Oh God. Uncle Django. I told Fen that if Sassetta won, she could tell Django about bloody Ben.

Cat turns her phone off, turns and walks away quickly but not briskly. There is no spring in her step. She takes herself off to an area behind the finish line where officials are busy dismantling the temporary grandstands. She finds a crate and sits down, head in hands.

Shit and double shit. Now everyone at home knows about Ben bloody York – whose attraction for me obviously doesn’t exist apart from in my delusions. Josh, whom I like and respect, now knows and defines me by a boyfriend who doesn’t exist – which leaves me vulnerable. For Ben York, though, I don’t exist.

Cat, you sound adolescent and rather pathetic.

I’m trying to fucking heal, to make my way forward.

Does that take a man? How about Luca then?

Fuck off. He’s a rider in the Tour de France. He’s superhuman. I absolutely wouldn’t dare touch him or even encourage him. Think of the consequences.

What about Josh?

I think I’ll end up adoring Josh. But for me, there’s no possibility there beyond good friendship.

‘I’m a journaliste,’ Cat says softly, repeating it louder. ‘I’m here working. I have an idea for an article for Maillot. I must phone them.’

Cat returns to the salle de pressé and phones Maillot.

‘Hullo, it’s Cat McCabe – how about a feature on podium girls?’

‘Podium girls?’ Andy responds.

‘Getting to the substance behind the skirt?’ Cat elaborates, a twang of desperation to her voice causing Josh to look up and regard her with a flicker of concern.

‘Perhaps,’ Andy says. ‘OK?’

‘OK,’ Cat says forlornly, ‘podium girls – who the fuck are they?’

‘Sure,’ says Andy, ‘let me think about it.’

STAGE 4
Plouay-Chardin. 248 kilometres

Ben was concerned about Didier. Didier LeDucq was an accomplished domestique; professional for four years, he was riding his second Tour de France in his first season for Megapac.

‘What worries me,’ Ben said to himself whilst examining his chin and wondering whether he need shave that morning, ‘is that Didier has been so damn quiet. Over meals he usually regales the team, all of us, with tales and anecdotes of his antics on bike and off. Yesterday he was all but silent. If he’s sickening, I wish he’d tell me now.’

I’d better shave. You never know whom you might come across.

Ben was concerned about Hunter Dean. Patting foam across his bristles, he stared at the vision of Santa Claus in the mirror. He bared his teeth, observing that they did not appear unduly yellow next to the shaving foam.

Hunter is so focused, he feels so much for the team, for the sponsors and his belief in himself is immense. Good. Great. But we’ve only had three days of racing. I can’t have him burn out. He’s a potentially brilliant all-rounder. He can delve into all the disciplines of pro cycling and come up with results. But I don’t want him riding like a sprinter. Or anywhere near them really. I’ll talk to the directeur. Maybe his soigneur too. I’ll talk to his girlfriend. Maybe I ought to talk to him. I’ll go down to the start today.