Céline doesn’t like her old primary school teacher. She didn’t like her when she was a child, either. She had that way of talking, so kind and sweet that it made Céline cringe. A way of cocking her head to the side with a sullen pout, ridiculous on the face of a grown-up woman, to show a naughty child that she was very disappointed. She had to put up with her for several years at primary school, as the teacher changed classes at the same time as her; a curse that repeated itself every year until high school. She wasn’t nasty, quite the opposite, but although unable to pinpoint it exactly, Céline sensed in her look and body language a contempt that seeped through that fake kindness. Like when she’d sigh and shake her head when some children told others about a film they’d watched the night before and which they obviously shouldn’t have. Or like when they’d unwrap their packed snacks after class: fizzy drinks and cookies and a family-size bag of tortilla chips or something. Because she wasn’t the only one in the village and at school to be the butt of this contempt. There were many parents in the area who’d let their kids grow wild, without a timetable, staying up late to watch the box. But that bitch couldn’t possibly understand. She’d moved here for the sun and the stone-clad walls, the traditional markets and the ever-so-charming accent.

Sometimes, Céline would picture secret things she knew she couldn’t admit to: the teacher being shot against the green blackboard, just like the way she’d seen in a war film with her father, seeing the same bullets hitting her large breasts under the patterned dresses. Jo had had a better deal: she’d only got her for one year, when Céline was in year seven. And Jo could keep people at arm’s length, while Céline would wallow in her resentment.

She looks old now. She retired some time ago, and Céline is always surprised to see that she’s still alive whenever she bumps into her – inevitably while shopping or in the village.