So when Jo grabbed two beach towels and got her sister out of bed, they didn’t have to say anything. They’ve always shared a room, since the house isn’t big enough for them to have one each. Even when their differences became obvious, clear even from the posters pinned to the walls, they had to adapt. They often declare their love for each other with slaps. And intimacy is a notion they acquired together.

They quietly slip over the windowsill and plunge into the night, climb over the short wall on the left and sprint without laughing until they’re away from the neighbouring houses; they chuckle joyously once they’re on the road. This summer will be different from the others, they know it – there’s a menace in the heavy, already scorching air. They feel it in the pits of their stomachs but they carry on as though nothing’s happening, as though the summer will keep its promises.

On the Chemin des Dames, they stop giggling and listen to the dry grass crackling under their feet. For their first bathe of the summer, they’ve chosen a villa they’ve known for a long time: it belongs to a slightly over-the-hill American actress who comes twice a year to bask in the sun with a lover. There’s less surveillance than in politicians’ houses. They sometimes have fun dodging this surveillance, playing cat and mouse with slumbering security men with thick glasses and walkie-talkies. Getting thrown out, running away half-naked, holding their flip-flops, running down the paths. Then, afterwards, talking about it, and laughing at the man’s face, flabbergasted at finding two girls surface diving in a pool supposed to be smooth and empty until the owners arrive. They have some hysterical memories. But they don’t feel like doing that tonight. Tonight, they’re celebrating the beginning of the summer and the start of fucking problems, celebrating the end of something they can’t quite give a name to. No point in adding any more thrills.

As they climb over the wire fencing Jo scrapes her hip, starts squealing and falls on the other side. Sitting on the grass, in the dark, she feels the tear in her shorts. Céline is nearby. She knows by the rustling of leaves and her stifled giggle. “You fucking stupid? It’s not funny: I’m bleeding.”

They silence the song of the frogs congregating in the stone basins. Jo stands up and forgets about the scratches from the metal and her torn shorts. They’re extensive grounds, where you can weave through a hundred yards of truffle oaks to the beautiful blue pool without a ripple. They walk across familiar territory, even though they haven’t been here for a long time. There are crackling sounds under their feet until the soft lawn takes them by surprise. Here, sprinklers make the grass greener; they can feel its sponginess under their sandals. They remove their shoes to feel the path, the soil beneath their bare soles.

Here they are: their reflection, their moving shadows defined on the villa walls, and the feeling of coolness that rises from the pool even before they’ve dived into it. At once familiar and thrilling. They tear off their clothes and jump in exactly at the same time, causing large eddies on the stone edge. Jo is the first to surface; she lies on her back and lets herself drift. Céline swims across the bottom of the pool, catches her breath on the other side and leans against the edge. They used to play at this being their own home, pretended they were princesses or starlets, chatted about a million crazy plans, about riding clubs and trips, putting on a posh accent. They stopped this game because Jo got fed up with it. For Jo, leaving is a real dream. Not necessarily to lead the life of a princess, but just to escape this one. She knows she’s swimming illegally and uninvited in the pools of these rich people – and this always carries an illicit charm when all else fails.