‘There is a child.’

‘Sure. That does not constitute a marriage, my friend. In Africa, in Jamaica, in all those liberal or backward countries, whatever you choose to call them, no one gets married just because there is a child! If so, there would be fifty million priests conducting services every moment of the day!’ He drained his flute, set it down, looked at his watch on a bronzed wrist. ‘I so much regret it. But I have to go, I have to be on the site all the time, otherwise they sit about reading the paper or playing boules. It is not at all amusing to own an hotel. Half ready, half not. We are nearly there, not so long now.’

I rose with him. ‘And then you’ll come over to Jericho. For your canvases?’

‘That would be most kind. Can we speak? You have my number. When it is quite convenient to you I’ll send a truck.’

‘Or come yourself? To see what changes I have made? I would like that.’

‘Very kind.’ He pulled himself into a white bomber jacket. We walked down to the swing doors which led to the elevator.

‘The champagne? One can’t leave a half-bottle of Cristal in the bar!’

He put out a hand, which I took. It was strong, as I had seen, firm. ‘If you will, do finish it. You have a plane to meet at three? Then stay up here and watch the airplanes landing! Order a club sandwich from Antoine there and enjoy the wine. I really must go.’ He pressed the elevator button, a red light flicked on.

‘Fifteen minutes on the autoroute. It doesn’t take long. But at lunchtime …’

The elevator arrived, staggered to a halt. Two women got out carrying plastic bags and a small dog.

‘What are you driving?’ I said.

He got into the elevator, turned to press the button for descent. ‘A good solid car. What one must have on these autoroutes, in case one gets hit. A good old Peugeot.’

‘A 604?’

‘The same. Fast and safe. Goodbye!’ I stood thoughtfully watching him spiral down to the mall.

The International Gate was crowded with people waiting for the London arrival. Placards waved with the names of hotels, car firms, or the names of travel couriers and film companies. The Film Festival was in full swing: journalists, thin girls in thinner dresses, fat men with jackets over their shoulders, briefcases in their hands, people who had drunk enough on the flight, elderly women pale and disoriented by a first journey at 36,000 feet.

And among them all, among the waving arms, embracing bodies, the cries of ‘Here you are!’ and ‘So brown! Aren’t you brown?’, I saw Giles. Taller than I seemed to have remembered him. He couldn’t have grown so much in a month surely? He was looking about him perfectly calmly, lugging a large blue handgrip.