At first he had found the idea of running away amusing – but it was only an idea. Now they were here, it was another story. For years he had been content with plans that came to nothing: learning Italian, visiting the islands of Saint Pierre and Miquelon, wearing a wide-brimmed hat … All great ideas, but as for putting them into practice … The strange helplessness he now felt was largely because of Anne. The total self-assurance she had displayed in the clothes shops, at the hairdresser and the restaurant had confused him. But what, after all, had he been expecting? That she would go around dribbling everywhere and sticking her fingers up her nose? Roll her eyes, pull out handfuls of hair and let out high-pitched screams? Of course not. But, given her condition, he had expected she might seem a little fragile or withdrawn – after all, her only contact with the world these days came from watching TV and rare visits from her father or mother. Oddly enough, it was he who was feeling vulnerable. This morning on the beach, she had been like a caryatid keeping her head up under the weight of the sky, while he was buffeted by the wind like an old man trying to beat his way through a crowd. He ordered a third hot toddy to rouse himself from his chair.

It was already dark outside. Thanks to the hot toddies, no doubt, every streetlamp, neon sign, headlight and star twinkled like magical candy canes on a Christmas tree.

Back at the hotel he found Anne sitting on a barstool, talking to the barman.

‘Papa, let me introduce you. Désiré, this is my father, Marc.’

‘Good evening, Monsieur.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Désiré is from Togo. It’s in Africa.’

The palm of his hand was pink and soft, his smile, eyes and shirt an incandescent white. There was very little black about him.

‘A glass of champagne, like your daughter?’

‘No, thank you. It’s drizzling outside and I’m chilled to the bone. I’m going to head up and change for dinner.’

‘I’ll come with you. See you later, Désiré.’

‘See you later, Mademoiselle.’

In the lift, Anne smiled at herself in the mirror.

‘See, I made a friend.’

‘He seems very nice.’

‘Yes. You smell like a sailor – salt and rum.’

‘I had a hot toddy. I think I’ve caught a cold. As for you, should you be drinking champagne, with your medication …?’

‘You’re right. I’ll stop the medication.’

‘I bought you a Rocher Suchard.’

‘I’m giving those up too. I want to be thin.’

The room smelled of cigarettes. Anne shut herself in the bathroom and Marc threw open the window. A cloud of fog swirled into the room. A light, perhaps from a ship, was flickering in the darkness. Or was it a star? Marc took a tin of cat food out of the plastic bag and opened it, calling Boudu. The cat ought to have appeared at the sound of the lid lifting, ears pricked up, whiskers poised, lips quivering.