‘Just before we went through the barrier, a second before, when it was already clear there was nothing we could do, that no one would be able to stop the Fuego, I saw a weird expression in my brother’s eyes, as if he knew something I didn’t, as if he wasn’t all that surprised. As if he understood why we were all going to die.’

‘You didn’t die, Clo.’

‘I did, a little …’

She rocked her plastic chair back and forth. In that moment, she would have liked Franck to step down from the car and take her in his arms. Press her against him, say anything at all. Or even say nothing, but at least give her some reassurance.

Instead, he liberated the fourth bolt, then shifted the empty grey roofbox onto his back.

Obelix style, Clotilde thought.

The image made her smile. Always take the drama out of things.

Yes, carrying his plastic menhir on his back, bare-chested with his blue canvas trousers, Franck looked amazingly like Obelix.

Without the paunch.

At forty-four, Franck was still a handsome man, with a broad chest and taut muscles. More than twenty years ago she had been blown away by his open smile, his reassuring confidence, but also his swimmer’s physique; it had helped Clotilde to carry on, to love him, to persuade herself that he was the right one. Or at least that there were worse, much worse.

Weirdly, now that year after year, half-kilo after half-kilo, centimetre after centimetre, he had developed the stomach that even the handsomest young men eventually get, she didn’t care. It didn’t really matter any more, her partner’s body, while Franck made a mountain of it, or at least a hill, a pretty, round little hill around his navel.

Obelix delicately set down his menhir.

‘You shouldn’t let that old story ruin your holiday, Clo.’

Translation: You shouldn’t ruin our holiday with your old story, darling.

Clotilde gave a hint of a smile. After all, Franck was right. They had all been lumbered with her pilgrimage, the whole family.

It was a chore.

Fulfilled, then forgotten.

She allowed herself one final debriefing. Franck had that quality at least: with him you could talk endlessly about the upbringing of children. And hence of Valentine.

‘Do you think I shouldn’t have talked about it to Valou? Shown her the site of the accident?’

‘No, you should have, of course you should. They were her grandparents. It’s important for her to …’

He came towards Clotilde, wiping his hands on a towel that he had taken from the line.

‘You know, Clo, I’m proud of you. For having the courage to do that. After everything you’ve been through. I do understand where you’re coming from. I haven’t forgotten. But now …’

He wiped his shoulders, his armpits, his chest then threw the towel aside, leaning towards Clotilde.