‘Jack Atkinson, her estranged husband, claims that he has become the victim of a hoax, and he fears that his ex-wife is behind it.’ The report cuts to a Twitter screen where the top two trending hashtags are #allgirlstogether #cheatingbastard. Then to Katy fucking Squires. The strip across the bottom of the screen reads ‘ex-partner’.

‘Yes, Jack and I had a relationship and we have a son together. I wouldn’t blame his ex if she had done this; after all, people need to be responsible for their actions. I’m afraid that this is just a case of actions and consequences or, as I like to think of it, karma.’

I stare at her as she stares at the camera. I recognise her. The hard look in her eye. Concerned not only for herself but also for her son. Seeing the injustice, how he can just walk away and leave her and Jamie, and she is left to cope with everything. The screen cuts back to the reporter.

‘Police refused to comment on this incident but confirmed that investigations continue.’

The breakfast TV team discuss cheating husbands with two relationship experts as pictures of Jack are flashed onto the screen. I can hear a woman with long dark hair telling them that it’s no wonder I had disappeared and that this was the worst possible kind of psychological abuse. That she was surprised that Missy was still going with the ‘mental health issues’ angle when this was just hearsay.

I smile and remember Lee telling me that he’s been single for a while now and that he just hasn’t met the right person. I’m mentally assessing the effect all this will have at work. Then I remember that, actually, I haven’t done anything wrong.

It’s only just sinking in that my little campaign against Jack has gone viral. The eight o’clock news is on now and there’s Missy again. The report’s shorter this time and leaves out the bit about my mental health and focuses on the hashtags and Katy. She’s being interviewed on her doorstep. I study her face on the screen and she’s quite beautiful. But I look beyond her and onto the road, to the horizon. In the distance, I see the old church spire and the pylons on the skyline.

She lives opposite the old bridge. The car outside her house is red. I grab my bag, the wig and my jacket and run through the hotel. I drive the short way to the old bridge and check for the press. The red car is outside a charming stone-built townhouse. I park around the corner and wait for a moment. This morning I’d thought this was all over. Now I realise that it’s only just begun.