The crowd was still dancing at the other end of the beach, to techno beats that no longer had much to do with the eighties.

Are we staying on here for a bit, Maman?

Yes, but not for long, Clotilde had replied to her daughter’s anxious text after Maria-Chjara’s last song. That was twenty minutes ago. Since then she had been waiting by the caravan parked on the unpaved car park that served as the backstage area. It wasn’t as if she was stuck in a queue of groupies. Clotilde was alone, but the door was closed and the bouncer wouldn’t hear a word about it.

‘At least knock on the door. Tell her there’s a fan who wants to talk to her, she’ll like that.’

The bouncer smiled faintly, or felt sorry for her. At last he knocked on the partition.

‘Miss Giordano. It’s for you …’

Maria-Chjara poked her head out a few seconds later. She had wrapped a dressing gown around her shoulders and a towel on her hair. Not a trace of make-up, foundation or lip gloss. She turned towards Clotilde, only half-opening the door.

‘Yes?’

She was still beautiful. Clotilde hadn’t expected that. She’d probably had face-lifts, liposuction, scalpels and silicon, but she still looked good. Like a customised car, Clotilde thought, a bit vulgar, but proud to be different, proud to attract people’s attention. Whether it was admiration or criticism, she didn’t care. Monster or icon, what did it matter?

‘Have you got a ciggie for me?’

The muscle-bound bodyguard, who must have been twenty-five years younger than her, nervously took out a cigarette and, like a trembling John Wayne, brought it to Maria-Chjara’s lips, not knowing where to look.

A shy little boy with his teacher.

‘So,’ Maria-Chjara said, addressing Clotilde at last, ‘you’re my last fan? And you think I’m going to open my door to you? Don’t count on it, lovey, I’m not like all those cocksuckers who suddenly turn into muff-divers when the men start turning their backs.’

She exploded with laughter.

There was something feline about her gestures, her claws, her almond eyes. Even though Clotilde hated the word ‘cougar’, it seemed an apt term.

Or tigress.

‘I’m Clotilde. Nicolas’s sister. Nicolas Idrissi, do you remember?’

Maria-Chjara narrowed her eyes, seeming to scour the depths of her memory. Yet Clotilde could have sworn that the woman had recognised her as soon as she saw her. A slight pressure of her fingers on the door of the caravan, a tightening of thumb and index finger on the blistered metal.

Maria-Chjara shook her head.

‘No idea. An ex of mine?’

She seemed sincere. Clotilde was sorry not to have thought of bringing some pictures of Nicolas.

‘The summer of ’89. And the five years before that.’