They didn’t need me anymore. And as I melted into the crowds, for once grateful for the many people swarming and jostling around me, I was gone.

I got a taxi to the airport and, thanks to all Merkel’s cordons, it arrived thirty minutes before the Alitalia desk closed. I bought the last return Business Class seat on the 20.40 flight. And that was it – that was most of my money gone. I had nothing else, apart from my Hilary Sharp passport, the clothes and bag on my back, my little pig dad, Richard E. Grunt, and the pink bunny I’d taken from Ivy’s incubator. It didn’t even smell of her anymore. It was a self-check-in desk, but when I scanned my boarding card and ran my passport through the scanner, it beeped and a red light came on.

Please wait for assistance.

‘Oh fucking hell,’ I seethed, standing there like a complete twunt, my rucksack getting heavier by the second, my mouth completely dry. This was it. This was Hand on the Shoulder and ‘Come With Me, Miss’ time.

A short shiny guy in a too-tight waistcoat slid on over. ‘Sorry, madam, let me help you there.’ He took the passport and flattened it out, running it through the scanner. He checked my boarding card. Another red light.

‘Sorry, it does this sometimes. New system.’

I bit the inside of my lip until I could taste blood.

He slid it through again. A choir of angels sang – a constant beeeeeep and a green light. My heart came out of arrhythmia. I couldn’t believe it.

He handed them both back to me. ‘There you are, madam, sorry about that, you’re good to go. The lounge is up the escalators and first right. Please show your boarding pass at the gate and they will let you in to use the amenities. I hope you have a pleasant journey to Mexico City.’

‘Grazie mille,’ I said, trying the ‘th’ sound so I sounded Spanish.

Luckily the security check was as effective as Epstein’s suicide watch, and once I was over the first hurdle there was no further passport check even when my underwire maternity bra set off the alarm. No pat downs. No eye contact. Almost like I’d requested it. Do terrorists never fly Business Class? They should – you get away with murder.

Once inside the lounge, relief flooded into me like cool water. It was a welcome only the richest travellers got – trays of champagne, canapes, unobtrusive soft jazz on the PA system, air-conditioning, offers of foot massages, and the cleanest toilets I’ve ever seen. I felt sorry for the cattle schlepping along through the gates of Economy, mooing their dissatisfaction.