I feel like an actor playing the part of a political editor, and assume that everyone can see that for me the job is a pointless game, a memorised ritual, which starts when I leave the flat at seven for the daily briefings. When they’re done I loiter around Burma Road until it’s time to file, and then head for The Groucho. I drink the best part of a bottle of Club Mâcon, quite often on my own. Even when there’s someone there from my circle, they can tell I am in a funny mood, and do their best not to make eye contact. I stumble home at one or two in the morning, collapse on my bed, usually with my clothes still on, and am out like a light. But at 4 a.m. every single morning, an alarm goes off in my head and I wake up in a panic I can’t name. Even as it subsides, the anxiety remains, so that a return to sleep is impossible. Save me Clare, save me Clare, save me Clare. Daytimes are fuelled by caffeine, cocaine, and the adrenaline of the deadline. At around two in the afternoon most days, I can’t keep my eyes open, and I drift into unconsciousness for a fitful fifteen minutes, bolt upright at my desk. Usually, I am aroused by the phone, or by Jess asking if I need anything. I can tell she’s worried about me, but I insist everything’s fine.

I am a ghost floating through the neo-Gothic corridors of Parliament and the conference halls of Westminster. I observe the photo ops, the unveilings of giant posters, the rousing leaders’ speeches to adoring crowds at rallies. I spend a day on a battle bus with Todd, touring the battleground constituencies, the swing seats. I do the same with Ramsey. The spin doctors spin me, my Lobby colleagues share private jokes with me. It’s all a great game. But neither my heart nor mind are present. Mostly, I fixate on what they would all think if they knew that the Chancellor had an affair with a married aide who became pregnant and was killed days after he corruptly tore up the policy she had created. That would bring all residual doubt about this election to an end. He would resign on the spot, the Prime Minister would be tainted by the inevitable questions about what he knew about it all, there would be no chance of redemption for the Conservatives. At that point, the election might just as well be called off and victory awarded to Todd.