“And your father?”

Céline looks down. She doesn’t want to talk about her father. Since he found out, she’s been frightened of him. “He won’t even talk to me any more. He acts like I don’t exist then suddenly looks at me like he’s never seen me before, like it’s not me. Jo’s the only one who isn’t judging me. Not that you can ever tell what she’s thinking…”

Saïd’s mother strokes Céline’s hair. She pushes her dark, dry fingers into the thick texture, rubbing the scalp. She shakes her head and makes little clicking sounds with her tongue. “Naturally. I want to know, too.”

“What time is Saïd coming back?”

Kadija’s silence makes Céline dodge the caresses and slowly sit up, her hands flat on the plastic cover of the bench. She looks at her intently and smiles broadly. “It’s not Saïd, I swear.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Céline grows sullen, like a little girl.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My son needs a good girl.”

“And you have no respect for me?”

Kadija fiddles with the teapot, takes the lid off and energetically crushes the leaves at the bottom with a spoon. “Look, Céline, I’ve seen you every day for sixteen years, I work for your grandfather and you’ve been playing with my son since kindergarten: you’re like my own daughter…”

She goes no further, but there is a but hovering between them: resolute and irrevocable. Céline thinks about Sonia, who changes her clothes on the bus on her way to school, swaps her Decathlon sweatshirts for strapless tops, and wishes she could tell on her. Her mouth is burning with the urge to come out and say that she’s fed up with the hypocrisy. That Kadija may not wear the veil on her head but she has one nice and thick over her eyes. She bites her lip. “In any case, Saïd doesn’t give a shit about me, and he’s not my type either, see.”

Kadija sighs and assesses the damage to Céline’s face. “It’ll be all right. It always turns out all right in the end.”

“You talking about my face or my life?”

The woman bursts into a velvety, warm, toothy laugh. “Both, my girl.”

Céline grimaces and touches the bridge of her nose with her fingertips. Every morning, she goes through the same process to look good: powder, blusher, black eyeliner along the edge of the eyelashes. “You think I’ll be attractive afterwards?”

“After what?”

“After my nose heals. I hope it won’t stay crooked.”

Kadija strokes Céline’s belly with her eyes. “Is everything else OK?”

Céline frowns. It takes her a few seconds to understand. She looks down at her belly then rolls her eyes – it’s all so over the top. A game of gestures, a constant comedy. “I have trouble zipping up my jeans, you know. I’m going to have to buy fatty sizes if this carries on.”

Kadija watches as Céline writhes about trying to see her own bottom, then crosses her legs and smiles again. “You should go home, Céline. I’ll tell Saïd to come and see you, if you like.”