The gorgeous fence in question is so old I was afraid it wouldn’t stand up to the weight of the paint. We’d taken a vote some weeks before: no money for a new fence because of the new double windows, therefore purchase of white paint to do what we could to conceal the hideous structure that was the disgrace of our lane. Another vote had ­designated Mélène and me to start the painting because Jeanne works weekends. If we hadn’t finished by Saturday night the two other occupants of the house would take over on Sunday morning. Just talking about it made me queasy. How had a solitary type like me got himself into such a boy-scout situation?

Yes, that’s exactly it: for Mélène it was a wonderful way to bring us closer, to strengthen the ties between us, to form a true family core. She and Jeanne lived on the third floor, I had the second and the two others had the ground-floor flat. We didn’t spend much time with the two others, who’d been chosen not from within the family, which would have been normal, but solely because they were the only women we knew with a little money. We all got together now and then for plenty of idiotic reasons, but we didn’t socialize with them. So the family core is far from complete, and we often find ourselves in situations that are absurd and ­infuriating.

I’ve never been any good with my hands. The paint I was applying to the dry grey wood was running in long sticky rivulets that kept disappearing into the brand new grass which was so hard to keep green. My right hand looked as if I was wearing a white glove and there were so many splotches on my jeans I lost all hope of salvaging them.

I was well aware that Mélène had been watching me out of the corner of her eye for a few minutes, that she was fed up with my clumsiness, she who could work miracles with a hammer and a couple of nails. Yet I can’t say I wasn’t applying myself; I really was trying, doing the best I could to cover the goddamn fence with white paint, but the brush kept slipping or the paint would drip or I’d bump my head against the freshly painted wood . . .

“Watch where you put your brush, Jean-Marc, you’re ­dripping paint all over!”

That was probably what I’d been waiting for. I rammed my brush into the can of paint and got to my feet.

“Fuck off, sweetheart! If you’re so goddamn good at it, do it yourself!”