“Get on with it!” Jo shouts through the open window. “Puke, give birth, whatever, but hurry up. We’re dying from the heat.”

Céline shows her sister the middle finger and at the same time spits a string of bile into the ditch. She gathers her hair to one side so she doesn’t dribble over it. Jo lies on the back seat so she can fully stretch. She cups her hands over her breasts through the sleeveless T-shirt and caresses the nipples with her thumbs, acting the prick-teaser, a role that doesn’t become her and makes her gesture even more seductive. “Honestly, do you think they’re too small?”

Saïd lights a joint without turning, takes two slow puffs, his face focused on the road; anyone would think he hadn’t heard the question or was pretending not to if it weren’t for a radiant smile that almost makes him handsome. That’s when Céline comes back, sits down with a loud puff and slams the door shut. She smooths the sweaty hair stuck to her temples and apologizes, but no one pays attention.

Saïd turns around, a slightly gormless smile still on his face. Excluding Céline from the exchange, he hands Jo the joint. “Honestly? I think they’re perfect.”

Family

Manuel strokes the pattern on the melon peel. He follows the knobbly embossments with his fingertips, tries following a path, as though in a dream, then stops, picks up the fruit, feels its weight and rolls it in his large hand before putting it on the table and slicing it in two with a single blow of the knife. The sweet juice overflows and spills on the table. He splits it again and scrapes the contents of the middle cavity into a plate with the same knife. It makes his hands even stickier. “Nice colour.”

His father-in-law does not answer. Of course it’s a nice colour: it’s his, his fruit, his land. Dark orange, sweet flesh. His melons aren’t going to be anaemic, tasting of water, are they?

Manuel dreads these Sundays: family lunches at Séverine’s parents’, no way of avoiding the humiliation of duty, the reminder of his debt. Even during silences and exchanges with the others Manuel can sense the look of condemnation weighing over him, making him feel left out and wrapped in powerlessness. Perhaps he’s imagining things – after all the old man doesn’t say much – but he can see in his father-in-law’s eyes a greyness tarnished by disappointment, a shadow that charges at Manuel. Not good enough. Not enterprising enough. A good-for-nothing who fucks his only daughter. A guy who smells of concrete, plaster and other people’s houses. His father-in-law does get his hands dirty, though: he’s not posh or intellectual. He likes action, expertise applied well. Still, he gets his hands in the soil less and less often, he has workers, and he’s getting old. But it’s his own land, it’s not like building other people’s houses and not being able to afford your own. They’ve had money problems too: the new regulations, expenses, falling prices … it’s no picnic being a farmer, either. But as a good patriarch he was able to put something aside, worry day in, day out, so he wouldn’t need anybody. Not him.