The pipes in our house are very dilapidated—another ­contentious subject between the clans: at the time, Mélène, Jeanne and I wanted to put in new plumbing next spring, but the two others preferred to save their money for a trip to Europe, where they hadn’t been for a year and a half, poor dears—and whenever anyone took a shower anywhere in the house, everyone else knew it. My own shower emitted a long, spasmodic rumble, as if the pipes had a cold, which distinguished it from the other two; and so Mélène and I were somewhat taken aback when that very characteristic sound was heard in the midst of our effusions.

Mélène, who is terrified of burglars, screamed:

“There’s somebody in your apartment!”

I quickly reassured her:

“Don’t panic, burglars don’t usually take showers . . . Mathieu probably got off work early . . .”

We’d obviously talked about Mathieu a lot. At least I had. In carefully chosen but very clear terms. Mélène now knew how truly important he was in my life and in a sense I’d given her permission to tell the rest of the family. As she’d got used to having Mathieu around, it wasn’t a major problem, although I sensed a hint not so much of jealousy but of disappointment, perhaps, as if she’d thought I was too old to fall in love again after the much desired break-up with Luc, and that situation had suited her fine. I don’t think she’d consciously been aware of wanting me for herself; but sometimes I think that if Jeanne—though I adore her—were to disappear from Mélène’s life it would be very hard for me to accept anyone who replaced her, no matter how beautiful, brilliant and kind she might be. Because it would change the equilibrium of a structure that had been built up with a lot of patience and a lot of care. In the end, bringing a new member into our closely united family was a bigger problem than the fact that I had a new lover.

Mélène invited Mathieu and me for supper; I said I’d check with him.

I found him emerging from the shower and as excited as a flea. Francine Beaupré, the secretary at the advertising agency, had taken him at his word: they were looking for someone to promote the virtues of milk in a huge advertising campaign, and his still-adolescent looks had attracted the sponsor’s attention. It was a fabulous contract and if he got it he’d be able to quit Eaton’s and devote all his time to acting.

“You know I’d never accept a job as the exclusive spokesman for a beer or a supermarket chain but milk . . . It’s healthy, no side-effects. I know I’ll get points if I land that contract . . .”