Patrick lights a cigarette with his Zippo. He finds the familiar smell of petrol reassuring. He clenches his jaw and bites the filter. Séverine must have turned up the volume because a reprise of “Jolene” now invades the garden. The singer’s voice has nothing of Dolly Parton’s biting despair, but her please don’t take him just because you can still makes Patrick quiver. He glances up at the open window of the girls’ room. Céline is leaning on the sill, in a bra, smoking a joint. She looks at him without saying anything, takes a drag from the carton filter slowly, so she doesn’t burn herself. They remain like this for a moment. He can’t see her belly, below, just her breasts overflowing, the lace on the edge of her cleavage, the soft, puffy flesh. And her expressionless eyes that don’t let go of his. He remembers the day Manuel turned up at the bookie’s like a maniac to announce her birth, his hands shaking, his eyes moist like a girl’s. And the bender that followed. He wonders what she’s thinking about, and his heart is beating too fast. She throws down the still-smouldering butt and it lands at his feet. He crushes it with the tip of his shoe. Then he looks up again, but Céline has disappeared.

Finally, it’s Manuel and Séverine who come and join Patrick in the garden. Séverine has put on a T-shirt and skirt and tied her hair in a ponytail like an American cheerleader with a few extra miles. But she carries them well. When Valérie turns up, she brings peanuts; a huge pack of monkey nuts goes well with beer. Then the men move on to pastis. They talk about the building site, about Bonnieux and the ornamental pond the owner is making them dig right next to the pool. They talk with a mixture of envy and mockery, because an ornamental pond is pointless, it’s crazy, a rich woman’s whim.

“But what’s it for?” Valérie insists.

“It’s just pretty. Or else to put fish in it, don’t know.”