Her head hurts. No, she tells herself, she must focus on the present. She has something more immediate she needs answers to. And so she taps at her phone again, plugging in her name, the company’s name, Matthew’s name, into Google, into Twitter, into Instagram. She has done this a hundred times, tracking word of mouth on film releases, writing up reports on how trailers have landed, how various stars are talked about. She knows her way around.

She finds what she is dreading.

The fractured images she had been trying to marshal the previous night in Cannes when Sharon’s agent had grasped her arm – It’s clear you don’t know – now coalesce into a toxic jigsaw.

Blonde chignon. The long neck. That face. Lapis-blue eyes.

Amber Heath.

Client of DB’s.

The woman on Matthew’s kitchen floor.

Becky stares at the name again, and the first search result. A clip, hosted on an entertainment news website – one that carries breaking gossip, publishes intrusive photos and catty rumours and no doubt makes a ton of money; adverts, cookies, signs and banners flashing over the text. She impatiently swipes it all away as if clearing away the dirt to reveal the name on a headstone, and presses play.

The footage appears to have been recorded on an iPhone. Perhaps shot by an opportunistic reporter. It is jerky, obviously hand-held as the questioner follows a man emerging from a bar and heading down a busy night-time street in central London. Becky recognizes him as a minor actor, but she can’t place him exactly. Was he the special advisor in that BBC drama about the disgraced MP? Or the school teacher in that ITV comedy?

Her brain glitches and jumps, her eyes only able to dart and identify key words, unable to follow the flow of a sentence:

Kingfisher Films. Matthew Kingsman. A relationship with the actress Amber Heath. Alleges that …

She plays the clip.

I’d hardly call rape a relationship.

The words come out loud and aggressive, her phone on top volume. Her first instinct is to glance up at the cab driver to see what he’s heard, then find the mute button to stop him from hearing more.

She plays it again and reads the words that ticker tape along the bottom: I’d hardly call rape a relationship.

The man in the clip has large, clean-cut features, is dressed in a long beige trench coat and dandyish loafers. An air of sozzled camp about him. The reporter seems to have chased him down the street to ask his questions, perhaps that’s why his answers are so blunt.

‘Are the rumours about your friend Amber true?’

‘Yes, she’s gorgeous, it’s true.’

‘Is she having a relationship with Matthew Kingsman?’

‘I’d hardly call a rape a relationship.’

‘What?’

‘No comment. Kingsman’s a nasty little bitch. That’s my last word on the subject of that tosser.’