Mrs Shaw’s office is sun-filled and too warm. At her invitation I take a seat on the sofa and she sits down on the matching armchair. This is where parents are coaxed, seduced, rebuked and reassured.

‘Now,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you tell me exactly what’s happened?’

After I’ve explained the situation, we discuss how the school is going to support Lottie. She asks me whether I’d like her to refer the family to social services to see what support they can offer, but I decline the invitation, trying not to let my horror show.

I’m relieved when the bell rings to signal the end of the day. Mrs Shaw stands up and we shake hands. She opens her door, says something encouraging, and I go back out to where the classes are lining up; row upon row of little girls in pale-blue gingham dresses and white socks and little boys in shorts and blue shirts. As I cross the playground, towards the gate, children and teachers turn to watch and I don’t think it’s me being hypersensitive, but it feels like the walk of shame. From the street, the other parents are watching me too. Everyone is, even the dogs tied to the railings.

The caretaker lets me out and pulls the gate shut behind me and I stand in the crowd of parents and nannies, my gaze fixed on the big red-and-blue clock. The minute hand moves excruciatingly slowly.

I feel a light pressure on my arm and find Cassie beside me. I catch her eye and she shakes her head with a grimace and pulls me to one side. We walk as far as the corner before we speak.

‘I had a call this afternoon asking whether the rumours are true,’ she says. ‘Apparently one of the children went home sick and told their mum what they heard in the playground. It spread like wildfire. I’m so sorry. I’ve tried to nip it in the bud, but I think everyone’s assuming Nick’s left you.’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘I’ve made it worse for Lottie.’

‘It’ll blow over.’

I bite my lip and turn round, and several well-groomed heads swivel the other way.

Lottie sees me and goes still, her expressive face questioning. When the gates open and we surge forward, she is practically jumping, her hand stretched out to shake her teacher’s. She runs up to me with Hannah close behind her and I immediately see that her eyes are red, her cheeks blotched. She looks so forlorn that I almost weep. I hug her, and she clings to me.

‘Has Nick come back?’ she asks, her voice muffled by my quilted jacket.

‘No, sweetie, I’m sorry, but he hasn’t. Come on, let’s go home.’