Concentrate. Don’t crack. After all, Franck had been out of contact too. No one knew where he was, it was Cervone who had to look after Valou. Clotilde asked again, without raising her voice:

‘How is Valentine?’

Franck didn’t seem to hear her question, but it was as if he could read her mind.

‘Luckily Cervone managed to inform me. In the end he got through to someone on the diving club switchboard, and they contacted the instructor on the boat. They got me back on board and took everyone to Galéria straight away, all fifteen people who had paid for the trip. I got back as quickly as I could. I was ten metres under the water when Valentine fell, Clo. You were at the campsite, and yet it was me who …’

He had an answer to everything, except the one question she had asked. This time Clotilde exploded.

‘Shit Franck, how is Valou!?’

‘So you’re worried about her now, all of a sudden?’

The sarcasm in Franck’s voice was like a drop of sulphuric acid on her heart.

You bastard! Just tell me how my daughter is!

‘Please, Franck,’ Clotilde begged.

You’ve got what you wanted! You’ve heard the sob in my voice. So fine, just tell me.

‘She’s all right,’ Franck conceded at last. ‘She has a few bruises, on her elbows and on the soles of her feet. Jérôme, the canyoning instructor, has nothing but praise for her. She assumed the rod position without panicking, in less than a few seconds. It was a ten-metre drop and she came out with barely a scratch. She’s clever. There aren’t many girls who would have come out of it the way she did, and not many boys either. You have an extraordinary daughter, you know. Exceptional. Beautiful. Brave. A good head on her shoulders.’

OK, Franck, I’ve got the message. Your little darling is perfect and her mother should give you a break.

‘When will you be back?’

‘Not straight away. The doctors still want her to rest here for a while. There’s a ton of papers to fill out too. It could have been serious, Clo, very serious, a tragedy … You have no idea!’

Oh, but I do, you bastard!

~

Clotilde saw the Passat parked in front of the bungalow as she was returning from the showers. It was almost 8 p.m. She quickened her step while Valentine slowed hers. Without thinking, Clotilde took her daughter in her arms. Her face just about reached Valou’s neck, great tall thing that she was, but that didn’t prevent Clotilde repeating over and over again: ‘My poor little daughter, my poor little girl, thank God you’re all right.’

Valentine seemed slightly embarrassed.

‘You’re all wet, Maman.’

Clotilde pulled away from her daughter at last. The towel wrapped around her had soaked Valou’s Adidas T-shirt. Nothing serious.