So I was on a plane to New York, and shortly after take-off, a familiar face appeared at my side, just as I was deciding whether to ask for another bowl of nuts.

“Hello,” said Ghislaine Maxwell. “Long time no see.”

“Oh, hello. What are you doing here?”

“I live in New York a lot of the time. What about you?”

“A funeral.”

“Oh, sad. Anyone I know?”

“No, I don’t think so, a friend from college.”

I had known her since the Eighties, when her father, Robert Maxwell, bought the Mirror Group papers, where I was a political journalist. Robert doted on her. Whereas I witnessed a form of paternal cruelty to his sons Ian and Kevin at times, I sensed Ghislaine could do no wrong in his eyes. Indeed, the yacht where he met his demise on 5 November 1991 was named not after his long-suffering wife, Betty, but “Lady Ghislaine”.

Ghislaine had also been central to possibly the most bizarre assignment of my journalistic career – no, definitely the most bizarre assignment of my journalistic career – when Maxwell, for reasons I never fully fathomed, sent Ghislaine and I to Paris to hand over the remains of an Argentine political and military leader, Juan Manuel de Rosas, who had died in Hampshire in 1877. Bear with me. Heaven knows how the Sunday Mirror readers felt on the full-page account of this bizarre diplomatic mission intruding on their reading of sport and showbiz.

My other vivid memory of the trip was of Ghislaine, then in her twenties, saying Paris had the best underwear shops in the world, taking me on a little tour of them and being asked for my view of what might look nice on her. We chose purple. It was a rather strange, though pleasant enough, way to pass a couple of hours before we headed back to London.

So fast-forward a fair few years, and as our plane crossed the Atlantic, we reminisced a little. She filled me in on what the rest of the family was up to and then asked me what I was doing that evening after landing. I said I was free and was just planning to do a bit of work and then sleep.

We met at the home of the man I think she referred to as her boyfriend, Jeffrey Epstein, who was dressed in the New York super-rich smart casual uniform

“Let’s meet up,” she said. So we did, at the home of the man I think she referred to as her boyfriend, Jeffrey Epstein. Vast rooms. Lavish art and antiques. Epstein dressed in the New York super-rich smart casual uniform of cashmere sweater, light-coloured chinos, handmade shoes. He was at his desk, which I recall as being both busy yet tidy, documents and photos competing for space, when I walked with her into his home office.

The visit was neither as memorable, nor as weird, as the visit to Paris with an urn. It was, however, a bit weird. And though I saw no sign and had no hint of the kind of behaviour that would lead to his fall from grace and his suicide in jail, it was, well, a bit creepy. Once she had introduced us, Ghislaine disappeared, giving us that feeling of this being very much a “man to man” event, to go over big things like geopolitics, the global economy, trends in the world. Blah-di-blah.

He showed me a few mementoes, pointed to a couple of books he had been reading, then got himself a drink – Scotch I think – and poured me a glass of fizzy water as we sat opposite each other in large beige armchairs.

It’s hard to have conversations like that without mentioning names of people in the news and people in the know, and whichever name came up, he seemed to know them, have a story about them: Bill and Hillary Clinton, of course, of whom he spoke with what I would call realistic fondness (he liked them, but was aware of their flaws); then the economists Larry Summers and Alan Greenspan, Rupert Murdoch, Anna Wintour. You name them and he had stories, and views, about them.

I imagine it was this encounter, and an exchange of cards, that led to my name being in his little black book. He was certainly a networker and, I sensed, keen for me to be a possible point of contact with Tony Blair. But it was the first and only time I met him. When Ghislaine finally reappeared an hour or so later, asking how “you guys are getting on”, I was ready for bed, alone. So we said our goodbyes and that was that.

Some people are drawn to ostentatious wealth and the characters who display it. I don’t think I am alone in being more repelled than drawn

So what might Prince Andrew have seen in Epstein that I didn’t? Well, some people are drawn to ostentatious wealth and the characters who display it. It can mean hospitality, gifts, nice places to see and stay, cool things to do and enjoy, other super rich people to meet. I don’t think I am alone in being more repelled than drawn, inherently suspicious rather than automatically assuming they must have extraordinary qualities to have become so wealthy.

Also, Epstein did appear to be both genuinely connected and genuinely smart, and the latter quality may have given Andrew, not the brightest button in the royal box by all accounts, a sense that he could mix it with people with large brains as well as large bank accounts and Rolodexes.

And, of course, friendship is no easy thing for members of our Royal Family; it’s hard to work out the motivations of those trying to get close. Also, the lower down the royal chain you go, the more I suspect they are susceptible to flattery, including the sort of flattery from those advisors who thought his interview with Emily Maitlis was a good idea and doubtless told him afterwards that it all went terribly well.

Was I surprised, all these years later, when it emerged that there was something very, very weird about Epstein? No. Was I shocked that Ghislaine turned out to be less girlfriend and more someone helping Epstein to live the life he wanted to live? No, though yes if she was fully aware of what that life entailed. Was I surprised and shocked that Prince Andrew might be caught up in that life? Definitely. You did not need the instincts of a tabloid hack or a political aide to know there was something not quite right, about this showy, rugged, name-dropping New York businessman. And that was before he went to jail, let alone after.

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