I remembered her now. We’d talked for about half an hour and we’d even swapped email addresses, although that had come to nothing. She had told me that she lived in Oxford, that her husband was an artist – a portrait painter – and that she had two grown-up children, one of them at university in Bristol. She was one of those Labour voters who had become disillusioned after the Iraq War and had gone on to join the Green Party. I was annoyed with myself and examined her more carefully, determined that I wouldn’t make the same mistake the next time we met. My first thought was that she reminded me of my mother, or somebody’s mother. There was something warm, even protective, about her. The round face, the black hair cut in a sensible way, not hiding the flecks of grey, the comfortable clothes.

‘What are you doing in Alderney?’ I asked. What I meant was, why had she accepted the invitation?

‘I don’t get invited to many festivals these days. Not like you, I’m sure. Are you talking about Alex Rider?’

‘No. I’ve written a detective story . . .’ I gestured at Hawthorne on the other side of the table ‘. . . about him.’

‘I’m Daniel Hawthorne.’ I had never heard him offer up his first name and, looking at him, I saw that he was actually in awe. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Anne,’ he went on. ‘My son used to love your books. He’s a bit old for them now, but when he was seven and eight I used to read them to him.’

‘Thank you!’ She smiled.

‘Flashbang Trouble. That was the one with the pirates. It used to make us laugh out loud.’

‘Oh! That’s one of my favourites.’

‘Mine too.’

This was a completely different Hawthorne to the one I knew and it only reminded me how distant I still was from him. I had met his ex-wife once, very briefly. I had never seen his son. But he and Anne had bonded immediately and as the two of them continued to chat, I turned to the performance poet, Maïssa Lamar, and asked: ‘How come you’re here at the airport?’

‘I am here to take the plane to Alderney!’ She picked each word carefully with a French accent that was several coats thick. Or maybe it was Cauchois. She was looking at me as if I had said something ridiculous.

‘I just meant . . . I thought you’d be coming from France.’

‘Last night I give a performance in London. At the Red Lion theatre in Camden.’