By the time she heaves herself out of the water and fetches her towels, she’s lost sight of them. Die Antwoord start singing “Enter the Ninja” and all the girls imitate the translucent performer, yelling, “I am your butterfly, I need your protection, be my samurai”; leaping, overexcited and half-naked. Somebody turns up the volume and the atmosphere heats up, bellies start to throb, bodies twist in a savage choreography, wet bodies, bare soles hitting the ground, narrow hips doing rounded, suggestive moves – there are no screwed-up uglies, amazing how well fed these kids are, as if they owned the world.

Jo searches with her eyes, zigzags amid the dancers, tempted, in spite of herself, to start contorting to “Banana Brain”, which is now starting, even jerkier and crazier. The heat is everywhere in the muggy night, climbing up their bodies. Her heart starts beating faster and she doesn’t know if it’s because of the atmosphere, the music or because she’s worried about Céline. Something’s about to happen. Jo can feel it, like animals that sense disasters a few minutes before they happen. Not necessarily something bad, but something unpleasant she’d like to avoid. She goes back into the lounge, touches the wood of the double bass with her superstitious finger, ever so lightly, and wards off bad luck by drawing strength where she finds it, even in the most unlikely places.

Ignoring the upper floor, she instinctively looks for new rooms and remembers Garance’s vague gesture when she mentioned a piano. Yes, the corridor at the end leads into another room with bay windows and a hell of a view over the Luberon, but it’s too dark for her to notice, and besides, she’s got other things to do. Behind the piano, a baby grand like in films, she makes out the couple on a cream sofa. Côme has switched on a small lamp so he doesn’t miss a single detail. Céline is giggling, drunk, her T-shirt lifted to her armpits. Côme has removed her bra and her full breasts are bursting out in the soft light, above her belly. Jo freezes, surprised by the beauty of the scene. If that bastard wasn’t filming it, she’d want to capture the moment. And that’s what he’s doing, although for a different reason. Even Côme’s blonde hand, stroking, pinching and feeling, has something striking about it. Jo approaches and grabs his iPhone without taking her eyes off her sister. “Get dressed, we’re off.”

Côme turns and his face turns from realization to fear and then quickly to anger. “Shit, give that back to me!”