‘Yes, this evening,’ said Josh, suddenly feeling the impact of the vast amount of restorative breakfast caffeine and thinking he really ought to piss before they set off, ‘we’ll have a few beers.’

‘Hey, Cat,’ says Rachel, the boot of the car open to reveal a veritable booty of clothing, bidons, food, and first-aid accoutrements. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday.’

‘Sorry?’ Cat asks. ‘For what?’

‘I was so stressed out I might have to borrow back the pencil sharpener,’ Rachel says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Stefano is – well, he drives me mad, let me tell you!’

‘Do tell me,’ Cat implores.

‘Yeah, right,’ Rachel laughs, ‘but as a mate, as a fellow female – not as a journaliste.’

Cat holds her hand to her heart. Rachel beckons her closer until both women are leaning deep into the car. ‘When he won the Stage yesterday? He said to me – and excuse my accent – Where is Lomers? I want give him these flowers – I want say him “Hey Lomers – give these for your wife because she think you no love her because you no fuck her no more”.’

The women regard each other and then laugh in horror but not quite in disbelief.

‘What did you say?’ Cat gasps.

‘I said I would tell Jean-Marie Leblanc,’ Rachel says, referring to the revered and omnipotent Director General of the Société du Tour de France.

‘What did Stefano say?’

‘He gave me the fucking flowers and looked pretty sheepish. I massaged him viciously last night,’ Rachel declares with certain glee and sparkle, ‘viciously.’

‘What a character,’ Cat laughs, adding, ‘Bloody men!’ as an aside.

‘Stefano’s a prat,’ Rachel says, not unfondly. She tells Cat the name of the hotel that Zucca are staying at that night.

‘I’m pretty sure that’s where we are,’ Cat responds, delighted.

‘Cool,’ says Rachel, ‘let’s have a beer later.’

‘You’re on,’ says Cat.

‘Ciao, Cat,’ Rachel says, though Cat has gone. She slams the boot of the car, consults the map and heads for the feed zone midway along the route. Then she’ll head straight for the finish line, stocked with everything a rider could ask for after racing for 248 kilometres. Everything from antiseptic to a quick leg rub, from fresh socks to a banana, from tracksuits to a warm and welcoming smile.

‘You’re happy about driving on the wrong side of the road?’ Josh asked Cat as she took her seat behind the wheel.

‘I’ll take it slowly,’ she replied.

‘No you fucking won’t,’ Alex cried from the back. ‘To the salle de pressé – and don’t spare the horses.’ He leant forward, removed her baseball cap and thwacked the roof of the car with it. ‘Vamoose!’

Josh and Cat shared a quick glance of exasperation. Cat drove off, cautiously but at a pace that could not be castigated.

‘You OK?’ Josh tried.

‘Fine, thanks,’ said Cat from behind sunglasses.

‘You’re not your usual perky self,’ Alex said, replacing her baseball cap sideways on her head so she looked quite the little urchin. ‘Tell Uncle Alex what’s wrong.’