Five days after the General Medical Council began to gather their statements, the first news story appeared. As Al was still suspended and there was no detail on the Medical Practitioners Tribunal Services website about the investigation at all, it was obvious that someone directly involved had leaked the story.

Admittedly, a whole room full of patients had heard that bastard Gary Day publicly accuse my wife of ‘sexually assaulting’ their son, but none of them would have known anything more than that. The level of detail that appeared in the press, however, was astonishing, and Alex fell apart.

‘Oh my god. Oh my god,’ was all she could say, over and over again, staring at one of the articles on my laptop screen, as we both sat at the kitchen table after I’d dropped the girls off at school. She’d been sleeping so badly she was pale as anything anyway, but looking at the accompanying photo of herself in a tiny dress outside the club in Ibiza, clutching a drink – helpfully lifted from Stef’s Facebook page – she went actually white. It was the first time I understood what seeing the blood drain from someone’s face really meant.

‘I look like an old slag, someone who does this sort of thing all the time.’ She put her head in her hands and stared at herself. ‘When in fact I had to buy something new to wear because I don’t even own any going out clothes any more.’

‘You don’t look like a slag at all. You look lovely,’ I said truthfully.

She didn’t hear me and turned instead to the headline:

She read aloud, then continued in disbelief;

Alex looked up at me, horrified. ‘Firstly, how about pointing out I met you eight years ago, rather than making out this all happened yesterday, plus – a three-month relationship? That’s just a blatant lie, and I didn’t encourage his mother to do anything of the sort or shove his stupid little girlfriend.’ She scanned the rest of the article, stunned. ‘They’ve referenced the weekend in Ibiza, David witnessing him kissing me at work, that weekend he supposedly came here, they’ve quoted Gary Day and there’s a huge picture of him too.’

She pushed the laptop away from her and started to visibly shake.

‘Hey!’ I said, quickly moving my chair to get up and put my arm round her. ‘It’s OK.’

‘It’s not OK.’ She went completely rigid at my touch and, thrown, I quickly removed my arm. ‘Everyone will see this. Our families, friends, colleagues, people I barely know, complete strangers – but most of all, what about Maisie and Tilly? This is going to be there forever now. What do I say when they’re old enough to find this? When their friends look at it and know what I’ve done?’

‘But you didn’t do it. Not what he says you did.’

She closed her eyes, barely moving – as if undergoing an invasive medical procedure so painful all she could do was wait for it to be over. ‘I had no idea who he was. I swear.’

I didn’t know what to say, and as I sat there unable to make it go away for her, or fix it, the now familiar feelings of powerlessness, rage and guilt began to burn within me. This was all my fault – and his.

‘Rob.’ She opened her eyes suddenly and looked at me, desperately. ‘You still believe me, don’t you?’

I stared at the mother of my children and the woman I had fallen in love with on sight ten years ago. ‘Of course I believe you.’

And I do.

There are some messed up things that can happen in life – I’m not oblivious to the fact that some people find themselves going through truly horrendous experiences when literally the day before their lives were totally normal – but if anyone had told me Alex would one day walk in through our front door and announce that she’d been publicly accused of sexually abusing a vulnerable seventeen-year-old boy, I would have laughed. Not because it’s funny, but because it is so offensively ridiculous. When it actually happened and she said the words out loud, waiting, terrified, for my reaction, I didn’t even have to think about it. I got to my feet, walked over to her, and I held her while she cried.

My wife is not what you would call a shy, retiring person. She’s outspoken, and what she would say is standing up for what’s right, other people might describe as being bolshy. I know she can appear unlikeable. Our first landlord ended up serving notice on us after Alex got into a heated argument with him about a faulty fridge he hadn’t fixed as fast as Al thought he should have. I’ve watched her have confrontations with restaurant, shop and hotel managers, listened to numerous draft complaint letters to the council, a window company and our bank, and not said anything when she’s threatened legal action over, among other things, a pair of faulty shoes.

But my wife is also genuinely one of the kindest, most generous people I have ever met. Being a doctor, friends of hers often ask her for ‘informal’ advice. That can range from expecting her to diagnose their kids’ rashes over the phone, to wanting her to dispense advice when they’re worried their children’s behavioural problems are in fact the first signs of autism. She gets texts at all hours, and I’ve never known her not call anyone back because she was too tired to deal with it after a long day at work. When she asks people how they are, they actually tell her. Warts and all, as well as at great length, but she always listens. If one of her friends called in the middle of the night needing her, she would go. Without question.

There aren’t, however, anywhere near as many people she talks to about things that bother her. She would say that’s because she’s a private person, but it’s more about her finding it hard to open up, because she doesn’t feel comfortable relying on people. Her father ran up thousands of pounds worth of debt behind her mother’s back, and it only came to light when he did a bunk, leaving Alex’s mum to sort everything out, with Alex’s help. They almost lost the house. Alex got used – fast – to having to sort things out for herself and as a result is a very competent person, who is now often mistaken for being strong to the point of invincibility. Her self-reliance can also come across as arrogance when she gets frustrated with people not doing things as fast as she could do them herself – just as her difficulty with trusting people can appear as aloofness to people who don’t know her well. But she let me in. In spite of the fact that she knew how much she was risking the second we crossed the line and kissed, she overrode her instincts.

‘All of my friends have warned me that if you’ll cheat on your wife with me, one day you’ll cheat on me too.’ She’d looked up worriedly as she lay in my arms in her bed after the first time we slept together. She was understandably afraid of getting hurt as well as the risk to her career and who could blame her? I didn’t think about Bella’s feelings when I slept with Alex. I knew I was going to devastate Bel and I did it anyway. Bella and I were childhood sweethearts. We’d long outgrown each other and reached the point where we either split up or got married. We went the wrong way and got married. That was our only mistake.

