I’ve never known how word had got around – probably a visit from one of my three roommates or by someone they’d spoken to, who’d rushed to the Sélect to repeat it all – but whatever it was, when I got to the restaurant just before the six o'clock rush, the whole staff plus a few regular clients who were already seated gave me a triumphant welcome.

I was so embarrassed I hid in the kitchen for a good fifteen minutes, waiting impatiently under the innocuous teasing of Nick and Lucien. What shocked me was not so much that they knew what had happened the night before, it was the way they were carrying on about it. When Janine or Madeleine met someone, we showed a little more restraint. Was what had happened to me surprising enough to provoke such a reaction? She’s finally found someone who deigned to take an interest in her, poor girl, we should encourage her and let her know that we’re as relieved as she is! I knew that I was showing bad faith, that there hadn’t been a hint of condescension in their behaviour, that they were sincere in their awkward way, that it was my reaction, not theirs, that was excessive. No way, though, could I take it all with a grain of salt and play along. Actually, I refused to see Gilbert as a simple trophy. Especially because I was already afraid of losing him …

When Madeleine stuck her head in the door and said that everyone thought I was taking a very long time to change, I nearly told her to go to hell, though I adore her.

She frowned and looked me in the eyes.

“Where’s your sense of humour, Céline, honestly!”

Then shrugged and walked away.

She was right, I was taking everything way too seriously, but I was still uncomfortable. How should I react? I had absolutely no experience with this kind of thing! Tell them everything? Or say nothing and stick to double-entendres and cheap insinuations? Use Gilbert to make a reputation for myself that I didn’t deserve? I knew that things wouldn’t sort themselves out – just the opposite! – if I stayed with the cook and his assistant when the rush was about to start, that I was just postponing the inevitable, so I decided to face the sarcasm and jump into the fray, regardless of the consequences. No matter what.

But when I went into the restaurant, neat and tidy in my waitress outfit, cap straight and notepad in hand, it was as if they’d realized their faux pas and had consulted one another during my absence, or maybe Madeleine had spoken to them, because they acted as if nothing had happened. Suddenly there’d been no triumphal entrance – Triumphal entrance? What triumphal entrance? – they were waiting, perfectly innocent, for me to go up and down the aisles and take their orders, nothing more. As usual. A respite because the busiest time of day was about to start, or had they really given up when they saw how uncomfortable I was? That, too, I would never know.

The place had been full since I’d got there. Heads were bent over menus, you could even sense some simmering discontent if the starting signal for the evening meal didn’t come soon.

The clients who were already there when I arrived were red-eared as they gave me their orders. I could sense the curiosity in their voices, the wish to know everything in their eyes. I merely played the efficient waitress while I jotted in my order pad a little more diligently than usual, the side orders of fries or the extra barbecue sauce.

Aimée Langevin – who’d disappeared from the restaurant for a long time after her three years at the Institut des arts appliqués and had come back the week before, slimmer and calmer, along with some of the actors she’d performed with in The Trojan Women two years earlier and the young director who was starting to have a serious reputation – was the only one who alluded to the thing that mustn’t be mentioned. Which saved me from a terrible evening.

I hadn’t noticed them at first, most likely because they were quieter than usual. Eight of them were packed into a booth meant for six, elbow-to-elbow in the overheated restaurant, and they seemed impatient to eat. Were they rehearsing somewhere near the restaurant? Or going to the theatre at eight and in a hurry? Rita, who’d played Andromache in The Trojan Women, was chewing on the slice of lemon that came with her cup of tea. Someone had got there before me, since I hadn’t been there to serve them.

I apologized for making them wait.

Aimée reached out to touch my forearm.

“We understand. In fact we’d all like to be in your shoes.”

The aptness of that remark and the smiles that blossomed on those friendly faces washed away some of my remaining hostility and rancour. Indeed, why had I resisted what had been in the end simply understandable happiness for a girl who’s just met a guy? Once again I had thought first about my distinctive physique and what I believed the others thought about it, when instead, besides being happy for me, they’d been jealous of this start of a relationship, of the possibilities and the problems it represented. Doesn’t everyone, always, like to find themselves in the early days of a love affair? The others had been happy for me, couldn’t I be happy for myself?

The rest of the evening rush went by in a rather pleasant kind of fog that I let myself slip into while letting my mind wander, in spite of the torrent of orders and the impatient clients, onto everything that had happened during my first real night of love. I even brought my fingers to my nose now and then to check whether Gilbert’s private odour was still there. If the clients had known they’d have probably shuddered in horror.

Aimée Langevin and her group had left me a huge tip and she came to see me before she left, obviously curious to find out more.

“I’ll drop in tomorrow night for a cup of tea.”

I winked.

“If I give you all the details, we’ll go through a whole box of teabags!”