Bill and Kat took her off to some sort of “safe house” after that, presumably a place Bill used for all the celebs he managed who blotted their careers with drink driving or drugs offences. Lizzie had never been there before and found it infinitely depressing. There was nothing to do except scroll through social media absorbing all the poison people were saying about her until she felt sick to the stomach. She didn’t want to look at it yet somehow, she couldn’t help herself. It was a compulsion. She tried to distract herself with music videos and films but she couldn’t concentrate for more than a minute or two, jumping up, pacing the flat, whilst Bill was endlessly on the phone or flicking through news coverage and Kat chattered on her phone to family and friends about all kinds of inconsequential things. By the evening Lizzie was at screaming pitch. Then Dudley did another press conference and they all crowded around the screen.

“I’m innocent of any crime,” Dudley said, so plaintive and puppyish with his sad face on. “The false accusations and fake news are truly hurtful at this difficult time. I can only hope that the police will swiftly exonerate me and I can be left to grieve in peace.”

“I’m going home,” Lizzie said, pushing aside the box of chicken tacos that Kat was offering her. “I’ve had enough.” She wanted to see Dudley or at the very least, talk to him. She rang his number as soon as she got in the taxi but the call went to voicemail immediately. She felt annoyed that he was call-screening her along with everyone else.

“Dudley,” she said, when the tape beeped at her to leave a message, “I’m thinking of you. Call me when you can.” But he hadn’t called back and when she rang again the line was dead.

Now she sat up in bed and reached automatically for the phone only to find that the battery was flat. Swearing under her breath she groped for the charger lead and plugged it in. In a minute she would try calling Dudley again.

The flat was quiet. That was unusual. In theory Lizzie lived alone but it never seemed to be like that. There was always someone hanging around; usually Kat or her family and friends, or Lizzie’s ex-bandmates, or Dudley with or without one of his brothers, or other friends, people whose connection to her was so tenuous that sometimes she had no idea who they were. Today however, there was a stillness about the place that would have frightened her if she had allowed herself to think about it.

Lizzie stretched and, finding that she felt wide awake, got out of bed and wandered over to the huge windows that looked out across the river. She hadn’t thought to draw the curtains the previous night and the whole panorama of London was spread out in front of her in the sullen grey of a Monday morning, the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral piercing the sky just to the north-east. The river, greyest of all, shone like dull silk under the twinkle of a million lights from cranes, office buildings and vehicles. Although no sound penetrated the triple glazing up here, Lizzie knew she only needed to open the door and step onto the balcony to hear the roar of the city, to smell it and taste it. London was feral and she loved that about it. It helped her feel alive.