But most of all – worst of all – I loved him deeply. Even as I’d come, more recently, to feel the seeds of hatred taking root.

After Lena and Ishaan came to see me, with the photos Willow had sent to Ishaan the night of the party – the horribly suggestive photos – I knew something would have to change with Willow, significantly.

I’d been so focused on sorting Beau out the past few years – on keeping my head above water – I’d forgotten about my daughter. Again.

That had first become evident when she got expelled from St Bede’s.

She was so self-sufficient, Willow – I’d taught her that well – but it was too easy to overlook her extreme youth when she looked old beyond her years.

The flogging of the prescription drugs at St Bede’s had been bad enough, and the dabbling with self-harm; well, all the girls did that nowadays, just like we’d all had anorexia in my day. Every generation has its curse, it seemed. I didn’t take it very seriously, to be honest – until the day we ended up in A & E when she’d nearly nicked a serious vein.

But when the sexting started – targeting the male teachers – even we weren’t rich or important enough for the school to turn a blind eye.

What world did we live in when young women or girls still held so little value in themselves, they posted pictures online in their pants – or less? Who exactly was to blame, I kept asking myself, or, indeed, anyone who’d listen – who?

Marcus had sworn he’d get her help, but it was me who called the best psychologists on Harley Street – or the most expensive anyway. Marcus was too swept up in his own life – in his promotions at work, then in his political campaign. In keeping up the facade of the united front.

But Willow had always been a daddy’s girl.

Now she couldn’t get his attention for love nor money. And look what had happened…

And me? I was just girding my loins for the next thing to crawl out of the woodwork.

But as Lena and Ishaan left, the call I’d been dreading since Willow started Northgate High finally came.

When I arrived at A & E, Willow was sitting there serenely, pretending to be immersed in a book on the abolition of the slave trade.

At least she was all right physically though; just a deep scratch on one hand, a bruised shoulder – fortunately not fractured – that would make her wince, reaching for things. A scuffle at school, they’d said.

‘Is it good?’ I nodded at the book while we waited for the doctor to sign her off.

I didn’t want to discuss why she was here in front of anyone else.

‘Yes.’ She met my gaze steadily. ‘It’s about the length of time government reparations for trading slaves have taken to actually legislate.’

By the time we got in the car, I was rigid with stress, further worried by the fact this visit had revealed that the playground scratch was no match for the injuries she’d been inflicting on herself. Again.