No! Clotilde repeated in her head. For fifteen years I’ve been taking the brunt of it all, for fifteen years I’ve been defusing the bomb, my girl. For twenty years I’ve been playing the cool woman, Franckie boy, the one who never complains, the one with the broad grin, the crazy lady, the funny girl, the one who’s great in a crisis, the one who puts the bits back together, the one who’s reassuring, the one who keeps a steady course, who holds the steering wheel of everyday life, singing to make the journey seem shorter. And what have I asked for in return? Fifteen minutes! Just fifteen minutes of your fortnight’s holiday! Fifteen minutes of your fifteen years of life, my girl! Fifteen minutes of our twenty years of love, my darling!

Fifteen minutes, compared with everything else, a quarter of an hour of compassion for my childhood, which was completely destroyed right here, dashed against these rocks which couldn’t give a shit, which have forgotten everything and will still be here in a thousand years’ time. Fifteen minutes of a life, is that really too much to ask?

They allowed her ten.

‘Can we go, Papa?’ Valou pleaded once more.

Franck nodded and the girl walked towards the Passat, her flip-flops clacking against the tarmac, her eyes searching every corner of the road three bends up the hill, as if searching for any trace of life amid this rocky desert.

Franck turned towards Clotilde. The voice of reason, as always.

‘I know, Clo. I know. But you’ve got to understand Valou. She didn’t know your parents. I didn’t either. They died twenty-seven years ago. They had been gone for almost ten years when we met, almost fifteen when Valou was born. As far as she’s concerned they’re …’ He hesitated and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘They … they aren’t part of her life.’

Clotilde didn’t reply.

In fact, she would have preferred for Franck to keep his trap shut and at least allow her those last five minutes of silence.

Now everything was ruined. Slipping into her head came the mean comparison with Mamy Jeanne and Papa André, Franck’s parents, who they visited one weekend out of four, at whose home Valou had spent every Wednesday until she was ten, and where she still sought refuge if her parents refused to indulge one of her whims.

‘She’s too young to understand, Clo.’

Too young …

Yet Clotilde nodded to indicate that she agreed.

That she was listening to Franck. As she always did. As she often did. Less and less.

That she was adhering to his ready-made solutions.

Franck lowered his eyes and walked towards the Passat.

Clotilde didn’t move. Not yet.

Too young …

They had weighed up the pros and cons a hundred times.