There is a pause on the line and she wonders whether he is angry with her for calling him. Whether she’s done the wrong thing by adding to his worries. She should be able to handle this.

‘You have to ignore him, if you can, ignore him.’

Had she ignored him enough? Had she said too much?

‘How long is this going to last?’ she says.

‘I don’t know. This hasn’t happened to me before.’ There is a tightness and anger edging his voice.

‘I’m not complaining,’ she says quickly. ‘I know this is horrendous for you. I just wanted to ask, I mean I don’t know, what to, you know, I didn’t say, well, what should I say?’

‘I don’t know. Nice things!’ He sounds almost amused. ‘Tell the truth, Becky. Say that’s not the man you know. I just spoke to Pips.’ He is solemn now, talking about Pips, Matthew’s pet name for his son Bart, a year younger than Maisie. ‘Someone tried to talk to him as he came home from school.’

‘Oh God. They’re such shits.’

Becky can’t help but picture it. The child being asked those questions: Is the man who loves you also a man who holds down women who are not your mother, and rapes them on the same rug where you still open your birthday present?

‘Pips is so upset.’ There is a wobble in Matthew’s voice, and it is this that fills her with rage that this arrogant and bloodthirsty journalist is taking up space, her space, outside her house.

She hangs up. Hammers down the steps. Opens the door with so much force the joint of her arm stretches and burns with pain.

‘Matthew Kingsman is a good man,’ she spits. ‘He’s a family man who loves his wife and kids. He’s worked hard over decades to build a company that supports talented film-makers. He invests in women as staff and in telling women’s stories on screen. I’ve never seen anything to make me doubt him. These allegations are terribly hurtful and destructive and people should think twice before acting judge, jury and executioner.’

‘Were you the woman in the kitchen?’ he says.

‘Was I the what?’

‘The witness.’

‘This is ridiculous. I’m not going to be part of a witch-hunt. Goodbye.’

The alerts come in for The Sun on Sunday online story the next morning and it’s worse than she imagined. There’s a large photo of Becky walking into work: earphones in, collar up on a denim jacket, bag slung across her shoulders. She remembers the outfit, the day, but she hadn’t seen a photographer. Where had he been hiding? Had there been others?

They write that she has denied being ‘the woman in the kitchen’. Siobhan’s had the same treatment.