Page 130 of The Stranger

“Thems fighting words,” I say, giving him a dose of the old stink eye.

Felix glances disdainfully at his sister. “She loses in the pool, at cards, tennis—everything.”

Sylvie’s little face melts.

“Felix,” Luc says much more sharply this time. “Apologize to your sister.”

“Why? It is true.”

Sylvie pushes back from the table so quickly her chair scrapes across the stone. “I am not a loser, and you are horrible!” Her voice breaks on the last word, and her sandal slap-slaps against the stone as she dashes inside.

For a second, nobody moves. And for once, I can’t feign ignorance because their argument was in English.

And while I sort of feel like leaning across the table to slap him upside the head, I also remember enough developmental psychology to know empathy is a work in progress at his age. In other words, twelve-year-old boys can be self-absorbed little shits. Which is probably why he looks more confused than sorry, I note, as my gaze moves his way.

Small addendum here: I’m aware you can’t slap other people’s children, not even if you think they might deserve it. Or even if they remind you of your own brothers. Brothers who, despite being grown men, are still prone to the occasional bout of tactlessness. Needless to say, I don’t keep my violence from them.

Anyhoo, Luc mutters something low and sweary and makes a pre-emptive motion in his chair.

“I’ll go,” I say, already on my feet. I don’t wait for his permission; I might not be an actual nanny, but I was born for this.

“Can I come in, sweetie?” I ask, pushing the door a little wider.

“Y-yes,” comes her tiny, tear-tremulous answer. She’s lying like a shrimp, curled on her bed, shoulders shaking as she looks toward the image of her beautiful mother.

Someone replaced the glass in the frame. Maybe even the whole frame. Looks like Luc was right. Sylvie didn’t even notice.

“He is so mean.” She gives a small, wet sniff as I perch my bum on the edge of her bed. “And he hates me.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” I smooth a hand over her soft hair. “He doesn’t, not really. Brothers are just very good at making you think that.”

She turns her head over her shoulder, then swipes the back of her hand under her nose. I grab a tissue from her dressing table made to look like a starlet’s and pass it to her.

“Do you have a brother also?” she asks, swiping it under her nose.

“Worse.” I give a little twist of my mouth. “I have four of them.”

Her eyes widen with horror. “I would run away.”

“I did once.”

Keen to hear my tale of woe, she turns to face me. “What happened?”

“No one noticed.”

Her little mouth falls open.

“It’s not as bad as all that,” I add with a laugh. “I only ran away to the tree house at the bottom of the garden. It was the summer, and everyone was home from school, and some of my brother’s and sister’s had friends over.”

“You also have sisters?”

“Three.”

I watch her do that calculation in her head. “Six children?” she says, dismayed.

“Seven if you count me. But that summer, the house was like Gare du Norde.”

“Is that a very busy place?”