‘Hello. I . . . Yes, I remember . . . Hello – sorry, I already said that . . . You’re Charlotte’s brother? I had no idea she had an older brother . . . I mean . . .’

‘. . . That I look older than her? That I was out of place among all those young people at her apartment? No hard feelings; I thought so, too, and I was pleasantly surprised to meet you that night . . . I mean . . .’

‘. . . That I looked older than the average age, there? That I was out of place, too? I agree, and I think that makes us quits.’

Jesus, what an idiot . . . Incapable of putting a coherent sentence together, and punctuating my babbling with silly little giggles . . . So, I’d made a fool of myself two days earlier in front of the brother of pretty Charlotte, who was as blonde as he was dark. I’d never have guessed they were related. I was going to try to run away, once again, but he wouldn’t let me.

‘I’m very glad to see you again; you left so abruptly the other evening, we didn’t even have a chance to introduce ourselves.’

‘I’m sorry . . . I’m Thelma.’

I held out my hand. He took it and held on to it for a few seconds longer than was necessary.

‘I know who you are. I described you to my sister after the party and she . . . explained the situation. I’m very sorry about your son, Thelma, truly. Especially because I’m very fond of him.’

‘I beg your pardon? Who are you very fond of?’

‘Your son, Louis. When my sister told me . . . I realized that . . . My sister and I rarely talk about our work. She has a demanding job in the intensive-care unit, so, when we’re together, we talk about everything except her day-to-day work at the hospital. In any case, she never talks about her patients, and I never talk to her about my kids . . . Well, not really mine – the ones I coach. It’s a small world. Paris is a village, and it so happens that, at the moment, my sister’s looking after one of my pupils: your son, Louis. I’m Edgar. Delighted to meet you, Thelma.’

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God (as my son would say). The guy I’d made an idiot of myself in front of was Charlotte’s brother and Louis’s football coach. I could never, ever have guessed, especially because he looked neither like Sophie Davant nor Monsieur Ducros, the Little Ninja.