Scott asked her later, ‘Didn’t you know what would happen?’ He meant the headlines. Those scathing think-pieces that labelled Becky a Judas, a betrayer of women, an enabler of misogyny. A woman who lied to defend her rapist boss. A woman who let an actress spiral down to attempted suicide, disbelieved and pilloried as an attention-seeker, for the sake of her own glittering career. All the photos of Becky and Matthew together in Cannes. She hadn’t been aware so many were being taken.

‘Yes,’ she had said. ‘I knew.’

The question the papers asked again and again: why did she come forward now? Why speak up unless she’d been found out, or had let it slip to someone, or had been nailed to the truth by some last-minute piece of CCTV?

There was no doubt left in the public mind; a woman had said she was raped, and there had been a witness. Therefore it had happened. And that meant Becky had beyond doubt witnessed a rape and had chosen to say nothing. She had instead supported the man who paid her wages and promoted her. You’d know when someone is being raped, wrote one commentator. If there was doubt, you’d say something. What is worse, a little embarrassment or letting an attacker go unchallenged? Sometimes the articles made Becky doubt what she knew. Had she coldly calculated the cost-benefit of letting Amber suffer?

Someone from the hotel in Camber recognized her picture and sold their story – Matthew’s payment for her no-expenses-spared weekend away. The spoils of a war on women, in which she was a collaborator. That sealed things in the public mind. And it did look bad, she knew it. ‘The optics were bad,’ said one journalist.

She tried to hang on to her truth. And eventually she stopped reading the articles.

She had chosen to live with it. She gave no interviews, no comments, no quiet inside-briefings to defend herself. There was going to be a trial and, having elected to give Amber the truth, at the cost of near everything, how could she jeopardize Amber’s chance of getting justice? Why try to save herself?

‘Was it worth it?’ Scott had asked her.

‘Yes, it was. I think so.’

Then Scott had asked her permission for him to give her a hug, which sounded so quaintly old-fashioned that she almost asked why on earth he’d ask that, before she remembered exactly why he might ask first, and then she was so moved by his thoughtfulness that she couldn’t let him out of her arms, not for five long minutes.