Well, I knew what Zozie would have said to that. But I’m not Zozie; I hate scenes, and part of me just wanted to sit down at my desk and hide myself inside a book. But I’d promised I’d try; so I straightened up, looked her in the eye, and shot them all with my killer smile.

‘Fuck off,’ I said. ‘I’m fabulous.’ And, picking up the tennis ball, which had come to rest just between my feet, I bounced it – pok! – off Chantal’s head.

‘You’re It,’ I said.

And, making my way to the back of the room, I stopped in front of Jean-Loup’s desk, where Jean-Loup wasn’t even pretending to read any more, but was watching me with his mouth half-open in surprise.

‘Want a game?’ I said.

I led the way.

We talked for quite a long time. It turns out that we like a lot of the same things: old films in black-and-white, photography, Jules Verne, Chagall, Jeanne Moreau, the cemetery . . .

I’d always thought he looked a bit stuck-up – he never plays with the others, perhaps because he’s a year older, and he’s always taking pictures of weird things with that little camera of his – and I’d only spoken to him because I knew it would annoy Chantal and Suze.

But actually he’s OK; laughed at my story of Suze and her list; and when I told him where I lived, said, ‘You live in a chocolaterie? How terrific is that?’

I shrugged. ‘OK, I guess.’

‘Do you get to eat the chocolates?’

‘All the time.’

He rolled his eyes, which made me laugh. Then—

‘Hold it,’ he said, and pulled out that little camera of his – silver-coloured, and not much bigger than a box of kitchen matches – and cocked it at me. ‘Gotcha,’ he said.

‘Hey, stop it,’ I told him, turning away. I don’t like pictures of myself.

But Jean-Loup was looking into the camera’s little screen. He grinned. ‘Look at this.’ He showed it to me.

I don’t see many pictures of me. The few I have are formal ones, taken at some passport place, all white background and no smile. In this one, I was laughing, and he’d taken the picture at a mad kind of angle, with me just turning towards the camera, my hair a blur and my face lit up—

Jean-Loup grinned. ‘Go on, admit it – it’s not so bad.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s OK. Been doing it long?’

‘Since I first went into hospital. I’ve got three cameras; my favourite’s an old manual Yashica that I only use for black-and-white; but the digital one’s pretty good, and I can carry it anywhere.’

‘What were you in hospital for?’