When he came back with a nice cold Heineken she was the one who looked nervous.

“Now I’ve got something to tell you . . . “

“And on top of everything else he’s married! Mamma, is this really you?”

“You’re the last person to be preaching, young man!”

“I’m not preaching, I’m just surprised! Don’t attack me before I even say anything!”

Rose had made her own confession, almost clinging to Sébastien’s foot. She had kept a close watch on Mathieu’s reactions as she spoke, interrupting herself when he ­started—this was the first time he’d ever heard a candid ­reference to his mother’s sex life and he couldn’t hide his amazement—stumbling over the words she found difficult, the ones with a loaded meaning that exploded between them like a small bomb, hesitating between letting doubt persist or telling him outright that it wasn’t a platonic ­relationship . . . In the end she too told him everything, but she wasn’t sure that she felt relieved.

Since the death of Mathieu’s father fifteen years earlier, the question of other men had never come up. Rose had had several “pals” whom Mathieu had hated, persecuting them with well-aimed kicks and repeated hysterics until they went away, disgusted at the spoiled brat who wouldn’t let anyone near his mother, but they’d never talked about them openly. Married very young, Mathieu had chosen to forget about his mother’s escapades, though she was a healthy woman, still very beautiful and desirable, and men had always hovered around her, even when his father was still alive. And now he was picturing her in an enticing ­negligée on Saturday morning, waiting for the phone to ring, and then the doorbell . . .

“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?”