I got through that unbearable two-day wait, but I kept bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. Everything reminded me of Louis. Of his absence. Of missing him. The woman in the bakery said hello, and I welled up at the sight of the macaroons I usually bought for my son. I’d switch on the radio, but couldn’t bear all those hip songs that only made the painful silence of my apartment even more poignant. I’d walk in the street and nearly pass out each time I saw a skateboard. I had to sit down on a bench to get my breath back the minute I spotted a lorry. My life was a series of ordeals which I’d never be able to overcome.

My headache grew more searing each day. I’d upped the dose from one bottle of wine to two. The hospital staff weren’t blind. They sent their most brilliant representative to see me, in the person of Sophie Davant. They knew she was my favourite, my raw nerve. She talked to me with the utmost gentleness, pushing me to react, giving me the details of a psychiatrist I should go and see without delay; I had a problem; it was pretty standard in my circumstances and it wasn’t too late. ‘Promise me you’ll give him a call.’ Yes, I promise, Sophie.

I didn’t phone him. I took refuge in silence. I felt wrung out. My lawyer told me that Hégémonie had already raised the bid, that we were close to one million euros. He sounded jubilant, but this news gave me no joy. It was just a piece of information, like any other.

Those few days forced me to open my eyes to the grim reality of my life. Outside my job and my son, I had nothing. I was nothing. My love life was as flimsy as cigarette paper; I hadn’t had sex for two whole years.

Even so, I had been all right before. Above average. Slim, five foot six, an intense face with hazel eyes and thick, sensual, well-shaped eyebrows, which I’d always refused to pluck and which emphasized my large eyes. Flaming chestnut hair – that’s the adjective my hair stylist used to console me about my unruly mop. I often wore it up, with a pencil stuck through it. I loved the gesture of lifting my thick mass of hair, twisting it and exposing the nape of my neck, letting my skin thrill to the touch – and sometimes enchant, reminding me of my youth.

I’d created a profile on several dating sites, offering my neck, eyebrows and straggly chignon to the eyes of the world. I’d ticked the box saying I was open to one-night stands and had been swamped with offers. Married men, mostly. That had convinced me of the inadequacy of the male sex.