He drove on, looking straight ahead as though he hadn’t heard me. I let a few seconds go by while I watched him out of the corner of my eye.

“I don’t know quite what it is you’re the best at,” I went on. “I don’t even know what it means, but I’m still sure you’re the best.”

It was weird travelling through the empty city, submerged in darkness. We’d go back over our tracks several times, as though we were lost yet again, and I’d often end up wondering whether Dad’s driving was actually completely random, despite his self-assured and confident air.

The red lights seemed to take ages to change and I had the impression that Dad was driving more and more slowly. Perhaps we’d go round and round in circles until the end of time in that massive Panhard, our only frail link with reality. Gradually, I’d fall asleep and Dad would deal with the last few clients on his own. Sometimes, I’d wake up briefly and think of Marie, who really was the best. I tried to hope that one day it would do her some good.

We’d been so lucky and got away with so much that I’d begun to believe that we’d get to the audition without getting caught out. But it’s a mistake to be too optimistic, as I’d learnt from watching historical documentaries with Dad. Still, it all seemed so easy that it was even beginning to be fun. And Marie was getting prettier and prettier, with all her red curls sparkling as they tumbled onto her shoulders. So that filled me with hope, too. I loved meeting her in front of the church before going to school, so that I could apply her lipstick for her, give her the homework I’d copied out and plan for any problems the day might bring. I tried hard not to smudge the lipstick, but it was difficult, because I’d never been very good at colouring in. And the truth is that my heart was also flushed red with love, like the toffee apple we’d shared at the fair, nibbled and gnawed in just the same way, with nothing but a tiny pip in the middle.

I’ve noticed that when things unravel, it always happens very quickly. Bad luck never seems to arrive one step at a time. I’d almost forgotten about Van Gogh and his ear. But he’d forgotten nothing. You can recognize really mean people by their appetite for revenge. He must have been watching us very closely, figuring it all out from the way we behaved. Then he’d cooked up a plan to separate us and get Marie on her own. Sometimes being mean can make you almost clever.