‘No it’s not. The FC would be finished if we were seen to be taking orders from the Tories or any politicians. And you’ve had a terrible time. Maybe the paper should have supported you better. I don’t know . . .’

He tails off, then starts again. ‘You’re in a bad way. I’ve talked to your colleagues. Everyone respects you. Most people like you.’ He attempts a weak grin. ‘But they say you are out of control, drinking too much, maybe doing other things too; things that aren’t good for you.’

Is that what people say? My fucking colleagues.

‘Also, there’s talk that your relationship with one of Todd’s advisors is not just a professional one.’

Fuck. Marilyn and I have been discrete. I haven’t told anyone. Has she talked? I’m about to protest, but Lorimer interjects. ‘I actually don’t want to know. But if it got out that you were making slanderous accusations against the Chancellor, while conducting a relationship with the one of the main advisors to the Leader of the Opposition . . .’

There’s nothing I can say.

‘You need support. Expert support.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think therapy might be sensible. A formal evaluation at least.’

‘What are you saying?’ Having been relieved at not being sacked, I am now anxious again.

‘I want you to go to the Minster for assessment. I imagine they will need to keep you there for a week at the very least. Probably longer.’

The Minster is the most famous drying-out clinic in the country for spoiled pampered rich people, soap stars, the children of multi-millionaires, who can’t handle the coke or the booze. I am horrified. I am not one of them. I can give up alcohol and the drugs any time I like. I am not an addict.

‘Boss, what are you thinking? The Minster? Seriously, I can sort myself out.’

‘Gil, this is not a negotiation, it’s an instruction. The Minster is a serious therapeutic institution. Your costs will be covered by the private health scheme we give you. You will get yourself there this evening.’

‘But there’s an election. And I’m the political editor.’

‘You should have thought about that before you started raving at the Chancellor,’ he says quickly. Then, more thoughtfully, ‘I am sorry. We’ll cope without you. You have a great team.’ He peers at me again over the top of his specs, an eagle fixing my position with meticulous precision. ‘OK?’

I feel like a despondent five-year-old. ‘Yes, boss.’