Laure explained. May, who had seen the point of Kočka at once, wedged herself down on the sofa beside her and touched the tip of her paw. Kočka accepted this tribute. ‘If she’s a feral cat, shouldn’t she be frightened of people?’

Laure fetched a tray with glasses and offered May an apple juice. ‘I think she might have belonged to someone at some point. She seems to understand about being indoors and I don’t have too much of a fight getting a pill down her.’

May eyed up Kočka. ‘How the hell do you get a pill down a cat?’

‘Get it into their mouth and make them sneeze.’

‘Stupid me. Why didn’t I think of it?’ Her drawl deepened. ‘Laure, I’ve read some cuttings. Some of them aren’t so flattering.’

May was probably referring to a spiky profile in Madame Figaro. Their chief feature writer had not bought the idea of the museum, maintaining it was a waste of public resources. Representations of personal disaster that were not works of art per se should not, he maintained at some length, be subsidized with the taxpayers’ money which came via Nos Arts de France.

For the first time, she had seen Nic angry. Why, oh why, he accused Laure, weren’t you more emollient?

Notebook settled on her knee, May exuded good will and professionalism. The effect was calming. She was charming. But, as Laure knew from experience, it was no guarantee.

Laure took the initiative. ‘You mentioned this was your first time in Paris? It can be an overwhelming experience. I used to come here as a child, then as a twenty-year-old, working as an au pair. I remember feeling faint for a lot of the time because everything was so overwhelming.’

‘It took me a day to prise open my jet-lagged eyes and then you couldn’t stop me.’ May crossed long tightly denimed legs. ‘I came to Paris on the off-chance that I could get some things going. It’s been great. Helped by being shown where to get the mind-blowing coffee. Now, I’m in it. Totally. What a city. I come from Birmingham, Alabama, which is way down the US food chain – don’t quote me – and has its share of the past to tussle with. But Paris is something else. Paris is layered in it. Everywhere you go, it’s in your face. Revolution, snap. Napoleon, snap. Dior, snap.’

Laure understood.

‘You look every inch the Parisienne now.’ May gestured at Laure’s leather jacket. ‘Every darn inch. Bet it cost a fortune.’

Laure recollected the time she had spent tracking down the boutiques she liked, the shoe shops, the hairdresser. ‘Thank you.’

May’s finger hovered over Kočka’s paw. ‘You were born in 1966. Right?’