When I got The Count of Monte Cristo, I was twenty-two years old. I remember flying to Ireland (first class; a bar you could sit at, flight attendants who smiled and nodded their heads while I held my breath because it seemed unreal and if I exhaled it would all disappear) staring out window, and the heavens had never looked to close. I counted the stars, my fingertips on the pane, cruising toward them, with them, through them. It was the start of some gorgeous, unbelievable adventure.
Here is me, and young Henry, in some pub in Dublin, Grafton Street, and I am drunk, pretty, cheeky. And so happy. He told me he wanted to be “famous” one day, and me, I laughed and petted the top of his head. Silly boy. “Famous” wasn’t a real word anyway.
Fate is a strange thing. And of course, don't forget that Henry made his 1000 miles way to the fame step by step, and his way wasn't always easy.