They exchange a glance, friendly but not overly so; they became friends twenty years ago because their men were. They both wonder if it will carry on now that one of the couples has exploded. Séverine has kept a kind of adolescent cruelty in her friendships, a need to surround herself with people whose worth reflects well on her; Valérie’s limp gentleness, her very body puts her off. They’re no longer young enough for her friend to make Séverine feel good about herself, and her loser’s face gives Séverine the horrible impression she, too, is one. But neither of them has forgotten the famous evening when Séverine once lost it. Jo was five, Céline six, and Séverine about to celebrate her twenty-fourth birthday. She was so young, and she was dragging her daughters behind her like annoying appendages now that she had regained her shape and her desire to go dancing. But nightclub sessions had been replaced with dinners with colleagues, or rather her husband’s colleagues and their wives. So she drank a bit too much and laughed loudly, sitting outside the Cheval Blanc, while bottles of rosé circulated among the workmen, whose conversations alternated between healthy anti-boss anger and rather heavy-handed tenderness aimed at their wives. The kids were playing between and under the tables, a few pushchairs blocking the way, so the waiter served the dishes over them. There was a fun atmosphere: the guys were coming out of themselves, cheerful and letting their hair down. But Séverine had had too much to drink, and when they started playing a 1980s compilation – old stuff she didn’t even like – her emotions bubbled up to breaking point without her quite knowing why. Maybe it was because of those stupid hit songs everybody obviously knew the words to, so everybody started singing “et moi je vis ma vie à pile ou face” and then “que je t’aime, que je t’aime que je t’aime”, the guys yelling like coyotes, the women responding, and when the owner came out with fresh bottles, he was yelling as loud as them. But when they started singing “Comme une pierre que l’on jette dans l’eau vive d’un ruisseau”, she felt so sad that Valérie noticed and came to sit next to her. The circles of wine under the balloon glasses were tearing the paper tablecloth, and Séverine was following the wet tracks with her fingers, pulling bits off, folding them – focusing on her hands so as not to start crying. And then Valérie’s presence, her gentleness – though Séverine was wary of gentleness, a sign of weakness – and the kindness of her questions. So she suddenly let rip like she’d never done before: she’d had enough, she was anxious, she had daughters growing up who she didn’t always want to look after, she wanted to go back to the lycée, and then being carefree, that was over but she didn’t want it to be, it had all happened too fast. The feeling of missing out on her life but not knowing what kind of life she wanted instead. Twenty-four years old and life was already laid out. The drink, Valérie’s attentive silence and the surrounding noise like a screen had prompted her to talk like she’d never dared before.