She scrolls through the photo gallery with her thumb and deletes as fast as she can. By the time he gets up and catches her by the wrist, she’s erased the video and three pictures he’s just taken of her sister. Jo deliberately drops the phone and it bounces softly on the rug. Too bad, she would have liked it to break, to split like an arched eyebrow under a fist.

Côme picks up his property and turns to Céline, who’s pulled down her T-shirt, looking a little wild. “We weren’t doing any harm, Jo.”

“Not you.”

Roles reversed, like so often. When is the day going to come when someone will protect her? Will worry about saving her from trouble, pull a sheet over her shoulders, hold her forehead while she’s puking? Will that day ever come? Will she allow it? Maybe Saïd, but admittedly she doesn’t really give him a chance.

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“We’re going to get my clothes, and then we’re out of here.”

Céline looks down and picks up her bra from between the sofa cushions. She bites her lip and doesn’t dare look at Côme. He grits his teeth, stares at the wall and shakes his head. He approaches Jo and stands in her way, without hostility. His hand swipes at his blonde lock of hair and lingers on the back of his neck. His eyes are almost liquid as he whispers to Jo, “You know, I wouldn’t have shown it to the others.”

“Like hell you wouldn’t.”

“I swear. It’s what I was planning, but —”

“But what? You allegedly felt guilty, dickhead?”

He looks lost, and that’s not usual for him. He suddenly looks like a child, or a much older man. “I don’t know.”

“I know.”

“No, you’re wrong. I think… I think I would have kept it to myself.”

“Fucking idiot,” Jo hisses, dragging Céline upstairs with her.

*

The stairs, the walk-in wardrobe, the bedrooms, the bathroom: she goes back the now familiar way. She puts on her clothes, rolls up her swimsuit in a plastic bag. A hollow rage tenses her jaw, preventing her from crying. She dives into the walk-in wardrobe, grabs a large travel bag made of glossy leather, of an elegance that’s alien to her. Under the slightly dazed eyes of Céline, Jo mechanically tears down the clothes that she can get her hands on that are softest to the touch and stuffs them into the bag.

“You’re crazy,” Céline tries to say, regaining her stupid drunk smile, a small flicker of greed lighting up her eyes.

She bends down to pick up a pair of shoes and adds it to the loot. Then another and then – why not, while they’re at it? – a jacket.