The next thing I knew I was standing beside the table with some dollar bills in my hand. Mathieu was staring as if he’d been slapped. I’ve never felt like such a boor but I couldn’t stop myself. I put the money on the table without really looking at him.

“Listen . . . I have to go. Sorry. I’ve got a bad headache and if I don’t go to bed right away I know I’ll be up all night . . . See you around . . .”

I know what I’d have done in his place: delivered a few choice words to the son-of-a-bitch who’d dared to behave like that. But I think he just sat there, stunned, staring at his empty plate. It must have taken him a couple of minutes to realize what was happening.

At the corner of Saint-Laurent I shuddered with relief and jumped in a cab.

I was furious when I went to bed that night. Furious with myself for the way I’d behaved, but at the same time feeling as if I’d escaped from a possible danger. The years with Luc had marked me, I know that, his frustrations exasperated me, his bitterness sometimes made me cynical with him, but I’d never realized just how hostile I felt towards actors. Especially those who haven’t made it yet. Why not give Mathieu the benefit of the doubt? He was only twenty-four, with his whole future ahead of him. I think I preferred to let him hold on to his illusions and simply disappear before I told him something I might regret. All night I relived some painful scenes with Luc, his crises, his doubts, his ­certainties that were often so pathetic. No, never again. Really.