I got up and went to the toilet. Japanese toilets: another experience on Louis’s list, which I’d already ticked off in my room. Louis had written:

Press all the buttons on a Japanese toilet.

To be honest, I wasn’t mad about the warm seat or the little jet aimed at my bottom. I’ve always been afraid of toilets with any kind of electronic component. I suspect they rarely malfunction, but, even so, I’m always afraid that something will go wrong, that the jet is angled badly and will hit my face – horror of horrors – or drench my blouse. In other words, I far prefer my old Parisian loo.

On the way back to my table, I glanced at the lone man I’d spotted from a distance, and froze. It wasn’t a man. I drew closer and let out a strangled cry, which echoed in that hushed atmosphere.

‘Mum? What are you doing here?’

‘Hello, darling. What an amazing place, isn’t it?’

‘You haven’t answered my question. What the fuck are you doing here, Mum? How did you know I was here?’

‘You underestimate me, my little pussycat. I have my methods, you know. You should be more discreet when you tell the nurses about your plans, and also more creative in making up email passwords. Excellent choice of hotel, in any case.’

My mother is a geek. An I.T. junkie. She’s sixty, but she’s way better at it than I am. That’s one of the reasons why Louis has always adored her. A geeky granny – that’s so cool, he’s forever saying. I think it’s the pits.

‘Mum, you can’t afford a hotel like this, or such a trip; what are you playing at?’

‘I have to say that the twelve-hour flight in economy gave me such a stiff neck . . . I envied you in business class!’

‘You mean you were on the same flight?’

‘Of course, pussycat. I checked in at the last minute; luckily, there were a few no-shows, so I managed to get a seat. I told you I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, and now I’ve promised Louis too. But you’re right, I can’t afford this hotel . . . Luckily, I’m your guest.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The nice young man at reception took my luggage up to your room and gave me a key. Don’t forget we have the same surname. I simply mentioned that I was a little late, that my darling daughter had already gone up to the room we’re sharing. I gave him my passport and that did the trick. I said all that in English, with my dreadful accent – you’d have been proud of me. Don’t worry, I’ll keep out of your way.’

That was how I found myself sharing my queen-size bed and my dream room with my mother, her eccentricities and her loud snores.