‘With Christmas coming up, won’t you need some help in the shop?’ said Zozie, transferring sausages from the grill. ‘If so, then I’m a volunteer.’ She flung a glance over her shoulder at Laurent, feigning disinterest from his corner. ‘I mean, obviously I’d hate to leave all this—’

Laurent made a percussive sound, something between a sneeze and a call to attention – mweh! – and Zozie raised her eyebrows comically.

‘Just think about it,’ she said, grinning, then turned, picked up four beers with a deftness born of years of bar-work, and carried them, smiling, to the table.

She didn’t say much to us after that – the bar filled up, and as usual, I was busy with Rosette. Not that she’s such a difficult child – she eats much better now, although she dribbles more than a normal child, and still prefers to use her hands – but she can behave oddly at times, looking fixedly at things that aren’t there, starting at imaginary sounds or laughing suddenly for no reason. I’m hoping she will grow out of it soon – it has been weeks since her last Accident – and although she still wakes up three or four times a night I can manage on only a few hours, and I’m hoping the sleeplessness will pass.

Thierry thinks I over-indulge her; more recently he has begun to speak of taking her to a doctor.

‘There’s no need. She’ll talk when she’s ready,’ I said, watching Rosette eat her noodles. She holds the fork with the wrong hand, though there are no other signs that she is left-handed. In fact, she is rather clever with her hands, and especially loves to draw. Little stick-men and women, monkeys – her favourite animal – houses, horses, butterflies, clumsy as yet, but recognizable, in every available colour—

‘Eat properly, Rosette,’ said Thierry. ‘Use your spoon.’

Rosette went on eating as if she hadn’t heard. There was a time I feared she was deaf; now I know she simply ignores what she feels to be unimportant. It’s a pity she does not pay more attention to Thierry; rarely laughs or smiles in his company; rarely shows her sweet side, or signs any more than absolutely necessary.

At home, with Anouk, she laughs and plays; sits for hours with her book; listens to the radio and dances like a dervish around the flat. At home, barring Accidents, she is well-behaved; at naptime we lie in bed together, as I used to with Anouk. I sing to her and tell her stories, and her eyes are bright and alert, lighter than Anouk’s, and green and clever as a cat’s. She sings along – after a fashion – to my mother’s lullaby. She can just hold a tune, but still relies on me for the words:

V’là l’bon vent, v’là l’joli vent,

V’là l’bon vent, ma mie m’appelle.