No, what I wanted to do was stay home with Mathieu, savouring one of those mornings that are unique to the beginning of a relationship, so sweet, so gentle, that ­nothing afterwards can replace them, that remain among the most beautiful. I’d have been attentive enough to risk being cloying, tender in a way you rarely admit you’re ­capable of being. Willingly and with talent galore I’d have played the part of the star-struck lover who gets on everybody’s nerves till they want to punch him. Instead, there I was surrounded by a mob of leaflet-waving film buffs who were already trumpeting in peremptory and superior tones their personal favourites: “I saw the latest Beineix at Cannes, it’s total trash” or: “Skip the Blier, it’s sillier than usual” or again, and with the proper accent to show how plugged-in you are: “You must see the Schlöndorff! Really, the Schlöndorff is the film to see!” And I, poor ignoramus who’d never been able to pronounce the name without being laughed at, stood with my nose in my programme while Mathieu kissed the cheeks of overwrought girls and shook hands with incredible sixties leftovers, complete with beards and lugging those paper shopping bags that were known in my childhood as “les sacs à Tousignant.”

In the distance I spotted two colleagues deep in conversation, and I turned my back for fear they’d notice me. Just the thought that in one week I’d have to rub shoulders with them every day made my legs turn to rubber. When the doors opened the excitement, already high, moved up a notch. For a minute I thought the crowd would shout “Hurray!” the way we used to on Saturday afternoons when I was a kid, when the doors of the parish hall opened and we took out our ten cents with a squeal.

Mathieu grabbed my arm.

“Exciting, eh?”

I said yes, sure, as I followed the crowd that was surging into the theater. A lady behind me gave me a push in the back, just hard enough to be unpleasant. I turned around. She didn’t get it. I felt her schedule against my shoulder blade, the pressure of her hand grazing my shirt, and I wanted to scream.