The Crown Prosecution Service said they would lay them without his cooperation, they had the neighbours as witnesses of Terence running into the street screaming and of Nicky Abbott sitting in the kitchen quietly holding a knife.

Finally Terence simply disappeared from London altogether and nobody knew where he was, though sightings were reported in Tokyo and Sydney and on Richard Branson’s private island. Iona Spring even gave the press the address of his hideaway in Suffolk: he was not there. As Nicola Abbott had seemed to disappear into thin air also, the baffled press, although still sending reporters to South America and Spain just in case, could do nothing but wait for the most notorious rape trial anybody could remember.

It was suddenly announced by the Lord Chancellor, having spoken to the lawyers concerned and moving extremely quickly under government pressure, that the trial would be brought forward to early December. The legal fraternity had noted with horror that the complainant had already spoken to the American press. The kind of prolonged media circus that almost overshadowed the actual trials of Mike Tyson and OJ Simpson in the United States would under no circumstances be allowed to be repeated here.

It was still only October. Journalists rather grumpily turned back to Princess Diana; a few half-hearted pictures of Hugh Grant turning away from the camera returned to the front pages.

23

Molly McKenzie writhed and moaned.

One of her hands reached up behind her for the bed-head rail, tightened around it then released as she cried Aaaaagh.

Malcolm Evans, who had also cried Aaaaagh! Yes! Aaaaaagh!, paused for a moment then got off her. As rehearsed, he pulled a towel round him to hide his underpants as the camera lingered for a moment on Molly’s released hand then panned down on to the bed where she lay looking satisfied. She lay in a large bed, just the very top of one breast tastefully displayed, and half a bare leg. She too was wearing panties but the camera couldn’t see that. Malcolm Evans, playing her brother-in-law, now stood with the towel safely around his allegedly naked private parts, watching the scene of wedding breakfast merriment (which wasn’t actually happening) in the dark courtyard below and the camera moved in to him as he turned back into the bedroom.

‘I hate weddings,’ said Malcolm Evans.

‘I love them!’ said Molly, smiling coyly.

Then the assistant director gave a sort of strangled eeeeeek noise in place of the bride’s scream, the bride not having been called for filming today. Malcolm Evans looked towards the door, looked alarmed; Molly sat up in bed cleverly holding the sheet around her body.

‘What was that?’ she said.

‘CUT,’ called the American director, Waylon Jones. ‘Good, good, much better take, the sex was more believable.’