Edgar drew the dancers. As the years went by, his pencil dwelt on the features of one girl in particular. Edgar drew Madeleine, but Madeleine didn’t know it. At fourteen, Edgar finally plucked up the courage to take the first step. He gave Madeleine a portrait, immortalizing her precise movements, the perfection of her arabesque. She was deeply touched. From then on, Madeleine and Edgar became inseparable.

Madeleine loved Edgar’s drawings. She encouraged him to persevere, to exhibit. While Edgar was a student at the Marseille School of Fine Arts, Madeleine auditioned, failed, picked herself up and failed again. After a few years of this, like many dancers, she opted for security, and began teaching at the family dance school. Madeleine was happy, her life revolved around her relationship with Edgar. He was beginning to gain a reputation, each one of his paintings selling for several thousand euros. He didn’t sell many, so Madeleine’s income brought a welcome stability to this family of artists.

Then, twelve years ago, Isadora came along. Their happiness lasted until Isadora started primary school. Then their world fell apart.

One September morning, Edgar’s parents boarded flight MX484 for Havana. Forty years of marriage was something to celebrate. Family and friends chipped in to send the lovebirds on a second honeymoon. They’d always dreamt of going to Cuba. ‘Retirement is the start of a new life,’ joked Edgar’s mother in her farewell speech to the dance school, which she’d handed over to Madeleine a few weeks earlier.

The plane never reached Cuba. The Atlantic would never yield any information. Every possible theory was put forward: human error, engine failure, terrorist attack . . . The black box was never found. It wasn’t possible for the families of the 337 people who had perished to mourn. But, somehow, they had to start grieving.

Edgar threw himself into his work, but he found his paintings repetitive, depressing. The spark had gone. Madeleine provided for the household’s needs single-handedly. They both protected Isadora as best they could. Madeleine spent more and more time at the dance studio, making it her duty to perpetuate the memory of the woman who’d given her everything: her passion, her school, her son. She seemed exhausted, unsurprisingly, given how hard she worked.