Another glance at the back of the car – he’s doing the right thing, he’s right. A long drag, his eyes shut. His friends won’t be here for a while, so he’s got time. The cat walks past, mewing, crazy-eyed: the stupid thing still hasn’t worked out she’ll never see her little ones again and has been looking for them everywhere for days. He grits his teeth – fuck, he doesn’t care, after all it’s an animal. Saïd blows out the thick smoke through his mouth and nose, thinking about Johanna’s legs.

She couldn’t make up her mind at first, and finally opted for a black T-shirt, denim shorts and Roman sandals. Then she put on make-up only to remove it all with cotton wool and cream and start again. The very fact of spending so much time on this and being unable to make up her mind has made her angry. Consequently, instead of enjoying herself, Jo is harbouring persistent irritability at the start of this evening, which she takes out on her sister. She finds it impossible simply to admit she’s scared, scared of going to a party where she only has one friend, if that, scared she won’t like the people, scared of not being liked. She thought she didn’t care about all that.

“Are you really going to wear those things? Are you serious?” Jo looks at Céline and her red feather earrings.

“You don’t like them?”

“They’re ugly. They look like – don’t know, don’t like them.”

“You’re pissing me off. Always criticizing.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are, and even more so since you made new friends.”

“They’re not my friends. And I didn’t have to wait for them before I criticized your clothes.”

“That’s true, you’re a real bitch.”

“Or your slutty jewellery.”

“At least a slut can put on her make-up.”

A blend of defeat and childish laughter appears on Jo’s face. She’s really pretty when she smiles, with dimples like fish hooks in the hollows of her cheeks. As she gets older she’ll probably be even more attractive than her sister, but you can’t see it yet because she struggles to fully live in her own body.

“All right, help me, but don’t put tons on.”

In the corridor, there’s the sound of their mother’s footsteps when they thought they were alone. The door suddenly opens.

“You could knock.”

“You expect me to ask permission, do you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Don’t push it, Céline, and don’t take that tone.”

The kid holds her gaze, a final show-off of pride before yielding.

“Where are you going exactly?”

“To a party, in Gordes.”

“Your new mates?” Séverine asks, jutting her chin at Johanna, who grunts to say yes.

The mother looks at Céline. “You’re not going.”

“What?”