‘Maybe you shouldn’t have moved back home just yet,’ I say. ‘It’s too easy for the media to find you.’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ Stacey says.

Against expectation, the Morning Express Show’s PR polling suggests the public see Stacey as a victim of her husband’s fraud rather than a co-conspirator: the producers couldn’t wait to get her back on the air. All talk about moving her to the breakfast show has apparently been shelved: as Stacey noted bitterly, any publicity is good publicity, and with the wife of Britain’s answer to Bernie Madoff anchoring the programme, the Morning Express Show’s ratings have gone through the roof. Oscar Wilde was right: the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.

‘The press aren’t going to go away,’ I say. ‘With Felix missing, you’re the closest they have to—’

‘Felix isn’t missing,’ Stacey says shortly, tossing her sponge into the sink. ‘He’s probably halfway to Argentina or some other country without an extradition treaty by now. But if Harper keeps up with this ridiculous manhunt of hers, the police are going to start taking his disappearance seriously. If I get sucked into an investigation, my poll numbers will take a dive and then the network will pull the plug on me without a second thought.’

‘I thought the police were involved?’

‘The fraud squad. That’s totally different.’

I’m not sure I understand the distinction, but I’m not going to press the issue.

This mess is partly my fault: I was the one who told Harper to take control of the narrative, but a nationwide manhunt for Felix Porter wasn’t what I had in mind. Stacey is right: with his absence now front and centre of the story, it’s only a matter of time before the police consider foul play.

And that’s not in anybody’s interests, least of all mine.

‘I should probably get going,’ I say, pushing back my stool. ‘I have a trustee meeting at work I can’t miss. It was really good of you to take Peter into the studio today with everything else you’ve got going on. I appreciate it.’

‘It was a nice distraction,’ she says. ‘And a promise is a promise.’

She follows me downstairs. Peter is playing computer games in Archie’s bedroom: I have to call him three times before he slopes out into the hall.

‘I hope you thanked Mrs Porter for taking you to the studio today,’ I say.

He smiles insolently. ‘What do you think?’

‘Peter and I had a good day,’ Stacey says. ‘Didn’t we?’

Peter’s eyes slide away. He stares at the mirror at the end of the hall as if transfixed by his own image.

‘Peter,’ I say.