When she came down to let us in I saw right away that Mélène was in a foul mood. Usually so excited at the prospect of our family suppers, that evening she had one of those ox-like expressions that makes her look so ugly ­whenever she and Jeanne have a fight or when something particularly unpleasant is on her mind. A little peck that just grazed the cheek, no hint of a smile, a frown as if she had a sinus headache: no, she was definitely not herself. I held out the two bottles of Brouilly that Mathieu and I had bought that afternoon and as gently as I could asked what was wrong.

“I’ve got some news for you . . . The terrible twosome decided to butt in and they got here first in case they might miss something . . .”

Yes, there they were: Johanne, her cigarillo stuck in the middle of her mouth, and Marguerite, all smiles but all eyes too, alert to the slightest tension, no matter how insignificant, even ready to invent some if necessary, were waiting in the living room, scotch in hand, the first in a long series because they both drink like fish. They were sitting in the same place I’d seen them last time and they had the same snotty look on their callow faces; they were a blot on my friends’ living room and I resented their presence.

I made the introductions, hoping Mathieu wouldn’t take a dislike to them too quickly.

Johanne waved her cigarillo above the ashtray she held on her lap and didn’t even shake hands. Marguerite gave him a limp hand though, and a smile filled with such ­condescension I nearly screamed.

“So this is the young man who’s always going in and out of your place . . . You should have let us know about your new friend, Jean-Marc. Once when you were out I heard footsteps and nearly called the police . . . You understand, there are so many thieves in those circles . . .”

There was a brief silence that the women must have found juicy, but I was so taken aback I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Mélène cleared her throat behind her fist, a sign between us that something has to be done, while Mathieu, standing and facing them, stiffened before our eyes.

Johanne threw her head back before expelling a long stream of nauseating smoke towards the ceiling. “I guess you must have met him on Saint-Denis below Sherbrooke.”

I know I was an asshole. I pretended this was a good joke; I laughed as I took Mathieu’s shoulder to lead him to the big sofa, then asked for a beer just before Mélène disappeared with unaccustomed haste.