Oh yes. The flat. Turns out Thierry’s fixing it up, making it nice for when we move in. He told us about it while Roux was there; how there’d be a new bedroom for me and Rosette, and new decorations, and how he wanted it all to be ready by Christmas, so that his girls would be comfortable—

But all the same there was something mean about the way he said it. He was smiling, you know, but not with his eyes; the way Chantal does when she’s talking about her new iPod, or her new outfit, or her new shoes, or her Tiffany bracelet, and I’m just standing there listening.

Roux was there, looking as if he’d been hit.

‘Listen,’ he said, when Thierry shut up. ‘I’ve got to go. I just wanted to see how you were, you know, just passing by on my way somewhere—’

Liar, I thought. You cleaned your boots.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘On a boat,’ he said.

Well, that makes sense. He’s always liked boats. I remembered the one in Lansquenet; the one that was burnt. I remember his face when it happened, too; that look you get when you’ve worked hard for something you really care about, and then someone mean takes it all away.

‘Where?’ I said.

‘On the river,’ said Roux.

‘Well, duh,’ I said, which should have made him smile. And I realized then that I hadn’t even kissed him, hadn’t even hugged him since I arrived, and that made me feel bad, because if I did it now it would look like I’d just remembered, and didn’t really mean it at all.

Instead I took his hand. It was rough and scratchy from working.

I thought he looked surprised; then he smiled.

‘I’d like to see your boat,’ I said.

‘Maybe you will,’ said Roux.

‘Is it as nice as the last one?’

‘You’ll have to decide that for yourself.’

‘When?’

He shrugged.

Maman looked at me in that way that she has when she’s annoyed, but won’t say so because other people are around. ‘I’m sorry, Roux,’ she told him. ‘If you’d called before – I wasn’t expecting . . .’

‘I wrote,’ he said. ‘I sent a card.’

‘I never got it.’

‘Oh.’ I could tell he didn’t believe her. And I knew she didn’t believe him. Roux is the world’s worst letter-writer. He means to write, but rarely does; and he doesn’t like to talk on the phone. Instead, he sends little things in the post – a carved oak-leaf on a string; a striped stone from the seaside; a book – sometimes with an accompanying note, but often with no word at all.

He looked at Thierry. ‘I’ve got to go.’