‘So, apart from anything else, the chess set represents inconvenient history?’

‘If you like.’

‘Hmm,’ she said, and proceeded to surprise Laure. ‘Glossing over history is a fool’s game. It comes back to bite you in the foot.’

Laure ran down the remaining stairs. ‘But it can stop one going mad.’

May locked on to Laure like a heat-seeking missile. ‘Then you know what’s it’s like to go mad? Or to have a breakdown?’

‘Did I say that? It was an observation, that’s all.’

*

At the finish of her evening inspection, Laure emptied the Donation Box, recorded the tally onto the online spreadsheet, shut down the computer in the sales kiosk and went upstairs. Here she leant against the door frame and watched as Nic and May swapped travel anecdotes.

Nic was lounging by the window, a lean brown arm on the sill. May was in his chair looking up at him.

‘I bet you didn’t.’ Her smile was radiant.

Laure crossed over to Nic’s desk. ‘Is he telling you how he conquered Everest single-handed?’

‘Something like.’ May did not take her eyes off Nic. ‘Should I believe him?’

‘Depends how much you enjoy fairy tales,’ replied Laure affectionately.

‘I have to work with this person,’ said Nick. ‘My life is hard.’

Laure picked up the volume of Philip Larkin poems which had been in Room 1 and due for return. Its inscription ‘man hands on misery to man’ had been taken from the volume and embellished by an enraged husband who had struck out the first ‘man’ and substituted ‘woman’.

May got to her feet. ‘I shouldn’t be here. But I wanted to ask how long objects have in the museum?’

Laure retrieved her bag from under the desk. ‘Some have been here since the beginning but it’s usually three years or so. Having a turnover encourages visitors to return to check out what’s new. Each object is catalogued on paper and the computer. If we’re discarding, we get in touch with the donor and ask them how they wish us to dispose of it.’

Once outside in the street, she felt so tired that she phoned her dinner date to cancel.

‘Simon, I’m done. I’m so sorry. Could we rearrange?’

‘I’m here to be mucked about with.’

‘Sorry.’

A lawyer working for Nos Arts en France, Simon had turned into a friend. They had first met over the negotiations for the modest grant from Nos Arts. Later, an anonymous sponsorship deal had been offered which was to be administered by Nos Arts and Simon agreed to take it on. Initially, the deal had been reviewed on an annual basis and then – out of the blue sky – suddenly extended to a generous five-year funding contract. Additionally puzzling were the terms of the sponsorship which specified that Laure, her trustees or her team were not allowed to ask as to who the sponsor was.