“And by the way, your word ‘reluctance’ . . . I know you were just using it hypothetically, but it’s a dangerous word, at least in my world. If a student was accused of assault and admitted the girl was reluctant, he’d be toast.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous!” Caitlin broke in. “People have sex reluctantly all the time. I certainly have.”

I looked at her, wondering whether to feel stung, but decided to ignore it. She was more than a little tipsy, as we all were.

“Well, anyway,” Marco said, “the point is she wasn’t reluctant and I wasn’t coercive. I can’t prove it any more than she can prove the opposite, but that’s the nature of these things. As you say, the onus of belief is on the believer . . .”

“Why do you think she’s doing this,” Caitlin asked, “if it’s not true?”

“I assume to make money. She’s broke, I know that. Her career didn’t turn out the way it was supposed to. But whose does?”

“And that was the last time you slept together, that night?”

Marco tilted his head. “Actually you know, I’m not sure. We weren’t exactly a couple, so there was never a formal breakup. We just stopped at a certain point. But I have no idea if that was the last time. Maybe it wasn’t!”

“But either way you went on working together?” I said.

“Absolutely. For at least another year. That I could prove, I imagine, for whatever it’s worth.”

“And no bad feelings between you?”

“None I was aware of.”

“Have you tried contacting her directly?” Caitlin asked.

“No!”

“That would be intimidation,” I said.

“Seriously?” Caitlin asked. “Just calling her up to ask what’s going on?”

“It’s a risk.”

“Wow.” She shook her head. She was, is, somewhat unworldly in her interests, my wife, and as a result constantly being amazed by the world.

“But does she actually know she’s harming you with this story?”

“She has to know,” Marco said.

Caitlin frowned into her wine. “I’m not getting a very clear picture of this person. Could you tell me more about her?”

Marco gave the same grave nod. I had a sense that, for him, the conversation had something of the quality of a rehearsal: an informal dry run for some sterner version of itself likely to occur somewhere down the line.

“Well, she was this quiet girl from the midlands. Grew up on a housing estate. No father around, mother worked for the council. Got into Oxford where she was apparently very shy and retiring. Came to London as a freelance journalist and began to realize she had something that made people want her around. Worked in print and radio for a couple of years, before moving into TV.” He turned to me: “Didn’t your mother help get her that TV job?”

“That’s right, she did.”