Patrick’s not listening. He pretends to, punctuating pauses with encouragements, smiling at no one in particular. He points his nervous profile right and left, his nose like a blade, smoothing his curls with the flat of his hand. The kid never came, and not for want of trying. Valérie counted the days, wrote dates in red pen on schedules where fucking had become reproduction-focused intercourse. The doctors searched, analysed and questioned. They couldn’t work it out. As far as Valérie was concerned, everything was working to perfection, a well-oiled machine and a welcoming uterus. She’d been entitled to one treatment, just to increase their chances, but nothing. Not even a blighted ovum or an early pregnancy that ended in a miscarriage. The doctors couldn’t see what was going awry, Patrick’s tests were also good despite a few weak sperm, a specialist had said, and he hadn’t gauged the effect of these few words. He’d added that it was very common, that there was nothing to worry about, that it would in no way prevent them from conceiving a child. But his pride, for God’s sake.

Anyway, they were still together, and that was as strange as it was logical – with a twisted logic, full of regrets disguised as fatigue, as familiar, reassuring resentment.

Valérie is sweating in her puff sleeve blouse, and there are dark haloes at her armpits. What with the treatment and the waiting, she has slid into this not altogether unpleasant, soft body, a valley of rounded flesh that’s just a little too bulky to be attractive.

They gave up on the kid. At least that’s what they say, putting on a fatalistic front. They’ve even taken to extolling the virtues of not having a child, and laying it on a bit thick whenever friends complain about theirs, going on about how lucky they are as though they’d actually made the decision.

Parisians sit at the tables nearby and express surprise at how cheap things are in the provinces. They’re as happy as settlers.

Patrick looks at Manuel’s daughters. Céline is sitting on the edge of the water, a hand on her belly. She tosses her hair back. It’s lovely, but not like before. Patrick looks at every boy who’s with her, squinting to see them better.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Sorry.”

Valérie finally swivels round. When she turns back to face Patrick, she’s no longer smiling. Her mouth is a little twisted and she questions her husband with her eyes, then asks, “You think Manuel knows they’re here?”

He shrugs and finishes his drink. He fiddles with his phone and looks again at Saïd and Jo heading into the side road, towards the parking area by the dam. A huge Nego Chin full of dancers cuts off his view.