I boarded my husband's private jet and his secretary was in my seat, feeding him peeled orange. His mother told me to be considerate. I stepped off. Then the crew asked whether I wanted the flight cancelled.

In four tranches, in 2020, against an instrument my own father's lawyers advised me in writing not to sign.

I signed it on a Thursday afternoon in a room with two of them sitting there, and one of them took his glasses off and put them on the table, which is the most anybody in my family has ever said to me about anything.

Or that I secured the thirteen patents that everything since has been built on.

Nine months. Two flights to Osaka. One conversation in Munich with a man who had already said no twice and who said yes on a pavement outside a restaurant because I had read his doctoral thesis.

Aurelio was not on that pavement. He was not on either of those flights. He has told the Osaka story at four dinners.

For four years I let him take the public credit.

I thought helping him without needing the recognition was part of loving him. I believed that completely and I would have defended it in any room.