She led her into the final room. May pointed to the ‘Number 7’ written in gold lettering above the door lintel. ‘Seven. The special number.’ Her forehead wrinkled. ‘Of the first prime numbers, seven is the most interesting? At least, I think so. You can’t multiply or divide it within the group.’

‘Maths isn’t my strong point.’

The question sneaked in. ‘Then it must be difficult to deal with the museum’s finances?’

‘Did I say that?’

May let that drop and took a run at the next question. ‘What you leave out is as important as what you include, right?’

The light from the restored sash window fell over May’s hair, picking out its strands of white blonde and gold. An innocent question? Probably. Permitting May to write a profile of Laure was to cede power. May would dig. Laure glanced out of the window. Dealing with the fear of what lay hidden in the wrinkles of her psyche was an old, exhausting battle which she hadn’t won. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘What you leave out is important.’

May swivelled. ‘What do you think you’re doing with these objects?

A hint of scepticism? ‘It’s a closure process.’

‘For whom? Someone might look at this and think “what a load of old tat”.’

‘Feel free to do so. Giving an object to this museum is a way of dealing with something that’s gone wrong in your life.’ Laure pointed to a sensationally ugly multi-coloured vase dominating the smaller display case. ‘As a society, we’re in danger of forgetting the importance of ritual.’

‘If you say so.’ May focused on the vase with a look of disbelief.

Laure found herself grinning. The confection of fantasy, yearning, rage and deep disappointment penned up behind the glass of the display cabinets was hard, if not impossible, to quantify at the best of times and the vase certainly didn’t look up to the job.

‘It’s so awful I can’t take my eyes off it,’ May confessed.

‘On bad days, we pray to the god of breakages but somehow he doesn’t hear us.’ She added hastily, ‘Don’t quote me.’

May transferred her attention to a framed silhouette hanging between the windows. It was rough and ready and the scissor marks on the black paper were crude. Its subject – a slight man with hair swept back and a Roman nose – held a guitar. ‘He looks great. Is he still around?’

Laure stood behind May. ‘No.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Well…’

May ran a hand over her hair, her fingers tangling in its mass at her neckline. She pulsed with energy, nerves, and a quirky vulnerability. Had Laure been like that? Yes, she had – and it was a good thought.

Usually when asked, Laure replied, I don’t know who he is. This time the words edged out of her. ‘I don’t know where he is. I wish I did.’

*