I have gone to the police today and reported that I was raped at a house belonging to a man in the film industry. It was not consensual. We had drunk a lot and we kissed on the sofa but then I wanted to stop. I told him that in clear words. He raped me on his living-room floor. I tried to push him off. I never once said yes. I said no a lot of times. That’s all I can say about that.

I think there was a witness. Someone came in and I saw them see us. I think it was a woman.

If she reads this, I am begging you, can you please come forward? If only to say I’m not crazy and I’m not putting it on for whatever reason.

I am not going to make any more comments on this. Any further enquiries can go via my agent David Barraclough at Total Agents. In the meantime, if you have even a bit of humanity, can you now please leave me and my friends and family alone?

If you are the woman who saw me, you can call the police direct if you don’t want to speak to David. Please, just don’t say nothing.

Becky tries to breathe deeply, relax her face, will her eyes to beam normality. ‘I have to get to bed.’

‘Wait. We were talking. I thought we could have a bit of that rhubarb gin Kate gave me?’

‘What?’ She feels a flash of annoyance at how Kate has even managed to infiltrate what they might drink together. ‘No, sorry, I have to work early in the morning,’ she says. He looks crestfallen, but she can’t focus on him. Only Amber now. ‘Leave the washing up and I’ll do it tomorrow.’

As she hammers up the stairs, statistics float in and out, unbidden, half-remembered from stories and reports that she has read over the years.

Approximately ninety per cent of those who are raped know the perpetrator prior to the offence. Does that put Becky in the remaining ten per cent? Or the ninety per cent? She has never known. She has never felt she belonged anywhere inside those numbers.

She locks herself in the bathroom, sliding her back down the door and huddling there, next to the warmth of the radiator. Clutches her phone close, reading back and forth, again and again, pulling out the possibilities between the reported facts like they are already there, writ large for everyone to see.

Online they are speculating that the witness was Matthew’s wife. What’s her name? Charlotte? Anne? Antonia.

There are only two people in the world who know for certain that ‘the woman in the kitchen’ wasn’t Antonia. Becky, and Antonia.

Does Matthew know it was her?

Amber saw enough to know that it was a woman looking at her. Will she identify Becky from the press picture of the restaurant?