Papa isn’t here. He hates the beach. He’s probably hanging out at Arcanu, with his father, his cousins, his friends, all the Corsicans together … In previous years, Papa did make an effort to put his feet in the sand – he would kick a ball about with Nico, build a castle with me (OK, that was a long time ago), dive into the water and sleep for an hour holding Maman’s hand.

But not this summer! Maman and Papa are still sulking over the concert on Saint Rose’s day; it’s as if he’s cross with Maman, or Maman hasn’t got over it yet. If I ever have a lover one day, I hope I don’t end up like them.

I turn my head. The beach is a theatre, a ten-thousand-square-metre stage with hundreds of actors, of all ages and every colour.

My eyes come to rest on a young couple. One towel for the two of them.

I want to be like them!

The couple look like dozens of others. So happiness isn’t that hard to achieve. You just have to be twenty years old, which happens to everyone. You just have to look beautiful with your clothes off, which almost everyone is when they’re twenty, particularly when they have a sun tan. A boy and a girl, gazing into each other’s eyes and holding hands, and caressing each other, and admiring each other’s bums when they get up to go for a swim, and smiling at each other, and even laughing, paying attention to each other. They must be vaguely aware that you shouldn’t spoil those moments because they’re the best in your life and you won’t get them back. So you savour them, you fall in love, you love each other, it’s as simple as that.

My eye wanders back up the beach the way you wander back in time.

I find what I’m looking for. A couple in their thirties.

He’s not bad looking, athletic, on all fours, almost buried in the huge sand-pit that he’s digging with his creamed and hatted children, aged about two and four. He looks as if he’s loving it, even more than the children. She is reading distractedly, and every now and again she looks up and observes them. Happily. She adjusts the hat of the fair-haired little boy, holds out a cool bottle with a nipple on it, swats away a fly.

She’s on guard.

Each of her gestures is sexy. You sense that she’s where she’s always wanted to be. She’s achieved what she wanted to achieve. The apogee. The peak.

She’s keeping watch.

Because all that she owns – her devoted husband, her well-behaved children, her fine body – she wants to keep.

As if it could all last forever.

You’re dreaming, my dear!