She serves to the forehand and Céline whacks it back, Léa chases it down and returns it well – or so I thought until the linesman calls it out.

‘Zero-quarante.’

Léa’s mouth falls open and she drops her racket. I feel indignant on her behalf. That was clearly in, and now she’s got three break points against her. But she’ll pull it back, I know. So I’m surprised when she yells, ‘C’était sur la ligne!’ with considerably more venom than you’d expect from such a small person. The umpire shakes his head. He has grey hair and an authoritarian air. I wouldn’t mess with him.

Give it up, Léa. But I should know by now that’s not in her nature.

‘C’était sur la ligne!’ she cries again in a tone of voice that would make McEnroe proud. She picks up her racket and smashes it on the ground in fury. Picking it up again she sees the frame is broken and lets out a wail of anguish before dumping it on the court and storming off.

‘Merde.’ Michel gets up to chase after her.

I stand up to go with him and realise Luca has peed all over the bench.

‘Léa?’

No answer. I look at Michel and he nods me on. He’s spent ten minutes trying to get his daughter to unlock the cubicle door, and now I’ve seen to it that Luca is relatively dry and not about to wet himself again, it’s my turn.

‘You were really good out there. Really, really good. I was just saying that to your papa.’

I hear a sniff, and then nothing.

‘You know, these things happen sometimes. You and I know the umpire made a mistake, but it’s important to carry on. And it didn’t really matter because you were about to win anyway.’

A small voice. ‘I don’t care about the match.’

I glance at Michel. He frowns, gestures for me to continue.

‘Okay. Well…’ I don’t know what else to say. ‘That’s okay if you don’t want to play anymore today. But you should really come out and shake your partner’s hand because that’s what people do at the end of a match. It’s a rule. I saw it on Wimbledon. And you’re so good that one day maybe you’ll get to play at Wimbledon for real, and then you’ll be glad you know little rules like that. What do you think?’

‘I don’t care,’ she says again, and then, more quietly, something in French. I catch the word maman.

Michel blows out a breath, shakes his head, mouths She wants Julia at me. ‘Bientôt, chérie,’ he says. ‘She’ll be home tonight.’

‘But I wanted her to see me play.’