Rachel zips up her jacket against the autumn chill. She slips one hand between Ronnie’s arm and his warm body.
‘This one’s the business,’ he says. ‘Full carbon fibre fork, tapered frame, lightweight aerodynamic wheels, eleven-speed electronic gear set. She’ll ride like the wind.’
Rachel smiles, and imagines him crossing the line in front of the Arc de Triomphe, crowds banging the boarded barriers with their gimmicky inflatable batons, his arms held high in victory, balancing on the slippery paving stones of the Paris street.
‘That’ll be at least ten grand,’ Ronnie continues.
The streetlight wobbles in a gust of wind, showering them with a curtain of hanging raindrops.
‘Yep, this one’s the real business,’ he murmurs.
Rachel walks to the van and slides open the door while Ronnie steadies the bolt cutters over the thick chain lock.