And Marcus thought I was so naive that I hadn’t seen what Zach March’s attraction was for him as he ran for a seat in the House of Commons.

But I knew. Marcus was playing the diversity card: the ‘I’m down with the kids’ card – and Northgate High and mixed-race Zach March fitted his new persona perfectly. The street party photographer, capturing the crowd. The camping photos in the brochure; an endorsement of BLM.

But even Marcus couldn’t make Willow’s history at St Bede’s disappear entirely – though he’d really tried.

Anyway, Willow had made such a song and dance about Saturday night, I’d caved – but even being listened to by an actual police officer didn’t seem to be enough for her.

Marcus had left this morning on a business trip – seventy-two hours in Zurich, then back for a final rally, a call to arms for the by-election at the end of the month. I didn’t doubt he’d win: he always got what he wanted.

And I wasn’t going to bother involving him again with this; I could make my own decisions. I could be a good mother alone.

Before I went into the studio to film today’s segments, I made a quick phone call.

Rex Whitaker. It was embarrassing, to be honest: he was, almost literally, like putty in my hands. Especially when I produced my chequebook, and after I cried a bit.

Not my forte, fake tears, but I managed to squeeze a few out. My stress levels were actually high enough to manage it.

Although I was surprised, I must say, genuinely so, to hear Melissa hadn’t told Rex what had happened yesterday. He looked worse than appalled when he realised his own daughter was involved.

‘Cecilia? You’re quite sure?’

‘I’m afraid so, Rex.’ I looked as sad as I could. ‘Did you not know? I’m sure the police must have been in touch by now?’

He promised to get to the bottom of the matter.

‘Although maybe’ – his smile sank into that doughy face of his – ‘we could sort this all out between us. Quietly.’ Echoing my husband. The layers of power. The headmaster at St Bede’s.

Men.

I gazed at a studio shot of the Whitakers on Rex’s desk – him in a suit but holding a (fake) sword in one hand, Melissa on his arm in a tight strappy dress. She had a great body, I had to admit. I’d admired it since the first time I’d been taught by her – but what was that terrible sword all about? So naff! Game of Thrones, I supposed – I’d watched an episode with Willow the other day, slightly shocked. Give me Grand Designs any day, or a Nicole Kidman drama.

‘So what do you want from me?’ Rex steepled his fingers.

Rex’s colleague barged in with an armful of folders and some Hobnobs; reversed out again when he realised this was serious. ‘I’ll come back!’

‘Sorry, Rex. But I don’t think we can do it without the constabulary.’ I couldn’t resist the word. I was almost enjoying myself. I mean, I couldn’t really, could I, because there was the issue of the poor girl being… manhandled, which was awful, of course. ‘It’s beyond us, isn’t it?’