Redemption was more than a word. It was a nirvana. It was a state of grace perpetually shuffling away from her. But maybe she could source it in bricks and mortar?

In the cold, her toes had felt as stiff as clothes pegs. Yet, as she listened in to the orchestration of the house’s creaks and shifts, the answer became clear.

Today, its paintwork was new, its stucco repaired, the roof fixed and a sign hung over the entrance which read: Musée and, underneath in French and English: ‘Museum of Broken Promises’.

The second line read: ‘Curator, Laure Carlyle’.

CHAPTER 3

THE OFFICE AT THE TOP OF THE HOUSE WAS TINY. Originally, perhaps, the maidservant’s quarters, who might have considered it palatial but, for Laure, it presented an increasing problem of how to pack in the administrative needs of the museum.

A solution had been to paint the walls, plus the even smaller room next door that was used for interviews, an Imperial Chinese yellow which resulted (God knew how) in making them appear more spacious. Another tactic was to demand a draconian level of tidiness.

It was nine o’clock. Nic was already at his desk. In post for the past eighteen months, he was English, bilingual, unattached, ambitious to make his way in arts administration and part of the generation who had taken it as read they could up sticks to live in Europe and think nothing of it. ‘It’s been easy to move around,’ he said. ‘It’s what a lot of us do.’

Of course, Generation Nic did. For them, Europe had been an extension of home territory. And she had felt the same.

He lifted a hand in greeting. ‘Knock, knock.’

‘Who’s there?’

‘Robin.’

‘Robin who?

‘Robin the piggy bank again.’

They were playing the game of who could nick the worst joke from the internet.

She thought of Nos Arts en France and crossed her fingers. ‘What if I told you that you don’t get any better?’

Nic’s eyes widened. ‘But I’ve learnt everything I know from you.’ He waggled his fingers. ‘Tell me I’ve become indispensable.’

‘You have,’ she replied truthfully.

Still only in his late twenties, he possessed an unusual capacity to read people. To observe Nic negotiate his way out of a tricky encounter was an object lesson in life skills. If pushed, she would admit she learnt from him and was grateful for it. Love could, and did, take one by surprise but – and this had come as a surprise too – so did affection.

‘Have I got shaving foam on my chin?’ he asked.

‘No, why?’

‘You’re staring at me.’

She smiled. ‘That’s because I like you.’

‘Someone has to.’

Nic tapped into what the museum was about. He understood the objects had things to say. When she had first ushered him through the rooms, she had watched that understanding dawn on him.