Bon.’ Erik clapped his hands. ’Last point before we can close down for Christmas; The preparations of the dinner. Bette, how’s it going?’

’I don’t know. Sylvie?’ I looked at the Assistant Curator, who seemed like she had been waiting for this moment whole morning. We were sitting in Erik’s office and the first hour or so he had wasted on preaching about the importance of Beneficiaries to the Museum. Every Curator knew that museums like Marmottan ran on money from beneficiaries, or the ’friends of arts’ as they were lovingly called. This would be my 7th beneficiary dinner here.

Sylvie ran her hand over her eccentric spiked hair cut and adjusted the strange artistic glasses on the tip of her nose. ’The potential beneficiaries have been invited. Most RSVP’ed. Bette your Hamiltons are coming.’ Her blue eyes acknowledged me shortly before quickly re-directing her focus on Erik. ’We just have to finalize the last selection of paintings we want to hang in the dinning area this year. I have some ideas. Shall we discuss it later Erik?’

’Did you include ’Soleil levant’ as I said?’ I asked.

’Of course.’

’I want The artists’ house from the Rose Garden, there too.’ Erik sounded like a kid, wining about his pride and joy.

’No.’ I said firmly. ’It’s too dark and depressing.’