Across the flowers, Nic smiled encouragingly. He knew how the speech would go.

‘Every culture must have its museums and a country without them is a country that either deliberately, or unwittingly, destroys its past. That is always a danger signal.’ She paused for a long moment. ‘You could argue, therefore, that museums are as much political entities as cultural ones…’

Experience had taught her that she had only a couple more minutes to keep the audience’s attention.

‘Why a museum devoted to broken promises?’ She looked directly at one of the smarter women with expensively slicked-back hair and minimal make-up. ‘Which one of us has not experienced a broken promise in our lives? Either we made it and broke it. Or, someone made one to us and failed to keep it. The consequences can be funny, tragic, fleeting or life-long. However small, however large, those broken promises matter.’ She gathered up the finale. ‘There is, too, the possibility that a promise you considered to be broken was, in fact, not broken. But it takes time to see it. Who knows? The reflections on, and the interpretation of, an event can be many and, as we mature, the perspectives shift. That is one of the reasons that the turnover of objects in the museum is a constant one.’

May shot a look at Nic.

The scent of the lilies sifted through the room. Someone coughed.

‘What is true, I think, is that we find it hard to accept that everything must end: joy, pain and life itself. But while we are here, observing a ritual, or making a formal gesture, offers comfort and the prospect of coherence. Donating to the Museum of Broken Promises, where the objects are treated with care, reverence and a little humour, can open up the healing process. The stories we tell about ourselves are not always completely truthful. Or, we fail to see clearly what we have done. The museum offers the chance for it to settle and for…’ she slowed, ‘the truth to become clearer.’

She paused, assaulted suddenly by the memory of snarling panic and fear. Of running. The pain of her injured hand. Weeping.

The exhaustion of having broken her heart.

‘I say all this because I know…’ Her old, troubled history was marshalled into words, ‘I know from personal experience what it is to break a promise.’

She sat down to enthusiastic applause.

That evening after work, Laure ordered the taxi to drop her at the Canal Saint-Martin. After the luxury, she needed to ground herself in the streets where life was ordinary and harder. Dropping in at Chez Prune, she ordered a double espresso and drank it down gratefully. It was a trifle bitter but it did her just fine.

Chez Prune was full and she exchanged one or two greetings before leaving. She was in no hurry to get back home and lingered on the bridge over the canal and concluded that the water seemed clearer, less rubbish-strewn.