The Last Judgement

Flavia’s train arrived in Paris at 7:15 the next morning, and she was ejected unceremoniously by the station porters into the cold, windy hall of the Gare de l’Est while still half asleep. It had been a rotten ride: non-stop interruptions from screaming babies, ticket-inspectors, new arrivals in the compartment and sudden, jerking stops waking her up, it seemed, every five minutes. She felt dirty, unkempt and ragged. God, just look at me, she thought as she looked at herself in a mirror. What a mess. At least Jonathan never notices. She was looking forward to seeing him; he was a reassuring person to be around and, even though he was frequently mightily irritating, she found herself pleasurably anticipating a long chat. There hadn’t been much to be cheerful about recently, after all.

She was half inclined to stop and have a coffee and a proper breakfast before heading off to his hotel. What she thought was his hotel, anyway. It had never occurred to her that he might be staying in a different one. Now that it did, she realized she had a potential problem on her hands. How would she ever find him? Equally alarming, what if he’d gone back to Rome?

Worry about that later, she told herself. The more immediate problem was that no bars were yet open, she had no French money, and consequently couldn’t take a taxi.

She walked down the stairway into the Métro, worked out where she was meant to be heading, then stood and watched the passers-by. About one in ten came up to the turnstiles, looked around carefully and vaulted over. Although there were official-looking types around, they paid no attention. When in Paris, do as the Parisians, she thought. Clutching her bag, she hopped over the barrier, then scampered off down to the platform, feeling atrociously guilty.

She had once stayed with Argyll in his usual hotel, and remembered it was somewhere near the Panthéon. Exactly where was more difficult: it is an area with a lot of hotels, and all Flavia could remember was that it had a very ornate door. On the fourth go she didn’t find it, but at least got directions from an early-morning porter to the right place. She finally arrived at 8:15.

Did they have a Jonathan Argyll staying here?

A flipping of pages, then the man at the desk admitted that they did.

Where was he?

Room nine. Did she want him to ring?

No, it was all right. She’d just go up.

And so she did, walking up the stairs, finding the right door and knocking on it vigorously.

‘Jonathan?’ she called. ‘Open up. It’s me.’

There was a long silence. There was no one in. Unlike him, she thought. Not one of the world’s early risers.

She stood outside the door for a few moments, wondering what to do next. Of all the possibilities she’d considered, the idea that he might be out had never crossed her mind.

Fortunately, she did not have to resolve the problem of what to do next on her own. A clumping of feet up the stairs — Argyll was no ballet-dancer — indicated that the decision was made for her.

‘Flavia!’ Argyll said as he appeared, in much the same tone as you’d expect from a stranded mountaineer greeting his favourite St Bernard as it turns up with a keg of brandy.

‘There you are. Where have you been at this ungodly hour?’

‘Me? Oh, nowhere, really. Just to get some cigarettes. That’s all.’

‘Just after eight on a Sunday morning?’

‘Is it? Oh. I couldn’t sleep. I’m so pleased to see you. Here.’

And he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her with a vehemence she had not noticed in him before.

‘You look really beautiful,’ he said, standing back and looking at her admiringly. ‘Quite wonderful.’

‘Is anything the matter?’ she asked.

‘No. Why do you ask? But I had an awful night. Tossing and turning.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Oh, nothing. I was thinking.’

‘About your picture, I suppose?’

‘Eh? No, not about that. I was thinking about life. Us. That sort of thing.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a long story. But I was wondering what it would be like if we split up.’

‘Oh, yes?’ she said, a little perturbed. ‘What makes you think of that?’

‘It would be awful. I couldn’t face it.’

‘Ah. Why is this in your mind at the moment?’

‘No reason,’ he said brightly, thinking about the previous evening and his decision about apartments. She was going to take some persuading. The old charm was going to be needed. Not that he mentioned any of this, with the result that Flavia was forced to conclude that he was going slightly wobbly on her. This sort of gushing he normally kept to himself. He was English, after all.

‘Do you have any money?’ she asked eventually. No point in pursuing this bizarre mood of his, after all. And it was early.

‘Yes. Not much.’

‘Enough to buy me breakfast?’

‘Enough for that, yes.’

‘Good. So take me somewhere. Then you can tell me what you’ve been doing in the few minutes I have before I fall asleep for ever.’