I was relieved that our reunion would take place in that context. I think it would have been intimidating to meet her alone in a café, after so much time. It takes far more effort to be charming while seated than while standing. And what time of day would we have chosen? A lunch was too impersonal, in my opinion. A coffee in the afternoon? Even worse. Drinks in the early evening were fine, but less appealing than dinner. By inviting me to her private view, she had avoided the whole ‘time of day’ problem. We could skip straight to the pleasure of seeing each other again. But I was so anxious about what would happen. Never before had I felt as if I was about to go on a first date with a woman I was already in love with.

3

There were lots of people there when I arrived. I stood for a moment on the other side of the road, observing the gallery through the window. I kept expecting her to suddenly appear from the crowd of guests. And a few minutes later, that was exactly what happened; her face became visible between two shoulders. Everyone was talking to her, trying to monopolise her, but I hoped she was waiting for me. It was so intense, seeing her again, knowing she was so close, and in my mind’s eye I saw Yves and Madeleine, behind that glass wall. Once again, I was a spectator. But this time, I had to enter the scene of the film. I had my own role to play.

4

Inside the gallery, I wandered between photographs. The tone of her pictures was even more joyful than usual. In fact, the exhibition’s title was Happiness. She had tried to capture instants of joy wherever she could find them. One of the photographs showed a family of four all smiling on their living-room sofa, and I couldn’t help thinking about the picture of the Martins I’d just taken. Yet another echo between art and life.

After a while, I finally managed to fight my way through the crowd to Marie. We embraced warmly, even though the idea of politely kissing her on the cheeks left me dejected. The conversation between us flowed immediately, and she told me again how happy she was that I’d made it to her private view. I was able to congratulate her, but soon after that she was swept away by other well-wishers. She just had time to ask: ‘Are you staying for a while?’ I nodded. I would stay for a while, and probably longer.

Yes, definitely longer. It felt so intense, seeing her again. I’d managed to appear relaxed, to hide my body’s faint trembling, but I couldn’t lie to myself any longer: I had been yearning for and dreaming of this moment for months. The novel of our reunion was the only exception to my fictional drought. I would sometimes have long, imaginary conversations with Marie. And now here she was, a few feet away from me. If she let me close to her again, what would we do? I hoped we could go away somewhere. The destination didn’t matter. Everything would be different now. My experience with the Martins had given me a better understanding of the passing of time, the urgency of what really mattered. I’d realised that life remained the most powerful antidote to fiction. I wanted to hold Marie’s hand, to feel its reality in mine.