Her lips twitched. ‘Nic and I needed a large glass of wine. OK, three.’

She remembered the feeling of release – sweet and addictive – and that, at last, something had gone right in her life. Looking back, it was the moment when she pivoted away from pessimism towards the self with whom she liked to live.

‘Good,’ May looked up. ‘I’m beginning to see you.’ The uncertain expression was gone – a reminder to Laure to be careful. ‘Are we getting somewhere?’

‘You make it sound like a psychotherapy session. It’s not. This is an interview, nothing more.’

May checked the recording device. ‘Is it lonely being the curator?’

Tomas, Milos, all of them, had warned Laure to keep her mouth shut. To ask questions was to invite suspicion, they said, let alone answering them. Be stupid, always be stupid. Once learned as a survival strategy, it had stayed with Laure.

May raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it? ‘Being spied on is like having your skin peeled away,’ she had once observed to Tomas.

He had taken her in his arms, stroked her hair and said, ‘Never get used to it. Otherwise we’re dead.’

‘Being head of anything is lonely,’ Laure replied. ‘It’s the nature of the beast.’

Sometimes Laure imagined her experiences were stamped on her exterior – like a birthmark, or a scar from an old injury. As for her interior? The scars went deep there: cutting down into her mind and thoughts.

‘What’s the point of the museum?’ May settled back into her seat. ‘You can take as long as you like.’

It was now well past lunchtime. ‘I’ll get us something to eat,’ Laure said. ‘Then we can discuss.’

From the fridge, she took out some slices of melon and Parma ham and arranged them on two plates. ‘It’s not much,’ she said, emerging from the kitchen, a plate in each hand, and came to a dead halt. ‘What are you doing?’

May was over by the table under the window where she appeared to be taking photos of the papers piled on it.

Laure set the plates down. ‘May?’

She swung round and coloured up. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I was taking a photo of your picture. It’s so beautiful with the sea and the driftwood.’ She pointed unconvincingly to the framed photograph of a beach in the west of Scotland littered with rocks and driftwood on the wall above the table.

Laure’s rage sprang into life – and it was almost pleasurable, as if she had given herself permission to let go. ‘No, you weren’t.’ She made to grab the phone, but May stepped to one side and shielded it against her chest.

‘You were snooping.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said May.

What did Laure expect? Her guard had been lowered, which had been unwise. May could never be anything else but someone who was doing her job.