Himself came with me (well someone had to carry the luggage and make Gallic grunting noises at the French people). It was his first time on one of these jaunts, and he exactly confirmed my own opinion of them several hours in with the slightly bemused comment: "It's like being in another life!"

And this is the really odd thing about being an author. For 50 weeks of the year, they who must be obeyed (editors) keep us locked in a garret, chained to a PC, allowed out once daily to walk the dog because it gets the ideas flowing. We become strange, twitching recluses. Then, in promotion season, we're expected to cast off the sackcloth and perform. We have to become glamorous, eloquent, witty, at ease with perfect strangers. We have to be able to take to the stage in front of multitudes and not dribble incoherently on the red carpet.

In short, we have to become complete imposters.

In return, we get treated as minor celebrities. Cars meet us at airports, receptions are held in our honour, journalists care about our opinions, champagne is opened, we are looked after and fussed over in the way I fuss over my child.

Now, I'm old enough and self aware enough (I hope) to see this for what it is: a pleasant diversion from the grunt of real life. But, I think, if all this had happened to me 20 years ago, I might have started taking it seriously. I might have believed it to be my due.  And I'm not sure what sort of person I'd have become.

A few months ago, one of my foreign publicists was telling me, in a just-between-us-girls sort of way, about one of her other authors (household name thriller writer) who is just plain mean. And I sat there, thoroughly enjoying the gossip and thinking, you sweet girl, it's your fault. You treat us like we're so special - sooner or later, we're going to start to believe it.

The Paris trip was wackier than most. Fleuve Noir, my lovely French publishers, went to a great deal of trouble to make us welcome and it was great to meet Deborah Druba, my French editor at last. Very sweet lady who, surprisingly, turns out to be German.

The award ceremony took the form of a mock trial, with a prosecutor in full dress robes, a handsome French actor to read extracts and a real lawyer for each of the authors to accompany them on stage and plead their case.

French lawyers are excitable beasts, I discovered, dwelling at great length on the blood, the violence, the gore and the sex.  Philippe, my lawyer, entertained everyone by acting out the murder scene from Sacrifice, stressing the intriguing mystery of the story and concluding by promising the assembled masses that Madame Bolton would reveal everything, absolutely everything, for the cover price of 20 euros.

Thank God they still have the net book agreement in France!

I didn't win Prix du Polar. I was pipped at the post by Saskia Noort of the Netherlands.  Well done, Saskia, and congratulations also, to the charming Gilles Legardinier, also of Fleuve Noir, who won the French language prize and who has been in touch a couple of times since.  Hi there Gilles - let's hope L'Exil des anges is published in English soon, then we can all enjoy what I'm told is a completely fabulous thriller.