I hang up like a heartless brute and go back to my béchamel.

Ten seconds later the phone rings again.

Is his mother dialing for him or has she shown him how to do it himself?

Gutless, I decide not to answer.

I thought I’d reassured Mathieu after his conversation with Mélène. At least until his son’s next visit, in three weeks’ time. No, Sébastien hadn’t got on my nerves, yes I’d get used to having him around, of course he could come again. We’d both avoided going any deeper, Mathieu for fear he’d discover some truth that he wasn’t prepared to confront, I to protect myself from making a confession that might wound him.

It was true that I was willing to see Sébastien again. It was a sacrifice I’d decided to make, thinking that after all, two days a month wasn’t the end of the world. But I admit I was appalled at the approaching weekend which would probably find me once again on my hands and knees in the living room, once again putting together that goddamn twenty-four-piece jigsaw puzzle.

Meanwhile, life went on, with improvements, even: Mélène, Jeanne and Mathieu were becoming good friends, which pleased me; the bitches downstairs were leaving us in peace; at the Saturday night family suppers our ­enjoyment verged on delirium; I wasn’t nearly such a pain in the ass to my students.

All that in spite of a particularly vicious autumn.

I came home to Mathieu every evening with a joy that sometimes amazed me. There were times, totally insignificant moments, when I loved him so much that I wanted to grab him then and there, to thank him! Just for existing. And above all for being there. It’s hard to admit things like that, you’re afraid they sound tacky, but it’s thrilling to ­experience them.

Except for the prospect of seeing Sébastien in three weeks, two weeks, one week, my joy would have been ­complete. It had become almost a sickness. God in Heaven, the child wasn’t a monster! But the thought of him gave me the shakes. I’d even started making plans to be away during his next visit!

He kept calling us regularly. I still couldn’t understand a word and I’d finally stopped answering the phone between five-thirty and seven p.m. Mathieu knew, and thought it was funny. Whenever the phone rang at supper time he ­pretended not to hear it and I finally got impatient.

“Mathieu, you know very well it’s Sébastien and you know it drives me round the bend to talk to him on the phone!”