“Don’t go into the downstairs one, it’s engaged… Go up to the first floor, at the end of the corridor, third door on the left.” He says that to Jo as she’s walking away, not taking his eyes off Céline.

In the house, Jo acts as though she’s seen it all before. Tense and wary, she looks at the corner sofas in this thousand-square-foot lounge, the double bass leaning against the wall, and its scores, messy on top of a chest of drawers. She’s forgotten Côme’s advice, and remembers only once she’s outside the bathroom door, alerted by the panting. The girl is squealing softly and the door is ajar. From what Jo can tell, it sounds pleasant. She glances inside: a tanned, smooth back and a girl’s legs welded to the guy’s hips. She meets the gaze of the girl, who doesn’t seem embarrassed. On the contrary; her pupils are dilated, and she suddenly laughs. She’s stoned, Jo thinks, oddly relieved that it’s not Garance. She feels pity for this girl, stupid enough to get fucked in full view and against a sink, seen by other people. As if she didn’t know that a reputation sticks so firmly that it can make you into what other people want. Jo feels pity, but even so her inner thighs warm up strangely, and she stays there, rooted, a little longer than she should, fascinated by the couple’s mechanics.

When she finally leaves, the images follow her, like the girl’s laughter. And, like an echo, she hears the guy’s voice: “What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing, carry on, don’t stop.”

Jo speeds up, wanders past the kitchen, where other young people are bustling about, heaping food onto plates and laughing so loudly that she also feels like laughing, though she doesn’t know why. But she’s not friends with them, so she walks down a corridor lined with bookcases, crushed by titles she doesn’t know. Going upstairs, she pretends she’s a princess and imagines she’s in her own home. But that doesn’t actually work – she shakes her head and instead thinks about a raging fire.

She half opens doors to a series of bedrooms with ecru bedspreads and finally finds the second bathroom, as large as a living room, with a bath and twin basins.

In the free-standing mirror, she looks at herself critically and slowly undresses. The house is so large that the sounds don’t even travel this far.

In the muffled silence, in her panties, she rummages through the bathroom drawers. Creams, perfumes, tablets. Soft white towels, folded like in a shop. She stops her raiding.