In an attempt to defuse the tension, I typed my name into a search engine and handed my phone to Valérie. She was able to verify that I wasn’t lying, that I’d already published a number of books, some of which had been quite successful. Taking advantage of this positive new impression, I explained again the reason for my presence. Open-mouthed, she said: ‘A literary project? My mother … a literary project?’

‘Yes.’

‘My mother? A literary project?’

‘I know this is going to sound a little strange, but … I decided to stop the first person I saw in the street … and write about her.’

‘And the first person you met was my mother?’

‘Yes. I just thought that anybody’s life could be fascinating …’

‘I suppose so. But who’s going to be interested in my mother’s stories? I mean, I’m her daughter and even I sometimes switch off when she’s talking.’

‘Believe me, it’ll be good. She told me about your father, your sister … Lagerfeld …’

‘Oh, so what did she say about my sister?’

‘You see, even the way you asked me that … the tension in your voice … makes me think that–’

‘Ah, I see. So your novel is going to dig up family secrets. All the painful stuff.’

‘No, no … I would never write anything you didn’t want me to.’

‘That’s what they all say. I don’t read many contemporary novels, but I can tell that writing is often a way of settling scores.’

‘…’

I didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t wrong. Novels these days sell fewer and fewer copies, and naturally that encourages publishers to seek out controversies and juicy revelations. Was that a temptation for me too? I couldn’t deny that I was hoping my heroine would share a few secrets to keep the reader turning the pages. Beneath my innocent-seeming enthusiasm for a grandmother’s life, I was just a vampire with a thirst for tragedy. Let’s be honest: nobody is interested in happiness.

‘Nothing to say?’ Valérie prompted me.

‘Sorry, I was just thinking … I completely understand how you feel. You think what I’m interested in is pain and sadness. I’m going to be honest with you: I can’t make any guarantees. Your mother has agreed to talk to me and I have to be free to report what she says. But she doesn’t have to tell me everything …’

‘You know perfectly well how this will go. You’ll make her trust you. She’s an old woman, there are things she doesn’t understand …’

‘Why are you saying that?’ Madeleine interrupted coldly.

‘Sorry, Maman. That’s not what I meant. I just want to check what this gentleman’s motivations are.’

‘Again, I understand your reservations,’ I told her. ‘But my intentions are not bad …’

Valérie stared at me in silence before indicating that I should follow her into the kitchen. ‘We’ll be back in a minute,’ she told her mother, who looked slightly shocked at being sidelined from a conversation about her. This must become a common occurrence as you get older: people talk about you as if your own opinion is irrelevant. As I followed Valérie, I thought about the vehement way she’d said ‘There are things she doesn’t understand.’ What did she mean? It was as if she was afraid of something, afraid that her mother might inadvertently bring up subjects that were private or disturbing.