“How long’s this been going on?”

“Since before you left home . . . We met elsewhere . . . because of his wife . . . and you . . . Now, though, it’s more . . . convenient.”

She was as red as a tomato. She was breathing heavily, wiping her brow with a Kleenex and fanning herself with her hand.

“What a night! I won’t forget this for a long time!”

Mathieu was both shocked and wounded. Shocked at his own selfishness, at not having realized earlier, because it had always been inconceivable, that his mother might have an active sex life, and wounded because of her lack of ­confidence and because she’d never breathed a word to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me before? I could have made myself scarce on Saturday mornings, left you alone, I’m not a baby after all, I know about these things . . .”

“And what about you, why didn’t you breathe a word? Eh? It’s the same thing, Mathieu! It’s called being too damn ­discreet! If you hadn’t told me what you did tonight, maybe I wouldn’t have told you about Paul either . . . Even though I’ve got one advantage over you . . .”

“What’s that?”

She leaned towards him and ran her hand through his hair, an abrupt little gesture that was almost a slap, as she used to do when he was little and she wanted to make a point during an argument.

“At least I had some suspicions about your secret . . .”

At that he was frankly ashamed.

“Are you happy, even though he’s married and you’re stuck with being the other woman?”

“Yes. Absolutely. It suits me because he’s not underfoot all the time like your father and . . . well, you should know, sometimes it’s exciting, sneaking around . . .”

“Both of us are happy and we never said a word to each other . . .”

“Some kinds of happiness are harder to take than others . . .”

“Or to confess . . .”

“Or to confess.”

“So who is he anyway? You haven’t even told me his full name! What does he do?”

“And what about yours?”

“How do you manage your Saturday mornings? Doesn’t his wife suspect anything?”

“She isn’t too bright . . . She thinks he goes to the gym to work out . . . He works out all right, but not the way she thinks . . .”

“Mamma, honestly!”

“Is he good to Sébastien at least?”

“He tries . . . but he’s only seen him once.”

It went on and on, passionate and impassioned, with ­plenty of tears and giggles; it was like a combined pyjama party and primal therapy session; it brought pain and relief, it was exalting but upsetting too, because it was so fragile: one ill-chosen or misinterpreted word could have destroyed everything. But they chose the right words and the night passed, catching them unawares.