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the breathing exercises Evelyne had taught him: ‘In, out; in, out … Count your breaths and let them go,’ she had said. But it didn’t work. The pain in his neck persisted. He decided to break his summer rule and go down to have his siesta with Evelyne at the villa. He wanted to be sure the pool was filling up. He didn’t particularly want to screw Evelyne, just smell her. What he liked most about her was her smell: somethingtangy like orange peel and something else, warm and soft, like vanilla.
    ‘Come and pick me up after lunch, will you?’
    ‘After your sleep?’
    ‘No. Before. I’m going to the villa.’
    Georges glanced at his boss.
    ‘What time?’
    ‘Two.’
    Now Coco was irritated. There were countless little signs of his disharmony. Changing his routine and going to the villa for his siesta was one of them. ‘Don’t refer to the FNL as the Movement any more, please, Georges.’
    ‘Okay, Coco.’
    They were passing the petrol station at the entrance to the village. Really, it was time to leave Evelyne. Her body was losing its contours and had begun to depress him. In September he would look for someone else. Evelyne could stay in the villa until the cache had been emptied, then she’d have to move out. He reflected that she hadn’t done badly from her twelve years with him: her own driving school and a forty-nine per cent share in one of the most successful night clubs on the island. She wanted him to turn La Bomba into a revue bar. There was no reason why they shouldn’t stay in business together. She was good.
    ‘Has the Aron woman arrived yet?’ he asked. This new thought lifted him a little.
    ‘Last night.’ Georges looked at him, reining in a grin. ‘She didn’t go up to the house, though. They stayed at the Napoléon.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Don’t know.’
    ‘What’s her first name, Georges? I’ve forgotten.’
    ‘Alice. But she’s English, so you pronounce it “Alès”. Like the town.’
    Alice Aron. Since the cocktail party for the opening of the modern art gallery in Massaccio the summer before, Cocohad started hoarding images of her. He would see her heavy hair falling forward as she leaned down to listen to someone beside her. He saw her holding it back, gathering it with her fingers; her long neck; the quality of her skin. And with the image came the same intense excitement he had experienced as a child when he had hit his first rabbit, watched it struggle then fall.
    ‘She won’t be selling her house.’ Georges winked. ‘You don’t have to worry about that.’
    ‘Just drop me here. I’ll walk home.’
    He got out in the main square. There was a youth with long, matted hair sitting on the dried-up fountain playing the guitar. Coco tapped on Georges’ window as he was about to reverse. Georges wound down the window.
    ‘Have the German hippie removed before you go.’
    Georges looked in his wing mirror at the youth and nodded. Coco turned and walked towards the alley that led up to his house. A large blue Mercedes was obstructing the alley. Coco looked through the open window of the car. Beneath the pedals lay the Hertz hire contract in its envelope. The back seat was scattered with the debris of their journey: toys, sweet-wrappers, crisps. On the passenger seat was an incorrectly folded map of the island, an orange headscarf, and on her seat was a squashed packet of biscuits. There was a deep scratch on the paintwork the full length of the car. She might be young and classy, but she was a slob.
    Yes, a woman had to be clean, that was essential. Clean Evelyne was. She was also a safe harbour at a time when things were shifting unpleasantly. Perhaps she had one more good year in her, Coco reflected, as he walked home.

Chapter Four
    Alice lay in bed with the sheet over her head. The long morning had been staked out by the buzzing of a single fly taking off and landing on different parts of her body. She had just pulled in her exposed foot and the fly had moved swiftly to