‘Welcome to the Tour,’ Josh says, realizing he would have had no idea what day it was had he been asked.

‘What are you going to be like when we hit altitude?’ Alex teases affectionately, cramming a whole biscuit in his mouth, rubbing his hands and returning his fingers to the keyboard.

‘Is Taverner going to let me get away with “dark duke Sassetta”?’ Cat wonders. Josh roars with laughter. Alex buries his face in his hands.

Jesper Lomers and Fabian Ducasse walk down their hotel corridor to Jules Le Grand’s room to which they have been summoned for a strategy meeting. Apart from riding for the same team and being pretty much the same height, similarities between the two end there. The Dutchman is blond and brawny, the Frenchman dark and lithe; Jesper is courteous and temperate with the team, the peloton, the media, Fabian is indiscriminately temperamental. Jesper exudes a modesty for his successes, for which he is universally admired; Fabian’s arrogance when victorious augments his magnetic appeal. Jesper will actively try to put anyone at their ease (‘I’m just a guy who can ride a bike,’ he shrugged to Alex who interviewed him after his victory at Milan–San Remo), whereas Fabian relishes the fact that his stature and demeanour are famously intimidating (‘En Français!’ he demanded witheringly of Josh who merely wanted to congratulate him on winning the Dauphiné Libéré). Though they have little in common on a personal level, they are good colleagues, respectful of each other’s strengths and supportive during and after racing.

‘I am keeping the maillot jaune warm for you,’ comments Jesper, who knows he can never win the Tour de France.

‘Green’s more your colour,’ Fabian laughs, with deference to Jesper’s consistency as a rider – the domain of the maillot vert contender. Jesper knocks on Jules’s door but Fabian opens it and walks straight in.

If I venture out of my room, Cat considered, in her small room in a nondescript motorlodge on the ring road of Chardin, I might come across Luca or Ben. She unpacked the entire contents of her rucksack, hanging as many garments as she could. I don’t really want to see either as I really don’t know what to make of them. If I stay here all night, I’ll forfeit my drink with Rachel – which I’d really like to have.

She ran a bath, squirting in a little shampoo to give the semblance of bubble bath.

Luca bloody Jones. Was that humour or was I missing the point? Or did I have the point perfectly? Mind you, at least he’d like to give me one, which is more than can be said for his doctor.

Her bath was ready. The phone rang. It was Josh, informing her that he and Alex were driving in to town for dinner in half an hour.

‘I’m not really hungry,’ Cat said, ‘I stuffed myself at the press buffet and then all those biscuits.’

‘Are you OK?’ Josh enquired.