For almost a year now, Thierry’s been working for Jens as caretaker and general handyman. It’s the perfect job for Thierry: he’s handy; he can be charming, if he chooses; his English is good. There’s even a little studio apartment over Jens’s garage where Thierry can stay during the busy season, so he doesn’t have to be constantly ferrying back and forth between Saint Féliu and Brix.

Sweet setup. All it requires is Thierry’s being on call, in case a guest locks himself out of the house or the toilet backs up. Not much to ask, to Vanessa’s way of thinking, especially when it’s Vanessa who wangled him the job.

Vanessa is still looking at Thierry funny. “So what happened?” she inquires.

“What happened?” Thierry mimics. “What happened, apparently, is you decided to have a party without me. While the cat’s away, huh?” He mock-bows to Jérôme, then sits down, heavily. “Aren’t you going to offer me a piece of cake?” Leans over and harpoons himself a piece, scattering gobbets across the table.

“I thought you were staying at Brix tonight,” says Vanessa.

“Would you rather I did? Sit, Vesuvio. Sit.”

Vanessa gets up and pointedly shuts the front door he’s left ajar.

“Do you mind?’ he snarls. “I was just going to …”

He brings in a bag of groceries from the car. Unloads on the table a sack of dog food, a crumpled ketchup-smeared paper bag containing the remains of his dinner, a packet of cigarettes, a bag of peanuts.

Vanessa examines the cigarettes critically. “You got these from the gas station? Didn’t I tell you Cristel was going to La Jonquera this weekend? You could have got a whole carton for the same price.”

Thierry ignores her. “I didn’t know you were having a party,” he repeats, once again making a half-bow towards Jérôme. And then, “Hey, Momo, mon brave.” He has this soft wheedling croon he assumes with Morgan, talking to the boy as if he were still a toddler. “You’re very silent tonight. Don’t you even come kiss me hello anymore? Come give Tonton Thierry a bise.” Beckons, pointing to the spot on his cheek where he expects the kiss.

Morgan is a grown-up boy, too dignified to kiss men. His friends at school or at football, Jean-Luc, Laurent, he greets with a handshake. But Thierry uses this pseudokinship to force an intimacy that’s more of an obeisance.

Once again he taps his own cheek, waiting for the kiss. Rat stiffens, ready to intervene. But Morgan rises to his feet, slowly, like a man after a hard day’s work, and comes around the table. Places a cool, deliberate kiss a couple of inches offshore of Thierry’s cheek.