The assistant was divesting her of the veil and the dress. I registered Jenna’s too-loose engagement ring and a bra strap that was beginning to fray. Those were details for me to notice, not him, and I hugged them to me fiercely.

Jealousy is a vile thing. On one hand, I relished its savagery but, equally, I hated being in its grip because it denied me control. I went to see someone about it. Yatter, yatter. The only thing he did (apart from issuing the bill) was to nod and say nothing. The consequence? Everything I did was infected by it.

The assistant retired to the till, which was discreetly hidden behind another curtain – anything to do with money in these sickly emporiums was always disguised. Jenna got dressed in her jeans and T-shirt. I reached over to help and she flinched away. ‘Don’t.’

She was crying.

‘You should be happy,’ I hissed at her.

She bent over to lace up her trainers. ‘What have I done, Rosie?’

‘You’re a fraud and I should be shouting it from the rooftops.’

‘Go on, then.’

She refused to look at me.

At that moment, the penny dropped. Jenna wanted me to tell her groom that she did not love him. She wanted me to do the dirty work.

She didn’t say it… oh no, she wasn’t going to say it… but I knew.

Yes, I knew Jenna was a coward who would be happy to ruin her life, Ned’s life and mine because she dared not to say anything.

Guess what I did?

‘A variant on the traditional love triangle, then,’ said May, returning to the letter. ‘“When she wore this veil, my wife promised to love me but she lied. She loved someone else and that someone was her bridesmaid who wrote this disgusting rubbish.”’ She folded it up and replaced it in the envelope. ‘Has the museum ever been sued for libel?’

‘It’s always a possibility but we work closely with the lawyers.’ Laure lifted the veil out of the box. Delicate and almost weightless, it was spume drifting over her outstretched arms. On examination, what was clearly a bite mark – pink and lipsticky – revealed itself at the hem.

‘Whoa,’ said May. ‘Can I take a photo?’

‘No.’

May peered at it. ‘How full of rage and hatred must you be to bite a wedding veil?’

Nic sounded shell-shocked. ‘I’m not surprised he used a green marker.’

At the museum entrance, Jean-Paul manned the ticket counter. Laure introduced him to May and explained that Jean-Paul was halfway through a curating degree and came in to the museum for practical experience. He and Chantal did alternate weeks. ‘The stagiaires as they are called, are unpaid, but we fund their expenses.’

Jean-Paul’s expression was enigmatic.

May turned large eyes on him. ‘Does curating have a future in France?’

‘Yes, the government is supportive,’ replied Jean-Luc.