Record producer James Miller has been rearrested and is now apparently being held at London’s Pentonville Prison. There is still no news of the exact charge, but it’s understood that bail has been refused on the grounds that he might flee the jurisdiction, unusual in a case as high-profile as his, and worrying indeed for Miller.

When everyone starts lying, how do you ever know whom to trust?

The one person I needed to speak to most had completely disappeared. His phone was never answered, and then the number stopped working altogether. Like a mighty slap in the face, finally and irrevocably I realised I’d been played for an utter fool. I blocked the pain of rejection from my mind as best I could, busy with the salvation of my family, but the knowledge that Danny could never have cared at all nagged at me until I felt dust-like. Until I was nothing. The ridiculous longing dragged at me, scraped its rusty fingernails across my self – until slowly I realised this was the price I must pay for daring to look outside my life for happiness; for the lust that meant I’d forgotten I was not just me, I was many. I was not me; I was my children too.

But there was no space for self-pity and heartache. I had to figure out how to keep my family together the best I could, before we lost everything.

The week after James’s second arrest, I took the children out of school for a few days and we went down to stay with Jen in London. I had people to see and questions to ask.

Liam wasn’t expecting me when I buzzed at his door. He answered it in a pair of cut-off jogging bottoms, sporting a small paunch I’d not seen before. He was obviously hungover, his pale skin unhealthily pallid, his sandy curls on end. He looked not unlike the derelicts who lived at the bottom of his stairwell.

‘Rose.’ Was it my imagination or did he seem apprehensive?

Liam lived in the penthouse of a converted button factory in Hoxton – the apartment all shiny floors and James Bond posters, Nintendo Wii’s and BMX bikes that Liam never rode unless he’d been partying all night. He was the archetypal London geezer, full of charm and exclusive drinking clubs and expensive dinners, until his women fell for him and began to dream of wedding dresses and chubby babies. Then Liam would turn into the proverbial ‘toxic bachelor’ – in short, his duped girlfriends wouldn’t see him for dust.

‘God, Hoxton’s a dump,’ I said, dumping my bag beneath a leather chair shaped like a vagina. ‘I’m gasping for a cuppa, Liam. I’m having the worst week.’ My chattiness was designed to disarm him. I sat on the vagina. ‘Make that the worst year, actually.’

‘No kids?’ Yawning, Liam put the kettle on, rubbing his eyes blearily.