His wife was hopeful. Barbara Heathcote enjoyed the status that came with being a Cabinet minister’s wife. She wasn’t ready to relinquish it yet. ‘Don’t let them pressure you into resigning,’ she said. ‘We all make mistakes. You can ride this out.’

He kissed his wife on the forehead. ‘I can,’ he said. ‘I will.’

By lunchtime, his confidence was beginning to falter. His slip-up had been dissected on ITV’s Good Morning Britain, LBC, BBC Radio 4, Loose Women and in the offices of Private Eye.

It was on the front page of most of the tabloids and all of the broadsheets. A cartoonist had sketched him in a noose with the caption Heathcote commits political suicide. Poor taste, perhaps, but the artwork was trending on social media. A producer from Newsnight had invited him onto that evening’s show.

Romily Dawson from the communications team was now sitting opposite him in his Westminster office, drafting a statement.

‘We’ll keep it short and to the point. Apologize for your remarks, explain you were being flippant and reiterate your desire to get on with the job, citing the rehabilitation of prisoners as your priority. Yes?’

The Justice Secretary wasn’t the sort of man who believed in apologies. ‘Can’t you just make it’ – he flapped an impatient hand – ‘go away?’

Romily stopped typing and raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘You know better than that.’

‘But don’t you think it will blow itself out? There’ll be a bigger story along soon enough. What about the weather? Or Brexit? Or the fucking Prime Minister?’

‘You are the bigger story, Geoffrey.’ Romily’s phone pinged and she glanced at it. ‘The Guardian. Another interview request. I think it’s best you keep a low profile for now. We’ll release this statement in a couple of hours, in time for the evening bulletins. Let’s hope it snows heavily overnight. Snowmageddon might knock you off the front pages.’

Romily Dawson had handled – with an enviably cool head – leadership challenges, sex scandals, the furore over parliamentary expenses and perjuring MPs. She knew the interest in the minister would fade as the news agenda moved on. It was inevitable. But it was also a balancing act. Heathcote was at the mercy of a capricious media. She would do what she could to head off a crisis, but the story could blow up into something bigger, rumbling on for days. If the headlines became too damaging, he would have to resign.

Geoffrey Heathcote, who had survived seven years as an MP without a whiff of impropriety, had seen Cabinet colleagues caught in the eye of a political storm. He, too, understood it was simply a question of crossing his fingers and holding his nerve.