To recap: she was Edgar’s daughter. That was clear. Once again, there was no visible family likeness. Now I knew the connection, I was able to detect a few resemblances between her and Charlotte – just about. Edgar stood out strikingly in this fair-haired family. I wondered what this child’s mother must look like and I felt an irrational pang. I pictured her as very beautiful, very fair – as fair-haired as I was dark. I’ve always borne a grudge against blondes. They have some connection with envy, desire. Blondes represent a fantasy, for men and women alike. Brunettes are reality – wallpaper that blends into the surroundings. They only make waves when their hair is jet black. The brunette is in between, only revealing her true flavour when you really taste her. I’ve sometimes thought of bleaching my hair, but I’ve always given up the idea, full of lofty principles that made me narrow-minded. At the end of the day, perhaps I should have tried.

Another crucial nugget of information that she’d let slip: it sounded as if she was Louis’s Isa. The one who’d made my heart skip a beat, from the first page of the precious notebook. I felt a huge sense of relief mixed with huge embarrassment. Relief at finally being able to put a face to the name of the girl I’d fantasized about hundreds of times over the past weeks. Above all, at being able to associate that name with a child’s face. The Isa in the notebook could have been an adult in whom Louis had confided, who was important to him. I’d have died of jealousy. Louis was my child, and I couldn’t bear the idea of another woman stealing his attention. I thanked the heavens – just the heavens; there was no divine being in my imagination – that this Isa was a child, a pre-teen; it didn’t matter. Anything except another woman. So, a huge relief, but I also felt huge embarrassment at having made such an idiot of myself in front of her, revealing, one by one, the less admirable sides of my personality: I’d shown myself to be a cheat, always whingeing, a deserter, lazy, tearful. At least I hadn’t pretended to be anything I wasn’t.

At that precise moment, Edgar and the rest of the troop marched into the confined space of the changing rooms, raising the noise and smell levels. Some of the kids were chanting ‘We are the champions!’ and imitating the victory signs of their stadium idols, others snorted angrily and wore the expressions of would-be presidential candidates learning the fatal outcome of a bitterly contested election. Edgar laughed, rubbing the heads of the disappointed kids, finding the words to comfort them. A family trait, apparently. I stood up and headed for the adults’ changing room. Before leaving, I wanted to thank Isa.