Was it better to say nothing, not to involve her daughter in this old business of the accident? Just to keep it to herself? It wouldn’t have been a problem; she was used to chewing over her own disappointment.

But on the other hand there was shrink-speak, women’s magazines, friends who dished out good advice. A modern mother had to be open with her children, spread out the family secrets on the table, explode all the taboos. Unwrap everything, without questioning it.

You see, Valou, when I was your age, I had a very serious accident. Put yourself in my place for a second. Imagine that all three of us were in a crash, and that Papa and I were killed and you were left on your own.

Just think about that, my girl … Maybe that will help you understand who your mother is. Why she has done everything she can to ensure that life slides over her without her ever getting wet.

If that is of any interest to you …

Clotilde stared one last time at the bay of La Revellata, the three little bunches of wild thyme, and then went to join her family.

Franck was already sitting behind the wheel. He had turned off the car radio. Valentine had lowered her window all the way down and was fanning herself with the Guide du routard. Clotilde lightly ruffled her daughter’s hair, and she groaned. Then she forced herself to laugh brightly and climbed into the car beside her husband.

The seats were scorching.

Clotilde smiled apologetically at Franck; her conciliatory mask, the one she had inherited from Nicolas. It was the only thing she had left of her brother. Along with his anvil heart and that rake he used to gather together unsatisfactory love affairs.

They set off. Clotilde rested a hand on Franck’s knee. Right by the hem of his shorts.

The Passat rolled along gently between the sea and the mountain, with the sun at its zenith; the colours seemed almost too intense, saturated, like a landscape on an old postcard.

A dream holiday, on a panoramic screen.

Everything had been forgotten already. The wind would blow away the bunches of thyme before the night was over.

Don’t turn back, Clotilde thought to herself. Move forward.

Force yourself to love life; force yourself to love life.

She lowered the window, allowing the breeze to blow through her long black hair, the sun to caress her bare legs.

Thinking the way they do in magazines, like her best friends, like people selling happiness in ten easy lessons.

Happiness is simple, you just have to believe in it!

That’s what holidays are for, the cloudless sky, the sea, the sun.

To make you believe in it.

To fill the tank with illusions to last the rest of the year.

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