I was about to let him go without doing anything for him—I’d dropped a few encouraging words, useless though they were, and a few bitchy remarks to try and cheer him up, but nothing serious because I didn’t know what he really wanted from me—when I saw Mathieu heading up our street. Need I say that I had no desire for them to meet! I sat back in my chair. I felt like throwing my papers in the air like confetti, shouting que sera sera.

Luc is very civilized and would never have attacked Mathieu head-on, but I had no intention of watching him try to seduce my boyfriend before my eyes while inwardly laughing at him. But there was another surprise in store for me—this was really a red-letter weekend.

They knew each other.

I didn’t have to introduce them, they both started as they recognized each other and Mathieu went bright red, while Luc put on that little smile I’ve seen so often, which never augurs well.

“I should’ve realized it was you when I heard your name. There aren’t that many Mathieus your age in Montreal . . .”

Mathieu held out his hand. Not very warmly. He was ­leaning against the balcony railing.

“I should’ve known who it was when Jean-Marc said you were in one of the soaps. Will your character, the one that I stutters, be back this year?”

A hint of contempt had slipped into Mathieu’s remark and it hit Luc right in the heart. His stammering character had been a joke all over Quebec for two years now and it had made him tremendously popular, but the show itself was a piece of shit and he knew it.

He cleared his throat, half-rose from his chair as if to say I’d better be going, but Mathieu kept him there.

“I’ve had something of yours for months, but I didn’t know your phone number . . .”

He went inside the house.

I heard myself uttering one of the most fatuous remarks of all time:

“So you’ve met before . . .”

Luc sat down again, smiling.

“Yes.”

“Did you . . .”

“Of course. But just once. Lousy lay . . .”

For someone who was scared to death he knew where to hit.

“You used to say that about me, Luc, when you were pissed off with me, and I happen to know it’s not true . . .”

He actually laughed. So that was what it took to restore his good humour, a situation that was somewhat equivocal. I leaned towards him.

“When did it happen, your little fling-ette?”

“Oof, early summer, May probably . . .”

“Which means that if you’ve really got AIDS . . .”

He slapped his thigh.

“If you see any spots on the soles of your feet you’ll know who to thank . . .”