I like to measure the quality of my life by the people who come into it. I have been fortunate enough to meet a wonderfully rich and diverse selection of individuals over the last few years, and because death has stripped any veneer of social artifice from me, the people who meet me either like me immediately, or avoid me like raw blowfish in a sushi bar. Similarly, when I meet people for the first time, I know instantly whether I'll like them or not. I met two women at the ranch this summer who made a real impression on me. It would be hard to find two more disparate individuals, but there they were, complete strangers, thrown together for a week of riding and social interaction.

The first woman was so deeply shallow and affected that I had a hard time keeping a straight face whenever she opened her mouth. By the end of the holiday I knew all about her husband's many and various investments, I knew about their floating concrete factory in Switzerland, and the fact that she couldn't live without Bitter Grapefruit marmalade from Fortnum and Mason. When I told her that I did all my food shopping at Fortnum's, she took me at my word. Irony was as lost on her as the simple glory of eggs and bacon on a Sunday morning, or the smell of mist and woodsmoke on a crisp, October day. She was an easy target, a big Gucci handbag with a label on it saying 'Rob me'. I gave up trying to be mischievous and started to suck up everything she said like a marble sponge. I couldn't make up a character like her, she was uniquely grotesque, and if Thackery had lived in Orange County, he would surely have written her into a book. She had striven so hard to impress upon me what a cultured, affluent socialite she was, rounded and worldly, and yet came across as a one-dimensional, vacuous numpty.

All glitz and sparkle, on closer inspection she was a woman with lots of things, but in reality she appeared to have nothing at all. Her husband barely said more than a dozen words to her in a whole week, and when I looked into her eyes I saw only sadness. I look into people's eyes, not at their watch, or at the label in their jacket, but into their eyes, and it is there I see everything I need to know. I find a woman who spews personal financial details like share prices from a ticker tape machine about as engaging as The Sun crossword. And do you know what? After all the talk, I didn't actually have any idea of how she really felt about anything. Her true feelings were veiled by an endless stream of mindless name-dropping; her emotional baggage was neatly packed in a Louis Vuitton vanity case and she wasn't letting anybody get a peek inside.

It came as a welcome relief, therefore, to be able to get away from Lady Marmalade, and sit down to dinner with genuine people. Once the various riding groups had established themselves at separate tables, I found myself sitting beside a woman from Knoxville, Tennessee. On first appearance she seemed to be a slightly abrasive character, whose forthright comments on the horse handling abilities of Lady Marmalade had resulted in the poor unfortunate woman being sent home from the fast ride and put in with the beginners. She was unrepentant that evening and everybody agreed she'd done the whole ride a big favour. As I sat and listened to her, I recognised a lot of my own directness in the way she spoke. She arrived each evening with her own bottle of rather nice red wine, which she kept to herself, and when she was speaking about a subject that she felt particularly strongly about, she would grip my arm to emphasize her point. Her grip was just a little too tight for comfort, and it was not until some time later that evening that I would learn why.

Ann-Marie was direct and passionate, she spoke from the heart and spoke with an honesty and candour that was the very antithesis of the mindless drivel that Lady Marmalade spouted from dawn 'til dusk. Anne-Marie was a woman without artifice because she knew she had no time left to hide who she really was. She was; she is, dying of cancer.

She gripped my arm tightly when she spoke because she was losing her grip on life. She spoke of the terrible love she felt for her husband and of her bitter, bitter regret that she was never able to bear him a child. Knowing that he is a bookish intellectual who is hardly able to take the dogs out for a walk without mishap, does not diminish her longing to leave something of herself behind; a child he can hold when he cannot hold her, someone into whom he can pour all the love that he now gives to his beloved wife. Anne-Marie is a woman for whom time is precious. Every extra second that she lives is a glittering diamond, a pearl, a treasure. She is loved, every minute of every day by her husband; her heart is ringed with riches beyond compare, but her body is fighting a battle that cannot be won, even with a king's ransom. She drinks wine because it is the only form of pain relief available to her. Morphine doesn't work for her, and so Merlot has to suffice. It is hard to imagine just how difficult it is to live with constant pain, with the knowledge that the time left to you is finite, that each day could be your last. But Anne-Marie refuses to go down without a fight.

She went, each evening of her holiday, without fuss or comment, up to the ranch house, to be given her chemotherapy treatment by Christine, ranch owner, trained nurse and angel of mercy. After the treatment she disappeared quietly upstairs to bed, leaving the rest of the guests to sit on the porch and watch the last rays of the setting sun disappear behind the mountains.

Anne-Marie refuses to let her illness stop her enjoying herself. She is determined to live each second of the time left to her to the full. She speaks plainly because she has no time for verbiage; she loves her husband with all the strength left in her body, each and every day she loves him and she joys in their life together. They have taken the holidays that they had always dreamed of taking, she has indulged herself with gifts and expensive treats, but she doesn't speak of possessions with any kind of passion, because to her they are just things; when she speaks passionately, what she speaks of is love, and longing, and regret.

I think we both understood that we could speak plainly to each other. I am no longer afraid to talk of dying or of what comes after, and I believe that two people who are closely bound by love in life cannot be separated by death. She and I sat together one evening when the dining room was quiet and I held her; and as we wept together and I tried to assuage her deepest fear, which is for the happiness of her husband once she is gone. I know Charlie had the same unspoken fears about my happiness in his final weeks of life, and I wanted to let her know that life can be happy for those who are left behind, and that time on earth is too precious to be lived in regret.

I have been gifted with many things in my life; gifted with an insight into human nature, gifted with two beautiful girls, gifted with the love of a remarkable man, and meeting a woman like Anne-Marie, a courageous, valiant, passionate woman, is a gift that will stay with me always. I hope she lives for many more years to come, but I want her to know that if she doesn't, there is a certain Englishman upstairs who is waiting to welcome her with a warm hug, two glasses and a good bottle of claret.


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