Jomier goes up to Judith’s bathroom, shaves, takes a dribbly shower and gets dressed. He comes down wearing Hackett cords, a Boden check shirt and a heather-coloured jumper from Browns – clothes he bought before Christmas under Judith’s direction. Judith has dressed before him: jeans, shirt and Jomier’s Christmas-gift jumper which has miraculously changed colour from racing green to powder blue. It is a crisp, cold day. The sun is shining. Judith has cleared up the kitchen. The dishwasher gurgles. She smiles at Jomier. They are ready to set out.

‘Before we go,’ says Jomier, ‘shall we just deal with this?’ He has in his hand the folded sheet of white A4 paper upon which is printed the Excel spreadsheet ‘Venice’.

‘What is it?’ asks Judith.

‘The costs of our trip.’

Jomier places his actuarial masterpiece on the table.

‘It’s been quite complicated to work out because of the upgrade to the Hotel Palazzo Solaia which of course I will pay as I said I would, and the cost of the extras. If you look here –’ Jomier points to a column – ‘you’ll see that I have paid the extra cost of the upgrade less your share of the notional costs we would have incurred had we remained at the Albergo Manzoni.’

Judith does not look. She opens her handbag and takes out her chequebook. ‘How much do you want?’ Her voice is tight. Abrupt.

‘Your share is . . .’ Jomier begins, running his finger along the figures at the bottom of the spreadsheet; then, with a delayed awareness of Judith’s changed tone of voice, asks: ‘Are you sure you want to pay your share?’

‘Of course. Just tell me how much.’

‘Well, with an exchange of pounds to euros of around 1.34 . . .’

Judith sits down at the table and opens the chequebook. ‘How much?’

‘£978.80.’

Judith fumbles in the bottom of her bag for a pen. She finds one, uncaps it and holds it poised over the chequebook. ‘Say that again,’ she snaps.

‘Call it nine hundred pounds.’

She ignores his munificent offer.

‘Nine hundred and what?’

‘Really, that’s fine.’

‘Seventy-nine pounds?’

‘Seventy-eight.’

‘Sixty pence?’

‘Eighty pence.’

She fills in the cheque, tears it out, hands it to Jomier.

‘You are sure?’ says Jomier.

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘You don’t want to look at the spreadsheet?’

Her jaw clenches. ‘Shall we go?’

They drive north over the River Thames, through the flatlands of Fulham and up the Aussie corridor of Earls Court into Kensington; then north from Kensington to Notting Hill. They are silent. Jomier senses that the settling up has put Judith into a bad mood. He cannot understand why. His own feelings have been hurt by her refusal to look at his spreadsheet. The ingenuity of the calculations and the generous presumption in her favour in the allocations will now never be appreciated: neither by Judith nor anyone else.