“There’s nothing to understand. Life’s not like a fairy tale for silly girls. Life hurts. You’re younger, and yet I see you already know that. No point deluding yourself because then, in the end, it’s worse.”

She finishes putting the plates away, rubs her thumb over the embossed poppies and the hollow edges.

Jo rinses her bowl by hand in the sink, without answering. Her mother continues. “You shouldn’t hang around so much with Saïd.”

“Why? What have you lot got against Saïd?”

“Me, nothing. But your father is being stupid enough at the moment without you adding fuel to the fire.”

“We’ve been friends for ever.”

“You’re not kids any more, and I don’t know how he could afford to buy his car, but considering his wages as a farmworker —”

“So?”

“He’s bound to be wheeler-dealing.”

“As if you care about his wheeler-dealing. Papa does cash-in-hand work every other weekend, but if Saïd has some money, then he must be wheeler-dealing.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Actually, you did. That’s exactly what you said.”

Séverine sighs. She looks at her daughter and her furious eyes. Such an alien, such a strange gaze. After all, she couldn’t care less if Jo hangs around with Saïd, or anybody else actually. She just wants to be left alone. She wishes she could have come home to an empty house, not had to talk or listen. She just wanted to be alone, that’s all.

She feels immense relief when Jo goes up to her room. Pointing the remote at the screen like a weapon, Séverine lies down on the sofa. Dreading the arrival of the other two, she glances at the Mickey Mouse clock – another ugly thing she’s never been able to get rid of. An hour of calm. She turns up the sound.

Corso Fleuri

Corso Fleuri

The sound system blasts out a song by Louane that echoes through all the town loudspeakers. Jo wishes she could find the source of this crime and pull out the wires. She can’t, and every time she hears the intro she pictures the singer being murdered, a bloodbath and torn vocal cords. The problem is that no village dance, no public event escapes her repertoire this summer; it’s a curse that apparently won’t be lifted until the autumn.

“Come on, you’re exaggerating,” Saïd says, laughing. “It’s not that awful.”

“I’d sooner have the old Tarantula dance tune.”

Céline starts singing the lyrics she knows by heart into her sister’s ear, enunciating every syllable, yelling the tune of the chorus.

“Stop it, you’re pissing me off.”