Breaking Away. Anna Gavalda

beautiful sat nav that even has Corsica and Martinique and Tahiti?’ and at a stroke, problem solved, all taken care of.

      And why are you laughing like a fool, now? Do you think I’m not clever enough to manage the way other people do? To find myself a nice guy with a yellow cardigan and a Disneyland Paris badge? A fiancé I can go and buy Celio boxer shorts for during my lunch break? Oh, yes, just thinking about it makes me go all wobbly … a decent sort. Serious. Simple. Batteries included, not to mention the building society passbook.

      And he’d never worry about things. And his main concern would be to compare prices in-store with the ones in the catalogue and he’d say, ‘You know, darling, the difference between Casto and Leroy Merlin is really just the service …’

      And we’ll enter the house through the basement so as not to get the hall dirty. And we’ll leave our shoes at the bottom of the stairs so as not to get the stairway dirty. And we’ll be friends with the neighbours, who will be incredibly nice. And we’ll have a built-in barbecue and it will be really great for the kids, because the housing estate will be super safe like my sister-in-law says and …

      Oh, bliss.

      It was too awful. I fell asleep.

      I stumbled out onto the forecourt of a petrol station somewhere on the outskirts of Orléans. Feeling groggy as hell. Woozy and drooly. I had trouble keeping my eyes open and my hair felt incredibly heavy. I even put my hand up to it, just to make sure it really was hair.

      Simon was waiting by the till. Carine was powdering her nose.

      I stationed myself by the coffee machine.

      It took me at least thirty seconds to realise that my cup was ready. I drank it without sugar and without much conviction. I must have pressed the wrong button. Wasn’t there a weird faintly tomatoey taste to my cappuccino?

      Oh, boy. It was going to be a long day.

      We got back in the car without saying a word. Carine took a wet wipe from her make-up bag to disinfect her hands.

      Carine always disinfects her hands when she’s been in a public place.

      For hygiene’s sake.

      Because Carine actually sees the germs.

      She can see their furry little legs and their horrible mouths.

      That’s why she never takes the métro. She doesn’t like trains either. She can’t help but think about the people who put their feet on the seats and stick their bogeys under the armrest.

      Her kids are not allowed to sit on a bench or to touch the railings. She has major issues about going to the playground. And issues about letting them use the slide. She has issues with the trays at McDonald’s and she has a ton of issues about swapping Pokémon cards. She completely freaks out with butchers who don’t wear gloves or little salesgirls who don’t use tongs to serve her her croissant. She hates it when the school organises group picnics or outings to the swimming pool and all the kids have to hold hands as a sure way of passing on their fungal infections.

      Life, for Carine, is exhausting.

      The business with the disinfectant wipes really gets up my nose.

      The way she always thinks other people must be swarming with germs. The way she always peers at their fingernails when she shakes hands. The way she never trusts anyone. Always hiding behind her scarf. Always telling her kids to be careful.

      Don’t touch. It’s dirty.

      Get your hands out of there.

      Don’t share.

      Don’t go out in the street.

      Don’t sit on the ground or I’ll smack you!

      Always washing their hands. Always washing their mouths. Always making sure they pee exactly ten centimetres above the bowl, dead centre, and that they never ever let their lips touch someone’s cheek when they go to kiss them. Always judging the other mothers by the colour of their kids’ ears.

      Always.

      Always judging.

      There’s something rather unpleasant about it all. What’s worse, when you go to lunch at her family’s, they soon feel free mid-meal to start badmouthing Arabs.

      Carine’s dad calls them towelheads.

      He says, ‘I pay taxes so those towelheads can have ten kids.’

      He says, ‘What I’d do with ’em, I’d stick ’em all in a boat and torpedo the whole lot of them, every last parasite, I would.’

      And he likes to say, ‘France is full of work-shy benefit cheats. The country’s going to the dogs.’

      And often, to finish, it goes like this: ‘I work the first six months of the year for my family and the next six for the state, so don’t go talking to me about poor people and the unemployed, okay? I work one day out of two so Mamadou can knock up his ten wives, so don’t go lecturing me, okay?’

      There was one lunch in particular. I don’t like remembering it. It was for little Alice’s baptism. We were all at Carine’s parents’ place near Le Mans.

      Her father runs a Casino (the supermarket, not the Las Vegas variety) and that day, when I saw him down at the end of his little paved driveway between his artsy-fartsy wrought-iron lamp and his gleaming Audi, I really understood the meaning of the word complacent. That mixture of stupidity and arrogance. His unshakeable self-satisfaction. That blue cashmere sweater stretched over his huge gut and that weird – really warm – way he has of holding his hand out to you even though he already hates you.

      I’m ashamed when I think back to that lunch. I’m ashamed and I’m not the only one. Lola and Vincent aren’t proud of themselves either, I don’t think.

      Simon wasn’t there when the conversation began to degenerate. He was out in the garden building a cabin for his son.

      He must be used to it. He must know that it’s better just to get out of there when fat Jacquot starts sounding off.

      Simon is like us: he doesn’t like shouting matches at the end of a nice meal; he hates conflict and runs like hell from power struggles. He says it’s a waste of good energy and that you have to keep your strength for more worthwhile struggles in life. That with people like his father-in-law, you’re fighting a losing battle.

      And when you talk to him about the rise of the extreme right, he shakes his head. ‘Oh, you know … they’re just the dregs on the bottom of the lake. What can you do, it’s only human. Best leave well enough alone, otherwise they’ll rise to the surface.’

      How can he stand those family lunches? How can he even help his father-in-law trim his hedge?

      He concentrates on Léo’s cabins.

      He concentrates on the moment he’ll take his little boy by the hand and they’ll go off together into the deep and silent woods.

      I’m ashamed because on that particular day we didn’t dare say a thing.

      Once again we didn’t dare say a thing. We didn’t react to the words of that rabid shopkeeper who’ll never see beyond his own distant navel.

      We didn’t contradict him, or leave the table. We went on slowly chewing every mouthful, thinking it was enough just to register what a jerk the guy was whilst doing our very best to wrap ourselves in what might remain of our dignity.

      How pathetic we were. Cowards, incredible cowards.

      Why are we like that, all four of us? Why are we so intimidated by people who shout louder than others? Why do aggressive people make us go completely to pieces?

      What is wrong with us? Where does a good upbringing end and spinelessness begin?

      We’ve