Worst was to come when the children lined up for you to sign their books – the ones the foundation had distributed to them for free. To be honest, they didn’t really line up, they were all over the place, pretty noisy, shoving the books under your nose, elbowing each other out of the way. When one of them pushed a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar under your nose, you lost your temper. ‘That’s not my book,’ you lashed out. ‘I won’t sign a book that’s not mine!’ With an agility I thought I had lost, I rose from my seat, grabbed a copy of Ali and the Forty Baddies and placed it instead into the girl’s hand. I removed the offending Hungry Caterpillar from under your nose. Things went more or less smoothly after that.

It was your last night in Abu Dhabi, the special dinner with Sheikha Hadia that had taken so long to organise. I sat next to her with you on the other side. The atmosphere was relaxed and so were you. You spoke at length about your brother, the artist who collaborated on your books. It occurred to me that you might have been under family pressure to help him with his career. I admired you for promoting him in front of the Sheikha. She was accustomed to people asking favours of her. Some needed jobs, residence visas or referrals. She was primed for this and though you were not at all forthcoming in making any specific requests, the ground was set for the future. Next time we, as a foundation, would most likely invite your brother as well.

Sheikha Hadia, as was her habit, wiped her fingers with Wet Wipes in between courses. She would open her handbag, take out the packet, peel it open and slowly remove a scented wet cloth. The scent used to be amber but now, it seemed, she had switched to an alcohol free, antibacterial. I was used to her habit and sometimes even concerned that it implied an obsessive-compulsive disorder. So I was taken aback, when after she left the dinner, you made a slight dig about it. A whisper aside, aimed only at me, said in our dialect. Perhaps your disdain of the hijab, less obvious to me now than it had been that time in Edinburgh, extended to the Sheikha’s flowing, black abaya. I smiled at your witty remark but my heart wasn’t in it.

‘I need a cigarette,’ you said as the rest of us got up from the table. ‘Anyone care to join me outside?’