No orange-boxes here, of course. Last year Thierry got us a complete new kitchen. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? He is the landlord, after all – he’s got lots of money, and besides, he’s supposed to fix the house. But Maman insisted on making a fuss, and cooking him a special dinner in the new kitchen. Oh, boy. Like we’d never had a kitchen before. So even the mugs are new now, with Chocolat written on them in fancy lettering. Thierry bought them – one for each of us and one for Madame Poussin – though he doesn’t actually like hot chocolate. (I can tell because he adds too much sugar.)

I used to have my own cup, a fat red one that Roux gave me, slightly chipped, with a painted letter A for Anouk. I don’t have it now; I don’t even remember what happened to it. Perhaps it got broken or left behind. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I don’t drink chocolate any more.

‘Suzanne says I’m weird,’ I said, as Maman came back into the kitchen.

‘Well, you’re not,’ she said, scraping the inside out of a vanilla pod. The chocolate was nearly ready by now, simmering gently in the pan. ‘Want some? It’s good.’

‘No thanks.’

‘OK.’

She poured some for Rosette instead, and added sprinkles and a dollop of cream. It looked good and smelt even better, but I didn’t want to let it show. I looked in the cupboard and found half a croissant from breakfast and some jam.

‘Pay no attention to Suzanne,’ said Maman, pouring out chocolate for herself into an espresso cup. I noticed neither she nor Rosette was using the Chocolat mugs. ‘I know her type. Try to make friends with somebody else.’

Well, easier said than done, I thought. Besides, what’s the point? It wouldn’t be me they were friends with at all. Fake hair, fake clothes, fake me.

‘Like who?’ I said.

‘I don’t know.’ Her voice was impatient as she put the spices back into the cupboard. ‘There must be someone you get on with.’

It isn’t my fault, I wanted to say. Why does she think I’m the difficult one? The problem is that Maman never really went to school – learnt everything the practical way, so she says – and all she knows about it now is what she’s read in children’s books, or seen through the wrong side of some schoolyard railings. From the other side, believe me, it’s not all jolly hockey sticks.

‘Well?’ Still that impatience, that tone that says you should be grateful, I worked hard to get you here, to send you to a proper school, to save you from the life I had—

‘Can I ask you something?’ I said.

‘Of course, Nanou. Is anything wrong?’

‘Was my father a black man?’