When were we going to meet up? We had made no precise plans during our nocturnal chat, merely expressed a simple wish. Who should write to the other first? It all seemed so complicated now. I had been responsible for re-initiating contact between us, so wasn’t it her turn to write to me now? Time had passed since our separation, and I’d got used to no longer hoping to see her name appear on my phone screen. But by getting back in touch with her, I had also refamiliarised myself with the purgatory of waiting for her messages.

62

Luckily, I didn’t have the chance to wallow in such time-wasting reflections: I had to meet Clément. There’s nothing quite like the lives of others to stop you living your own. I was glad I was waiting for him in a café rather than at the gates of the school. I didn’t want to look like some paedophile predator. I often had the impression that people imagined the worst of me. (What? You think I’m paranoid? Does everyone think that?) I ordered a beer and soon afterwards saw a young man heading towards me. He must have Google-imaged me. Clément muttered that he was Clément and sat down facing me. I asked him what he wanted to drink. I sensed that he wanted a beer too, but he knew he had to make a good impression so he resisted the siren call of alcohol and asked for a Coke instead.

It was obvious that he felt uncomfortable with the situation. He might have found it funny or surprising, but his embarrassment was palpable. As if he had a guilty conscience. I was also surprised by his appearance: I’d expected a typical teenage hunk, the kind of guy who plays the guitar or goes surfing, the type who, when I was at school, would go out with all the girls while they chose me as their best friend. But he struck me as quite ordinary-looking, and not especially self-confident. For an instant, I even thought that Clément had sent one of his friends in his place. But no, it really was him. How could this young man be such a Casanova? How could Lola have fallen in love with him? I wanted to ask him about his methods. It could be a fascinating portrait: a teenage boy who doesn’t look anything special but who possesses the secret of seduction.

After this moment of observation, mostly on my part, he started trying to find out a bit more about what was happening.

‘So you’re writing a book on Lola and her family?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ he asked, wide-eyed. ‘Will people really read that?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll see.’

‘And I’ll be in this book too?’

‘Yes. Well, maybe.’

‘I don’t really get what I’m doing here. It’s hard to understand. What exactly is your relationship with her?’

‘There is none. I mean, I don’t really know her. I’m writing a book, and she asked me to meet you.’