Edgar came over and asked me if everything was all right. I could have replied curtly, of course, that I’d never felt so good in all my life, that I’d always dreamt of sprawling in the mud with a bunch of sweaty prepubescents, but I refrained. I tossed my hair back into place, saying, ‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine – a bit tired, that’s all.’ Something of an understatement, for someone whose muscles and respiratory system had turned to jelly.

Edgar. If there was one positive thing about this entire experience, it was meeting Edgar. The guy was incredible. I kept looking for a flaw, but couldn’t find one. What I felt was strange, new. I cursed him all day long – his exercises, his natural authority, which shut up the most rebellious of my pre-teen co-detainees – and, at the same time, I admired him. I admired him for his simplicity, his genuineness, his almost animal strength, and for the vulnerabilities I’d sensed. I felt as if I’d known him forever.

When I’d turned up at the Friday evening training session to ask for details of the courses on offer and to sign up – my heart filled with dread – I’d had to wait in a small room next to the community-centre sports ground, where I’d sipped a coffee that was too sweet as I honed my strategy.

I planned to come clean with Edgar, and tell him the truth about my project. I anticipated his likely reluctance. I’d brought Louis’s hospitalization certificate as proof, so he wouldn’t suspect me of being a predatory paedophile. I was prepared for every possible reaction. And I was ready to bribe him, if necessary.

I waited for the famous Edgar, and imagined him to be like Monsieur Ducros, my P.E. teacher when I was fourteen, whom we nicknamed ‘Little Ninja’ because he was both tiny and paunchy, but astonishingly agile. Monsieur Ducros gave us mind-blowing gymnastics demonstrations, transforming himself into a bouncing ball of energy, contrary to expectations. To look at him, no one would have bet a cent on his ability to teach any kind of sports discipline.

I was absorbed in my memories, staring into space, when I saw the stranger I’d met at Charlotte’s little party walk into the room. My nostrils quivered, recalling the smell of dried beer that had clung to me during the long hours I’d wandered along the towpath of the Saint-Martin canal. I neither wanted to relive the feelings of that disastrous and painful evening, nor to flirt, even if my knight was still as attractive. I looked away and devoured the fascinating activities brochure over and over.

‘Hello. We’ve already met, haven’t we? You are . . . We met at my sister’s birthday party.’