I didn’t have time to react. Valérie entered the living room just then and announced almost cheerfully: ‘I’m ready!’ Then she looked at us and asked: ‘What are you two talking about?’

‘We have little secrets too,’ said Lola.

‘I thought you didn’t want to be in the book.’

‘I changed my mind. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it …’

Lola left the room without a backward glance, saddling me with her problem. At first, I’d thought she was pulling my leg. But then she came back and handed me a piece of paper with this Clément guy’s phone number on it, speaking in a whisper so her mother wouldn’t hear. She wanted me to call him to find out what his intentions were. Again, I didn’t know whether to take her seriously. The whole thing seemed rather twisted.

In the middle of the living room, Valérie stood in front of me. She was obviously expecting me to say something about her appearance. She was wearing make-up and her body was sheathed in a skin-tight dress, elevated on high heels; her outfit was a trailer for the film of her thoughts. By the looks of it, this was to be more a romantic date than a professional interview. And, although I couldn’t deny that she looked radiant, I was obviously in an embarrassing position. All of this seemed beside the point. I was there to write a book, not find a new girlfriend.

She expressed her satisfaction that Lola had agreed to speak to me, and asked me what was written on the piece of paper her daughter had given me.

‘Trade secrets,’ I joked awkwardly.

‘Well, at least she’s talking to you. You’re lucky. She never says anything to me at all any more. It’s horrible. When kids are little, they spend hours telling you about every little scratch on their knee, and then as they get older they hide their darkest sorrows from you.’

‘That’s true.’

‘It’s ridiculous,’ she said, suddenly looking sad. ‘Because I know a lot more about dark sorrows than I do about little scratches.’

But her sadness was quickly forgotten when another character suddenly appeared (this scene was beginning to read like a soap opera script): Patrick returned home from work. He seemed astonished at the way his wife was dressed. At last he smiled coldly and said: ‘I suppose I can’t compete with literature.’ I was saddened by his coldness, after our lunch had been so amiable. Whenever I was with one of my characters, I felt as if I lost some of the complicity I’d established with the others; it was like an emotional seesaw. I could understand his reaction, though: his wife was going out to dinner with another man, and she was making no attempt to disguise her desire to be attractive. Unwittingly, I had ended up in the middle of their marital crisis. I wanted some exciting incidents for my book, of course, but I didn’t want to end up writing a bedroom farce. Patrick’s reaction made me think about cancelling our dinner date; but if I did that, I risked losing it all, risked destroying everything I’d achieved up to then.