He would reach out to me roughly once a year, usually during the summer, to let me know that he was still thinking about the work we had embarked on a few years before and wanted to come back… one day.
I grew accustomed to his limited reappearances and almost started to expect them.
Sometimes he would get in touch by email, sometimes by text message. It would always be a cry for help from the middle of a crisis; he would sound distressed and eager to resume therapy… but each time he would postpone it until after the holidays or to the following month. And once the holidays and the crisis were over, he would find an excuse to defer again or simply vanish into the Parisian ether with no further explanation.
He was extremely well read and articulate and had a poignant, self-deprecating sense of humour, which would make him a perfect Brit, even though he was a Spaniard. His name was Pablo, but he was going by a more French-sounding Paul.