‘Dad? Why are you calling?’

‘Does there have to be a reason?’

‘Sorry. Just . . . unexpected. It is nice to hear your voice.’ To my surprise, I am telling the truth. ‘How on earth did you track me down?’

‘Your mobile seemed to be switched off and no one was picking up at your flat. I rang your Commons phone and spoke to one of your colleagues. Nice young lady. When I explained who I was, she told me you hadn’t been feeling 100 per cent. Which was a bit of a shock to your mother and me. You might have told us.’

An excruciating pause. Of all the people in the world who I’d want to know what I’ve done, Dad is the last on the list. I squirm.

‘I’m sorry, Dad. It was thoughtless of me. I just didn’t want to worry you.’ That’s a fib. It’s not about them, it’s me: I couldn’t face the humiliation. ‘I’ve been overwrought. The impact of Clare.’ Despite myself, there’s a catch in my voice. ‘And, well, I behaved a little unprofessionally. I was a bit over the top in an interview.’

Silence. ‘What did you do?’

I hadn’t expected such a direct question. It isn’t typical of our relationship, where we talk about safe things – such as whether Spurs should be ecstatic or worried that arch rivals Arsenal have appointed an eccentric French economist as their new manager – but never explicitly about the important stuff, let alone anything that might involve feelings.

I cast about in my mind for a sanitised version that’s convincing, even one that might cast me as the brave lefty journo putting the corrupt Tory minister on the spot. But even as I start formulating the white lie, it dies inside me. I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it. For reasons I can’t explain, I need my dad to know how badly I fucked up.

‘I accused the Chancellor of having an affair with Clare.’

There’s a long silence. What have I done? I begin to panic. Dad’s well into his sixties. He’s fit, but his blood pressure is too high. Has the shock caused a thrombosis? I should have dissimulated, not broken the habit of a lifetime.

And then I hear something that takes me by surprise. It starts out gently but is soon full throttle. Dad is laughing. Not in a mean or nasty way. But deep from the belly, as though someone has told him the most hilarious joke. It’s the kind of laugh I haven’t heard since the two of us – well, the four of us – watched Morecombe and Wise together in the 1970s. In between the roars, he manages, ‘Why on earth would you think that? Keith Kendall’s rather more likely to have an affair with you than with your sister.’

What?