Privately, we spoke in our dialect; a few times we exchanged knowing glances and inside jokes. All mild and relating to work – but it was enough for me. That old wish to be your friend flickered. And holding this together was my pride in how much I had achieved since that day in Edinburgh. When I spoke of my admiration for your early novels, I did so without belittling myself. I never referred to my letters of long ago. I was mature and professional. Too senior in the foundation to accompany you on every school visit, I met you at the more official events including the dinners. Privately, I chaffed a little at this. Sitting in the car, negotiated the heavy traffic from one school to the next, would certainly have meant spending more time with you but Sheikha Hadia was demanding my full attention. The success of your visit had long term consequences for the foundation; the favourable response of our company sponsors, the local media and the Ministry of Education were our primary focus.

I admit that as a foundation, we did spring upon you the children’s writing workshop. I am sorry that despite your objections, I insisted on going ahead. To quell your rebellion, I invited your publisher’s Middle East Sales Representative, who was based in Dubai, to come to the workshop and threw in an overnight stay for him, his wife and toddler at the Beach Rotana. His role would be to remind you of how your visit was impacting on the sales of your books to the extent that your delighted publishers in London were reprinting.

My strategy worked. But only just. After huffing and puffing, you seated yourself in front of the children. You made a few general comments about writing and the importance of books. All excellent points that pleased Sheikha Hadia. Then it was time for the children to read out their stories to you. Head bowed over an open notebook, you doodled dark angular lines; you drew prison bars, broken wings and shaded faces. I could see them because I was sitting next to you, as if symbolically hemming you in so you would not abscond! You drew knotted wool and crooked wire; steel scourer and patterned grids. You doodled with rage, flinching from what you were hearing. You did not, once, look up at the stuttering child struggling to read what he had written, the one swaying side to side chanting a rhyme she had made up, the serious boy who had no concept of grammar.