I did not feel sad or depressed. Only like a machine temporarily switched off. In Fruit Lotus, your most poignant novel in my opinion, a husband stops loving his wife. Just like that. It is fascinating, I agree, how love can come to an end, how it can just stop like the gush of a tap ceasing, like a long night surfacing up to a dawn, like sweetness lingering on the tongue then vanishing. The fictional husband does not leave his wife for someone else but we know that by the end of the novel, he will. You spare us the details, you are subtle but we know that the treachery is round the corner. No longer loving the heroine, he is open and primed for a fresh adventure while she soldiers on with the children and the blow to her femininity.

You pulled me out of this temporary setback with an email saying how delighted you would be to visit Abu Dhabi and how fervently you supported the foundation’s aim. I found myself approving the Business Class tickets on Etihad, the booking of the five-star hotel and the chauffeur driven car. I personally answered your email queries on the availability of free Wi-Fi in your room. In addition to the school visits, we were also holding a one-day seminar on writing for children, in which you would give the opening speech. We scheduled for you a special dinner with the Sheikha. All other meals were provided at the magnificent Emirates Palace Hotel.

You did not remember me or the fan mail I had long ago sent. I didn’t expect you to. I was a different woman now, older and more confident. You, too, were heavier looking. Despite your dyed hair, there were tender bags under your eyes and your deep smoker’s voice aged you. But you were still beautiful and vibrant. Compared to Edinburgh, there was a relaxed good will about you. Abu Dhabi pleased you – this desert miracle, a futuristic world of optimism and lavish expansion. You singled me out as the only one in the foundation who was from your home country. Years ago I had longed for this connection. And now here it was.