‘Great. And, look, you’re always welcome here.’ I caught Zach’s furious eye. ‘All right, I’m going,’ I told him. ‘Shout if you need owt.’

But they were both too absorbed to answer.

It was a relief to see some things never changed.

Me. Ruby Clementine March, née O’Hara. Widowed at forty-five. Short, not quite five-four; daughter of a melancholy alcoholic who’d died too early and a woman who’d got through by relying on her church; the sister of a woman who I had nothing in common with, apart from a love of New Romantic music and the film Grease when we were kids.

I am the mother of two beloved children, and I’d never been taught any self-esteem as a youngster – except by a most brilliant teacher called Mr Stonebridge, who actually listened, and my nana Daffodil in the Dales.

I had learnt – as if by osmosis – that although it was all right to expect to have a career rather than a job, it would probably only be possible in certain sectors; I’d learnt that earning enough to pay bills, along with marriage and babies, were likely to be my ‘raisons d’être’, as Nella might say.

But things are changing. We need to teach our young women self-esteem, every bit as much as we need to keep encouraging empathy in our boys. We need to teach them all choice and hope, before it’s too late.

In the New Year, Zach went to stay with Gloria for a few nights so I could visit Melissa in Margate. There was real solace in female camaraderie, I was learning in my middle age.

I wanted to believe that any woman could be friends with another, whatever class, creed or colour; whatever our religion or our culture. But I don’t think it’s always that easy.

We’re a tribal species, still breaking down barriers.

Crucially, though, I had to be able to leave Zach occasionally.

To just be me.

I tried not to watch him like a terrified, overbearing mother. I’d never swap a life of no concern for one without my children – but sometimes I still struggled.

And worse, I never forgot I’d had my own doubts too. The fact I’d even thought about suspecting him, briefly, never sat comfortably.

But then, I suppose love isn’t always comfortable, is it?

That is the price of it, as some might say. With love comes pain.

NELLA

After the Telegraph had sent their photographer for the family shots, and I’d bribed Willow with a Selfridges makeover, bought Beau yet more mini Lego figures to assure us of at least one smile; after we did the double spread for Hello magazine, and I sorted out the blackmail threat, once and for all, finally I felt able to take a breath.

As my husband took his place on the back benches, where I was sure he’d not be for long before making Cabinet, all the angst finally seemed worth it. He’d made a press statement about the shooting in the woods – before my old and supposed friend Rebekah could beat him to it.