I make my way back against the tidal wave of passengers, escorted by another security guard, and phone Malo from the main concourse. Pavel, I know, would have found the last ten minutes of my life richly entertaining. Ever subversive, he’d have loved the thought of his remains being tested for explosives. All his life, privately and professionally, he’d been unpredictable, dangerous, ignoring conventions, breaking new ground, and even in death, it turns out that his reputation won’t leave him alone.

‘Mum? You’ve landed already? That’s gotta be a world record.’ It’s Malo.

‘Sadly not.’ I tell him about my encounter with airport security.

‘You’ve got his ashes? And you want to drop them off some bridge?’

‘I do.’

‘That’s gross.’

‘That’s what the supervisor thought.’

‘I don’t blame him. Why don’t you scatter him on the garden of remembrance or whatever? Plant a rosebush on top? Just like everyone else?’

‘Because he wasn’t everyone else,’ I say firmly. ‘And neither am I. We’re going to Prague, come what may.’

‘We?’

‘Me and Pavel.’

‘Weird.’

‘Listen …’ I’ve had time to think this through. I want my darling boy to drive me to Folkestone. We can put his Audi on the Eurotunnel. There are virtually no checks and once we get to Calais, Pavel and I can take a train to Brussels, and then another to Prague.

‘And me?’

‘You pop back to Folkestone. Job done.’ I try smiling at the phone. ‘I’m seeing your father next week. We’ll be discussing your new apartment.’

Malo mumbles something I don’t fully catch about his mates in Brighton. He says he’ll have to make a call, then phone me back. I say fine, and then hang up.

Seconds later, I’m looking at a WhatsApp from my lovely friend Evelyn. As a neighbour in Holland Park, she’s seen me through countless crises, both marital and medical. She’s worked in publishing all her life, becoming the doyenne of London editors with a fine list of authors who all adore her almost as much as I do, but recent retirement has bought her a rather nice bungalow in a seaside town called Budleigh Salterton. She’s had a long association with the place, thanks to their annual literary festival, and now – it seems – they want to stage a little welcome to celebrate her settling down for good.

A whole evening of yours truly, she’s written. Sorry about the short notice but it’s taken me by surprise, too.

The event is to take place tomorrow in St Peter’s Church, and I can tell by the rest of the message that she very definitely needs moral support. I’m in the middle of replying to her when Malo rings. He has H’s bluntness when it comes to bad news.

‘Sorry, Mum—’ he begins.