Breaking Away. Anna Gavalda

Carois’s knickers – she was the butcher’s daughter, Carois & Fils. (He hadn’t dared tell her that he was not all that interested.)

      Simon Lariot, a discreet man, who’d always made his own sweet way, gracefully, without bothering a soul.

      Who never threw tantrums, or whined, or asked for a thing. Who went through his university prep classes and got onto a top engineering course without ever grinding his teeth or resorting to tranquillisers. Who didn’t want to make a big deal when he did well, and turned bright red when the headmistress of the Lycée Stendhal kissed him in the street to congratulate him.

      The same big boy who can laugh like an idiot for exactly twenty minutes when he’s smoking a joint and who knows every single journey of every single spaceship in Star Wars.

      I’m not saying he’s a saint, I’m saying he’s better than one.

      Why, then? Why does he let people walk all over him? It’s a mystery to me. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve wanted to shake him, to open his eyes and get him to pound his fist on the table. Countless times.

      One day Lola tried. He sent her packing and barked that it was his life, after all.

      Which is true. It’s his life. But we’re the ones who are saddened by it.

      Which is idiotic, in a way. We’ve got more than enough to keep us busy on our own turf.

      He opens up the most with Vincent. Because of the Internet. They’re in touch the whole time, sending each other corny jokes and links for websites where they can find old vinyl LPs and second-hand guitars and other model enthusiasts. Simon has made great friends with a guy in Massachusetts; they swap photos of their respective remote-control boats. His name is Cecil (Simon can’t pronounce it right; he says See-sull) W. Thurlington and he lives in a big house on Martha’s Vineyard.

      Lola and I think it sounds really chic. Martha’s Vineyard … ‘The cradle of the Kennedys’, as they say in Paris-Match.

      We have this fantasy where we take the plane and then go up to Cecil’s private beach and we shout, ‘Yoo-hoo! Darling See-sull! We are Simon’s sisters! We are so very en-chant-té!’

      We picture him wearing a navy-blue blazer, with a dusty-pink cotton sweater thrown over his shoulders, and off-white linen slacks. Straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad.

      When we threaten Simon with our disgraceful plan, he tends to lose some of his cool.

      ‘Hey, are you doing it on purpose or what?’

      ‘Well, how many coats do you have to put on, anyway?’ he says eventually.

      ‘Three.’

      ‘Three coats?’

      ‘Base, colour and fixer.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘Be careful, and at least warn me when you’re about to brake.’

      He raises his eyebrows. No. Correction. One eyebrow.

      What can he be thinking when he raises his right eyebrow like that?

      *

      We ate rubbery sandwiches at one of those motorway service stations. It was revolting. I’d wanted us to have a plat du jour at a roadside café but ‘they don’t know how to wash the lettuce’. True. I’d forgotten. So, three vacuum-packed sandwiches, please. (Infinitely more hygienic.)

      ‘It may not be good, but at least we know what we’re eating!’

      That’s one way of looking at it.

      We were sitting outside next to the dustcarts. You could hear brrrrammm and brrrroommm every two seconds but I wanted to smoke a cigarette and Carine cannot stand the smell of tobacco.

      ‘I have to go to the toilet,’ she announced, with a pained expression. ‘I don’t suppose it’s too luxurious.’

      ‘Why don’t you go in the grass?’ I asked.

      ‘In front of everyone? Are you crazy?’

      ‘Just go a little bit further that way. I’ll come with you if you want.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘I’ll get my shoes dirty.’

      ‘I don’t think so. What’s a few drops?’

      She got up without deigning to answer.

      ‘You know, Carine,’ I said solemnly, ‘the day you learn to enjoy having a wee in the grass, you’ll be a much happier person.’

      She took her wet wipes.

      ‘I’m fine as I am, thank you.’

      I turned to my brother. He was staring at the cornfield as if he were trying to count every single ear. He didn’t look too good.

      ‘You okay?’

      ‘I’m okay,’ he replied, without turning round.

      ‘Doesn’t look it.’

      He was rubbing his face.

      ‘I’m tired.’

      ‘What of?’

      ‘Of everything.’

      ‘You? I don’t believe you.’

      ‘And yet it’s true.’