‘Yeah, whatever, Rose.’ James raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Why the fuck you’re still defending him, I don’t know. But actually it was Charlie that Kate really loved, not me. They were his photos. Not mine. He gave them to me, and they added up to precisely nothing.’

‘James,’ I sighed. ‘You’re not being honest.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Rose.’ The shutters came down. ‘Other than fucking up a bit financially. How many bloody times do I have to say it, Rose?’

He wasn’t budging. He was innocent; he was set up. He was the eternal child, the petulant little boy whose friend had stolen his toy. I gave up. Not knowing what to believe any more, I treated it as I would have done a news story and kept impartial. Of course I would try to support him – he was my husband, father of my family – but I no longer trusted him.

Eventually they moved James to a prison on the Isle of Wight, where Liam or I visited him once a week. He adapted to his environment, growing stronger and more determined he would get out. I encouraged him, but deep down, I feared he’d done something he still wasn’t admitting. I waited for the day it would all come out.

And the loneliness I’d felt when James was around faded into a kind of peace. I was questioned again by the police; I still knew nothing. I kept writing for the Chronicle, thanks to Tina. I started to earn again, writing features for various glossy magazines; slowly work came through from the nationals. Xavier sent whatever he could my way. He came to stay occasionally and I loved having him there. Our old friendship cheered me beyond belief. One cold autumn weekend as we tramped along with the kids deep in the Cotswold hills, he finally admitted that he was ill. His penchant for naughty boys and early morning clubbing had apparently caught up with him. I held his arm firmly, feeling a profound grief for my dear friend, although he was remarkably cheery about the prognosis. ‘Amazing what drugs can do these days, darling.’ He patted my arm sagely as I wiped away my own tears.

I watched Ash Kattan rise through the party ranks and win the Tory seat just before Christmas, not Eddie Johnson’s, but snatching a Labour one in Berkshire, much to the Telegraph’s delight. There was never any mention of his father in the British press, although one night I thought I caught Hadi’s name on the radio, a report on the World Service about a party for the Saudi royal family who were visiting Tehran. I wondered what Kattan was doing in Iran now. I imagined that, though on the streets chaos reigned as the people started to fight hard for democracy, Kattan would rise above it all as ever, enigmatic and mysterious. And in his wake, would Danny be following?