All of a sudden it’s Jo who feels sick; shit, it’s not every day she gets a compliment. She can tell perfectly well it’s not flirting, and it’s not poking fun, either. Jo bites her lip and looks around her as if she expects to find a parade in honour of embarrassment. But it’s Garance who settles the argument, totally unaware of anything. “Give me your number. I’ll call you, then you’ll have mine.”

Garance’s mates have resumed their conversation, talking about music. Jo’s never understood how you can talk about music. Music isn’t about talking, it’s about listening. At most you can dance to it or get someone else to listen to it – just about.

“What for?”

“We’re having a party in Gordes in a couple of weeks, at my father’s house, a huge affair to celebrate the end of the festival. With some friends. Do you want to come?”

Jo shrugs, looking as if she couldn’t care less. She’s dying to go to this party.

She gives Garance her number.

Never Be Like Them

Never Be Like Them

The guys finished early and didn’t linger at the bookie’s. They quite like to do that, as a habit, but lately Manuel has been short on diplomacy so Patrick suggested a drink somewhere else: he didn’t want his mate to lose it and smash another worker’s face.

Usually, it’s the other way around: Patrick is as prickly as a horsefly, ready to scrape his knuckles on the jaw of the first man who contradicts him, just for the atavistic pleasure of a fist fight. Manuel calms things down when he can, smooths any sharp corners with friendly words and conciliatory beers. Once, only once, did he take a punch, but it wasn’t aimed at him; just an error in calculation, the target was moving too much and Manuel too intent on preventing the fight. It calmed everyone down. Because Manuel was the strongest, everyone knew that. You just had to see the size of the stones he lifted when building a wall. You just had to see the speed at which he could build one. And the size of his calloused hands. Nobody fucked with him if they didn’t want to be flattened by a blow as powerful as a boxer’s punch. Every muscle bulged like a threat, a challenge to the rest of the gang.

They arrive at Manuel’s with packs of beer in each hand, bare-chested, their T-shirts tucked into the belts of their trousers, slapping the backs of their thighs like animal tails. Séverine is watching television on the sofa.

“Should have told me you weren’t coming back home alone, would have dolled myself up a bit.”