I now had a TV that I did actually use more than I had anticipated, if only for company, and I had found a streaming service that was mostly documentaries which was often a source of interest and occasionally inspiration, so it hadn’t been a total waste. And, of course, I got to watch fun things like the Toy Story series with the kids. I’d also sat through a few superhero movies with Freddy while Ruby had often, and quite wisely, curled up on my lap and gone to sleep. But even those films meant I got to spend time with the people I loved and that, I knew, was the most important thing of all, because you were never sure just how much time you would have. My husband and I thought we had decades ahead of us as we’d sat celebrating our third wedding anniversary. As it turned out, we had just minutes.

Paris had been its usual glittering and romantic self as we’d strolled along next to the Seine that night, making our way slowly to a particular restaurant I’d read about and been keen to try. The place had certainly lived up to the hype and, after a wonderful meal and a bottle of champagne to toast our anniversary, we sat watching the Parisian world go by from the vantage point of our pavement table, sipping coffee. Mike had suggested another romantic stroll past the beautifully lit Eiffel Tower on the way back to our luxury hotel and, bearing in mind the fizz and the coffee I’d been consuming, I’d excused myself for a nip to the ladies’ before we left, passing our waitress taking the card machine out to Mike at our table.

I was washing my hands when I heard the noise, a huge bang accompanied by glass shattering and then, for a split second, absolute silence. That was immediately replaced by a cacophony of shouts and screaming. I realised later that one of those screams was mine.

The autopsy showed that the driver of the car which had ploughed into the pavement and straight on into the front of the restaurant had suffered a fatal heart attack. He was on his usual route home and, thirty seconds later, would have turned down a small, empty side street. Although he sadly would still have died, he wouldn’t have taken an Italian businessman, the waitress who had been serving us, and my darling husband with him. None of them stood a chance. From the eyewitness reports, it all happened so quickly they barely had time to see the car coming before it hit them.

I don’t remember a lot about those first few days. There was a hysterical, garbled phone call to Felix which a kind French paramedic who spoke excellent English took over for me, advising Felix of the facts, as he knew them at that moment, which wasn’t a lot, but enough. More than enough. The main fact, the only fact, I perhaps somewhat selfishly thought of was that Mike, my husband, was gone. If I hadn’t nipped to the loo, I’d have been at that table too, and all I wanted was to turn back time and have stayed. Three years ago that day, we’d promised ‘until death do us part’. But I didn’t want death to part us. I wanted to go with him. I wanted to have died with him.