“But —”

“The children will be back soon, and I have to take care of them.”

Céline sulks at being kicked out, however gently. For weeks now, she’s been dragging her cute behind and her bruises to the neighbours’ living room. Maybe partly to piss off her father, who doesn’t like Arabs. But one thing’s for sure: she’s always sorry to have to go home. It stinks of reproach and shame there. Not to mention the fact that her father’s slaps keep flying about. He crossed the line with his first thrashing. If he didn’t kill her with his fists, his open hand across her face can’t do her much harm. And when his mates come over for a drink, Céline disappears into her room. No showing off her slender thighs, her soft breasts or her slightly rounded belly. Her father doesn’t like it.

“Get on with it,” he always spits. “I’m sure you have something to do in your room, so don’t embarrass me.”

Her father’s never been easy, but this is something else. You’d think she’d done it just to piss him off. He’s suddenly looking ten years older, snarling like a pit bull, brow knitted over threatening eyes. So when she arrives home after Kadija’s booted her out, and finds him chatting to Patrick, she hides behind her hair, pulls in her stomach and goes straight upstairs. The two men follow her with their eyes, saying nothing. Halfway up she stops, briefly looks at Patrick, then slices through the silence with a nervous voice: “Saïd’s dropping by later.”

She resumes climbing the stairs and shuts herself in her room. Headphones on, the music on max, she hugs her duvet the way you embrace a body or a security blanket. Céline rocks a little, with the light in her eyes. The heat’s still stifling. She should have closed the shutters during the day, so the room would be cooler, but this morning she forgot. The paulownia branches reach out as far as her windows. She looks at the deep purple panicles, rotting already, stuck to the wood. It makes her feel a little queasy. She imagines they must be talking about her downstairs. Maybe calling her a tart. She turns up the sound even more, gets up and dances in front of the mirror. She sways her hips slowly: she’s still OK face-on, but in profile she’s already screwed; the inhabited bulge has transformed her figure. She’s not going to cry.

Downstairs, Patrick shakes his head. He doesn’t look at his friend, no doubt to avoid making him feel uncomfortable, and that’s even worse. He stares at his beer, at his calloused fingers, the lemon-yellow sofa, the table legs, the porcelain ashtray, the picture on the sideboard: the one in which he’s posing with his mate on the way back from a building site with Céline in his arms – she’s four and a half, his large hard hat on her little head. He squints, sighs to make a sound in this oppressive silence, clenches his fists for good measure and presses them into his thighs as though they’re about to start a fight there and then.