And yet there were problems sometimes. David and his cousin Jérémy had an accident one night, at the junction between the start of the main road to Marseilles and the access road to Cavaillon. The car had hit the barrier and ended up on the bank of the Rhône. It took the firefighters hours to get them out of there. After six months in a coma, David woke up a vegetable. For the last twenty years, he’s been drooling, his face all skewed, wetting himself without even noticing. In the beginning his mother would take him out in a wheelchair but he’d start screaming, a heartbreaking sound, so she stopped. Now she just leaves him in front of the TV and he makes slobbering, grunting sounds of excitement at some of the programmes. The first few years, Jérémy would visit regularly. He’d been luckier: broken bones, but he’d recovered. He’d sit next to him, smoking a joint and talking to him a little, not much – stupid news snippets, like who was fucking who, or telling him about a funny film. The jokes would fall limply at his cousin’s feet, which were turned inwards and tucked into sneakers that would never be anything but new. He’d stopped visiting because of his aunt, who couldn’t stand to see him any more. Her eyes, full of reproach and distress – he was the one who had been at the wheel, blind drunk – drove him crazy. And actually it was a relief not to have to visit any more. Séverine remembers him going to work in Marseilles after that. She hasn’t seen him for years, even though she was quite fond of him. Not as much as David, but he was all right.

When the boys would come to pick up Séverine – those old enough to drive – they’d turn down the stereo as they got onto the path leading up to the house. They’d also slow down, stifle their excitement, the urge to yell at the top of their voices that it was their turn tonight to try and hit the jackpot: to score with Séverine or Sabrina. Undress one of them on the back seat of the car. Just picturing it would fill them with unbridled, wild euphoria, and they’d be yelping like ferrets in the smoke-filled car. They’d agree beforehand which of the two would have which girl, as if it was in any way up to them. They had to calm down once the house was in sight, becoming so-and-so’s sons, apologetic teenagers asking permission. Sometimes one of them would get his way, and the lucky winner would then talk about it for weeks, or just be content walking around with his arm around one of them, a proprietorial hand above her buttocks.

And then there was also Charlotte, who used to hang out with Séverine and Sabrina. The trio from hell. The boys had more trouble with Charlotte, who was too much hard work, and who’d arrived here halfway through her adolescence. To start with, she wasn’t local, so it was obvious she couldn’t always read their code. They didn’t feel quite the lords of the manor with her, more like country bumpkins. Charlotte’s parents weren’t as lenient, so she had to climb over the wall to go with her friends. She was also more skittish, and even if the boys were ready to picture her naked in their arms, they weren’t as willing to try their luck with her. The three girls were inseparable, smoking their cigarettes glamorously in the middle of the dance floor or coming out of school, laughing at everything, mocking like hyenas. Eventually, Charlotte had gone to study in Aix. And everything had changed.