‘You came to pick me up from Gare Saint-Lazare once. I’d been to Trouville with Aunt Judith. We almost lost each other at the station. You had the same look on your face as you do now.’

‘What look is that?’

‘A look of “What the hell am I doing here?”’

For the first time in years he watched his daughter burst out laughing as she walked away, motioning towards the line of foam separating the grey sea and sky. Except for Anne, dressed in her new polychrome outfit, everything around them was a shade of grey as subtly differentiated as the waves of mother-of-pearl inside an oyster shell. Marc had always been fond of grey: it was the perfect compromise between black and white and its variations were endless. Why was there no grey-like word between yes and no? Something like ‘maybe’, only subtler.

It was strange how the rows of closed shutters along the beachfront resembled a craggy cliff face that mirrored the pattern of footprints in the sand. There had been life here once, but it was hard to say when exactly … He had not phoned Chloé the night before. When he set off, he had left a note on the coffee table telling her he was going away for a couple of days with Anne, without mentioning where they were going (he didn’t know himself before opting for Le Touquet at random). He had signed off with a promise to ring her as soon as they arrived. He had thought about it but had not done it. She would certainly be worrying, but he could not call her – to do so would almost be in bad taste. Chloé was not in the script; there was no part for her, not even on the telephone. Excluding her was not a conscious decision; it was just the way it was, like the invisible presences on the beach and the empty apartments. It was true it felt good to be on your own with someone.

Anne ran back over to him. Her eyes, nose and lips were shining, polished by the sea air.

‘You look like an Eskimo.’

‘I’m hungry, I need to pee and I’m tired.’

Boudu had found himself a worthy napping partner in Anne. Feeling slightly left out at the sight of them snuggled up, competing for who could snore the loudest, Marc set out on a walk round town by himself. Besides the vandalised window of a Catholic charity centre (boarded up and showing traces of a fire), notable sights were few and far between. All roads led stubbornly back to the beach: Le Touquet had nothing else to offer. A pool of sunlight was emanating from somewhere, but didn’t provide any warmth or cast a shadow. Looking for some human contact, Marc entered a Monoprix. Octogenarian couples in ill-fitting Lacoste tracksuits haunted the aisles, over-sized trolleys rattling with yogurts, chocolate, biscuits and other sweet treats they bought to pass the time. Marc picked up tins of food for Boudu – rabbit, liver mousse, salmon – and for Anne, Rocher Suchard chocolates. Then he retreated to a bar – overlooking the sea, obviously – and ordered a hot toddy, swiftly followed by another. He felt the need to fill a void that had opened inside him unnoticed, a void into which he seemed to have fallen when he set off with Anne.