‘My husband couldn’t understand that I had another life inside my head,’ she explained. ‘When we got married, he promised that he would make it possible for me to paint but he didn’t.’ She gazed over Laure’s shoulder. ‘He went out of his way to make it almost impossible. Then I realized that he didn’t want me to paint because it took attention away from him. He doesn’t want me to paint because he loves me.’

It was always tempting to pronounce judgment. ‘Never, ever do so’, Laure instructed her team.

The cake tin was decorated with a series of cartouches, scenes from a domestic life, the first of which showed a woman cooking at a stove. Hovering above was the same woman with permed frizzy hair and a frilled blouse holding a paintbrush filling in a sky of lapis-lazuli blue.

Each of the cartouches repeated the device of Myrna performing her housewife routines, with the conceit of her alter ego hovering above to create a transcendent or magical scene. Open that tin, Laure remembered thinking, and out would sift broken desires along with the cakes over which Myrna had cried as she baked.

‘It was not as though I was overambitious,’ Myrna confessed through the tissues. ‘I just need the peace to do my painting.’ She struggled for composure. ‘I’ve left my husband. The paintings on this tin tell you why.’ Averting her eyes from the tin, she said, ‘There’s an angel cake inside. Pink and white with frosted icing. Enjoy. Please.’ She got to her feet. ‘I love him,’ she said. ‘But it’s not enough.’

‘I’ve come to take back the tin,’ Myrna was now saying. ‘He’s begged for forgiveness. He tells me that he now understands. We’re starting over.’

Possibly, Myrna’s husband had arrived at a new understanding because the beautiful, glowing tin displayed in the museum had brought his wife a small fame and many commissions. No cynic (well, only a touch), Laure was delighted to acknowledge this winning fusion of love, forgiveness and… money.

‘I’m so glad,’ she told Myrna, and meant it.

‘Would you like to meet him?’ He’s lurking in the street outside.’ Myrna shot Laure a conspiratorial look. ‘Didn’t have the balls, if you know what I mean.’

This was a day in the life of the Museum of Broken Promises.

CHAPTER 2

SHE NEVER ATE BREAKFAST AT HOME BUT, IF THERE WAS time, Laure brewed strong black coffee.

Her apartment on the second floor of a former warehouse was typical of a modern Parisian conversion: small (some said cramped), the windows were plate glass and the doors MDF. The kitchen only just accommodated a modest oven and fridge and, if the table flap was up, it was a squeeze to get to the sink.