‘I don’t expect you to understand. They were beautiful places but, when I lived in them, also terrible. Full of unresolved bitterness and fracture. The sort that eats up the soul.’ Her gaze slid from May’s bitten nails to her own statement red ones. ‘I refuse to let Paris be like that.’

May looked as though she might grab Laure’s hand. ‘I understand. I come from the south. Remember?’

‘Don’t ever do anything like that again.’

There was a dried spot of blood on May’s chewed thumb. ‘I’ll do my best.’ She ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it back into severity. As if, thought Laure, that was going to help. ‘I’m truly sorry.’

Slice May open and the word ‘contrition’ would apparently run through her like a stick of rock. Laure smothered a smile. ‘Put it this way, I won’t be contacting your mother.’

May’s mouth twisted. ‘My nickname is Night Bug. It’s not affectionate. I give you permission to call me the same if you want.’

She sounded calm enough but there was a coded emotion locked into the information and it crossed Laure’s mind that May’s mother did not have a clue how to handle her unusual daughter.

‘OK.’ She signalled a resumption of equal relations. ‘Let’s discuss the celebration lunch.’

May rallied. ‘I hope there will be goodie bags with diamonds and a mountain of flowers. Butterflies?’

‘Don’t lose sight of the objective,’ said Laure, drily.

The phone rang incessantly and Nic was kept busy compiling the list of would-be donors. Mid-morning, Chantal brought up the post and deposited five packages on the table.

‘Is this average?’ asked May.

Laure checked the statistics on screen. ‘Submissions are up again,’ she said. ‘It’s been going up every month.’

‘Interesting. Is it because promises are more easily broken? Or are harder to keep?’

Nic was conducting an animated telephone conversation in French with a man who wished to donate a sack of manure in memory of the wife who had just dumped him, and was having a hard time persuading him it would not be acceptable.

It was Laure who answered. ‘Partly it’s because people have changed. We’ve become different.’ May shot her a look. ‘Haven’t we now given ourselves permission to admit to betrayal? As a generation, I mean. Admit to our sadness?’

‘Really?’ said May. ‘Haven’t humans always given vent? One way or another?’

‘Wait till autumn proper.’ Nic finished the call. ‘When summer’s lease has run out then it’ll get worse.’

At a stroke, the atmosphere lightened.

May looked from one to the other. ‘Is he always this cheerful?’

‘When summer’s lease runs out,’ said Laure, ‘Nic gets worse.’

The parcels on the desk awaited attention. Laure gestured to May. ‘Do you want to do the honours?’