says Hunter, vaguely recognizing her.

‘Yo, Catriono!’

Luca!

‘It’s Cat,’ she says, delighted none the less. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m good,’ he says, looking very tired, his eyes a little bloodshot, their sparkle somewhat dulled, his blond curls slightly lank, ‘thanks. Cat.’ He approaches her, his hard shoes giving his walk a Chaplinesque gait, and at once she wants to gently put her arms around him, to lead him to a chair, sit him down and put his brave legs up. She notices a fleck of dried spittle on the corner of his mouth, grime on his calves; the paradox of the impressive musculature of his legs against the fragility of his gait which six hours of racing have caused.

He needs his soigneur. Or his doctor. It always gets me – on his bike, a rider looks so strong. Off it he appears almost vulnerable.

‘Have you a quote for me?’ Cat asks.

‘Sure,’ says Luca, hands on slim hips. ‘Where you staying, babe?’

‘Plouay,’ Cat replies.

‘You come round the hotel, to my room, I’ll give you soundbites,’ Luca says, his accent making her smile more than any ulterior motive detectable.

‘That would be great,’ Cat enthuses, ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Ciao, bambina,’ Luca says.

Cat hovers.

I’d better go. I need the doctor. Where’s Ben?

There’s Ben. With a woman. She’s standing coyly with her back against the truck of that tree. He’s standing in front of her, as close to her as he was to Cat yesterday. Not so much invading the woman’s space as dominating it. There’s a difference – Cat has already experienced it. It’s subtle – the former would be undesirable, intrusive. The latter is disconcerting and compelling.

Poor Cat. This is not jealousy but despondency. There’s Ben, whom Cat has longed to see all day. But he has not been looking out for her. His attention has been caught by this other woman. Look at them now – Ben has cupped the woman’s face in his hands and is looking into her eyes intently. Look at her, all legs that are brown and a face that is perfect. It doesn’t matter that she is wearing a minuscule scarlet frou-frou frock, nor that her head is crowned with a ridiculous hat in the shape of a Coke bottle top. The point is, she is a podium girl and she is stunning. Cat is a journaliste in a pair of now creased khaki shorts, a vest from a children’s department and a white shirt with ink on the cuff and a coffee stain down the front. She is also wearing boots that might very well carry the Timberland seal of authenticity, but objectively they are what her Uncle Django calls ‘clodhoppers’.