Three weeks later
I dip my hand into my inside suit pocket and prepare to leave Diana a remembrance. But in the hubbub of this public space, my choice of what to place here feels suddenly foolish. I should have brought a small bouquet, I suppose. Most people have left roses or photos of the Princess herself. Yet I feel she was given enough flowers over the years and I can’t imagine she’d have wanted even more pictures of herself in the world. And so I brought her something that, perhaps uniquely, would mean something to us both.
I’m standing in a busy square in the 16th arrondissement of Paris, here to visit the memorial to the Princess of Wales. It’s not officially any such thing, of course. La Flamme de la Liberté is a full-sized replica of the torch brandished by Libertas as depicted by the Statue of Liberty. Erected in the late eighties, it’s just under twelve feet tall with a grey and black marble pedestal that serves as a base. The sculpture of the flame itself is a copper construction coated in gold leaf.
To tell you the truth, I’m not wild about it. I mean, its design is fine when stuck at the end of an arm that’s raised about three hundred feet in the air, but here at eye level it appears curiously inelegant.
After Diana, along with Dodi Fayed and Henri Paul, was killed in the crash that happened in the nearby Pont de l’Alma tunnel in 1997, La Flamme de la Liberté became an unsanctioned memorial for the Princess, and over the years, thousands of men and women from around the world have left flowers, letters, photos and other gifts of remembrance here. The Council of Paris recognised this, and the square in which it stands, previously named after Maria Callas, was rechristened Place Diana in 2018.
To my left, there’s a narrow road and, beyond that, the banks of the Seine. Across the river, ahead of me to the left, the Eiffel Tower. Sometimes Paris can seem too grey for me. A little too monotone. But today, as I gaze across the Seine and its background of azure skies and bright, almost silver clouds, the City of Light is looking luminous.
I start to pull my remembrance to Diana from my pocket, but pause to say a few words. I should stress, I never met the woman, but after my investigation into her death, I feel an odd, shared kinship with her. Yes. Ridiculous, I know.
I mumble something about how I’m sorry. How I’d tried my best for her and—
‘Mr Novak!’
I don’t bother to turn around. ‘Hello, Ekaterina.’
She takes a step forward to stand at my side. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt. That was thoughtless of me. Sorry.’
‘How long have you been waiting?’
‘Oh, all day. Don’t you think it was terribly clever of me? To know you’d visit this place?’
‘I’m travelling under my own name, so finding out I’d be in Paris can’t have been too difficult.’
She pouts. ‘Don’t be so mean!’
‘But guessing I’d be here—’
‘Reasoning you’d be here!’ she interjects.
‘Was terribly clever of you.’
She beams, then frowns. ‘Are you teasing me?’
‘Just a little. Shall we walk?’
‘We absolutely must.’
I drop to my haunches and place a photograph amongst the flowers left for Diana. I whisper a few words and stand.
Ekaterina says, ‘I didn’t have you down as a praying man.’
‘I need all the help I can get, sweetheart.’
As we link arms, she asks, ‘Who is that a photograph of?’
‘A gentleman. And, more importantly, a good man. He was a mutual friend of ours.’
She responds with an only vaguely interested, ‘Oh,’ and with her arm looped through mine, we walk towards the Seine, away from Liberty’s Flame and the photograph of Colonel Gerry Whittaker.
*
We stroll along in silence for a few minutes. It’s a cold, bright day and, to our left, sunlight shimmers across the Seine’s gentle waves. We’re heading eastwards, away from the Pont de l’Alma tunnel, which suits me fine.
Eventually, Ekaterina says, ‘Have you reconsidered my job offer?’
‘I tend not to work for people I don’t trust.’
‘That must leave you with a pretty small pool to choose from.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me your real name?’
She’s shocked but hides it well. ‘How did you find out?’
‘I found out because of one word that you used.’
‘Just a single word?’
I nod.
She continues. ‘Can we start again?’
‘No.’
She stops. Holds the sleeve of my suit jacket. ‘This time, I’ll be honest with you. I swear.’
She’s using her big blue eyes to good effect, deploying them to silently plead with me.
I look over her shoulder and see we’re opposite the Palais de Tokyo. I recall that one of its restaurants, Monsieur Bleu, has good views and even better cocktails.
‘I’ll hear what you have to say on two conditions.’
She hurriedly replies, ‘Name them.’
‘One. I want full disclosure.’
‘Agreed. And two?’
We link arms again and begin walking towards the Palais. ‘You buy me a drink, Miss Romanova.’