Rubbish. Laure was more French or, to be accurate, more Parisian than Xavier gave her credit for. ‘J’aime deux choses seulement… vous et la plus belle ville du monde,’ she replied. It was a line from an old and sentimental poem, but it pinpointed her giving of her heart to the city.

Xavier’s point about championing her was the one that held the real bite. If they had championed each other a little more during their marriage, the outcome might have been different. For that, she blamed herself. Mostly.

Despite the banter, Xavier never wasted his phone calls. ‘Spotted an article in Figaro about the Louvre lobbying to gather the Museum of Broken Promises into its embrace. Its spokesman argues that the day of the private museum is over. They reckon you and they would be terrific in bed together.’

‘Apparently.’ She gave a tiny sigh.

‘Pushing the metaphor: the Louvre is a disgusting old roué and you’re but a child bride. It’s the old thing. Money talks and those who have it talk away. How would it fit in with Nos Arts en France?’

Nos Arts en France was a semi-government body that issued grants for cultural enterprises. Laure had been warned that they were tricky but had found her dealings with them to be straightforward.

‘The board of Nos Arts will assess the situation and let me know whether they wish to continue funding the museum. If they do, nothing will change and I’ll be happy.’

‘Nos Arts have been generous to you.’

‘We could not have survived without them.’

Xavier became serious. ‘Do you mind if you’re taken over?’

She looked up in a sky lashed with trails of whipped cream. ‘I shall fight tooth and nail.’

‘Chérie, you might not have any choice.’ He sounded regretful. ‘You have become powerful but not that kind of powerful.’

It wasn’t the first time Laure had encountered a threat – theoretical or otherwise – and she had learnt to deal with them by splitting herself into compartments.

There was the Laure whose experiences in the past helped her to negotiate the dusty, complicated structures of public governance without too much bother.

Then there was the Laure who burned to make her museum work precisely because the past still lived in her and who could be cast down by the bureaucratic grind.

‘On a happier note,’ she said, ‘Maison de Grasse is going to be our patron.’

It was Xavier’s turn to be taken aback, and the audible click of his tongue was an expression of admiration for a coup. ‘Nice.’