I may be physically present, but my thoughts and my feelings are at the hospital. As I take a sip of expensive chilled Sancerre white wine, with a feigned smile on my lips and my head tilted to suggest that I’m listening to the immensely sophisticated conversation, it happens: all of a sudden Henri’s there, very loud and incredibly near.

Help me, Eddie, I beg you!

For one magical split second, I even have the impression that I can see him. At the end of the table, over in the shadows on the other side of the room. His face is twisted into a grimace, a picture of absolute panic. He’s drumming on the glass coffin lid.

No, Edwina. You’re so tired you’re hearing voices. Don’t pay any attention to them!

Help me, Eddie, I beg you! A second time I hear Henri loud and clear. It has nothing to do with the wine: I’ve only just taken my first sip.

I must get out of here right now.

“Excuse me,” I mumble, shoving my chair backward. The legs screech on the floorboards and the chair topples over with an embarrassing crash of lacquered wood on parquet floor. On all sides of the long white-clothed table in the publisher’s spacious dining room the monologues abruptly cease. The publisher interrupts his merry anecdotes, the artist breaks off his well-considered opinions, and the critic stops making studied quips. Everyone stares at me, half expecting terrible offense to be caused, half shocked by the unfolding scene.

Wilder, who has been engaged in a secretive conversation with his publisher about his new book, turns to me. “Everything okay, Eddie?”

Breathe in, breathe out!

He picks up the starched napkin that fell from my lap as I leaped to my feet. “Edwina?” he asks again, his gaze more intent now.

I must get out of here. I place one foot in front of the other and walk out of the warm, jovial, candlelit dinner party, my bearing restrained and upright so that nobody thinks that I might be drunk or angry or crazy.

Breathe. Breathe in, breathe out.

The heels of my pumps echo on the floorboards because everyone’s attention is on me as I leave the room. Their eyes are burning holes in my back, and I suddenly feel overdressed.

Out in the hallway I quicken my pace, snatch my leather jacket from the coat stand, and hurry down the stairs, feeling nothing but the smooth handrail against my palm. I’m running now.