I knew the second I met Alex that she was the one. She always has been, and she always will be. I explained all of that to Alex as we lay there in her bed and added: ‘I will never cheat on you like this with anyone else, and I will never leave you. I promise.’

And while I know how pathetic it sounds to say I kept my promise – because when I slept with Hannah it was just sex and it meant less than nothing – I honestly believe it’s true. I had, and still have, no feelings for Hannah whatsoever. I don’t even particularly like her as a person. I made a mistake – but it’s scarily easy to do.

Sorry, but it is. It’s easy to find yourself getting pissed much too quickly when you’ve got kids and you never get to go out. You’re overexcited to be out in a real-life pub, you start acting like you’re on day release and neck drinks on the company card that you don’t have the tolerance for any more. The alcohol kicks in and you start to feel invincible and reckless. You remember how funny you used to be, you’re enjoying yourself immensely and everyone is having a great old time. Then someone in particular appears at your elbow, laughing and smiling up at you. She’s pretty and acts like you’re amazing. She touches your arm, and you jump like it’s an electric shock because you don’t get touched much these days. Not like that anyway.

Your wife is so tired when she comes to bed that if you turn over to hug her, she wriggles away and says she just needs five minutes peace to herself to read her book, so you wait, but you’re knackered too and by the time she turns the lights off you’re already pretty much asleep – which you can’t help thinking was your wife’s aim all along. You might try to talk to her about it for the hundredth time – tell her you want things to be different, you need to make time for each other… and she will respond that she has a really demanding job, two small children and she’s ‘giving’ all the time. What she really wants – rather than being told her marriage is in trouble and only a shag can fix it – is to be kissed and hugged a bit more? Paid attention to? Supported?

Which is confusing and pretty fucking irritating because the last time you did all of that, you were told to get off, because she was reading.

‘So maybe don’t just hug or kiss me when we’re in bed?’ she might suggest, an edge creeping into her voice when you bring it up again while she’s clearing up after tea and you’re about to go and run the kids’ bath.

Again, baffling. ‘But that’s the only time we have together. You’re either at work, or we’re with the kids, or one of us is at the gym.’ Then one of your children will come in and announce they need a wee before your wife has the chance to answer.

So, when you are accidentally touched by this girl in the pub who thinks you’re really funny and because pretty much any kind of physical contact turns you on, as she tells you a story, you will lean in a little closer to hear properly. It’s much louder in the pub now, more raucous. She touches you again, this time her hand stays resting on your arm. Blood begins to pump. You can feel her warm breath on your skin and smell her perfume. You find yourself wondering what it would be like to kiss her. She says she’s going outside for a smoke, and you’re pissed enough now to realise you really fancy a fag, even though you gave up years ago.

Once you’re standing in the warm, summer night air and dragging on the cigarette, London at night suddenly feels like a place that belongs to Bond – all glamour and shimmering possibility, rather than the late trains and limp lunchtime sandwiches of your usual daytime routine. She’s chatting away as someone pushes past her on the street and accidentally knocks her into you. You reach out to catch her, shout abuse at the stranger already out of earshot, look down at her to ask if she’s all right as she looks up at you wide-eyed like you actually are Bond, then all of a sudden you’re kissing, you’re in a taxi, you’re pushing in through the front door of her flat, you’re fumbling with clothes, gasping on the bed… and then it’s over and a possibility no more – just a sickening reality. You’ve fucked everything up forever for one throwaway moment of physical release.

You think about your wife and kids and you shrivel away and die inside. Fully dressed and in the cab on the way home, you numbly stare at the text your wife sent you hours ago saying

and you realise you’ve just traded eight years of fidelity to become a man of the moment – the person you promised you would never be – a serial cheater.

But because you haven’t fucked up quite enough, the following morning, you actually tell your wife what you did the night before, because you’re a gutless shit who hasn’t got the balls to live with the guilt of what he’s done and keep his mouth shut. You want your wife to make even this OK. So you tell her, and you watch her heart break in front of you and no matter how many times you say you’re sorry, you keep coming into a room to find her in tears. She is by turns both devastated – and furious. She goes out and gets drunk herself. In Ibiza, miles away from the hurt you’ve caused her – looking for some reassurance and revenge all of her own.

Once the initial shock of Alex’s confession – and my confusion when she told me who he was – had worn off, I became very realistic about the impact of my behaviour on her actions. I deserved what she did in Ibiza – it was my own fault. But she does not deserve people telling lies about her. Especially not people who have already taken advantage of her and tried to manipulate her to their own end.

Alex stood up suddenly, interrupting my ever-deepening, drilling spiral of loathing for the Day family, wrapped her arms around herself and said: ‘I think I’m going to go and have a lie down, and you’ve got to get on with some work anyway, so…’ She glanced at the kitchen clock reading 9.05 a.m.

‘Do you want me to bring you a cup of tea?’

She hesitated. ‘I’ll make one before I go up. Do you want one too?’

‘Yes, please.’ I pulled my laptop round to face me as she reached for the kettle and began to fill it.

I stared at the photo of Jonathan Day, also accompanying the news item, fixating on the now-familiar eyes staring back at mine; the foppish brown hair, faintly amused smile and clean-shaven chin. They’d lifted the shot from his Instagram feed; it was one I’d already seen. I had become obsessed with looking at the boy that had offered the open arms for my wife to fall into, laced with a very real desire to smash his fucking face in. It was a complicated mix of emotions.

I was starting to feel like I almost knew him myself, I’d now read so many social media posts of his and looked at so many photos. It wasn’t that I was trying to see what had attracted Alex to him, that was blindingly obvious: youth, muscles, classic good looks – all qualities I was well aware I didn’t possess any more. I was searching for answers behind that smug little smile: why had he told such blatant lies? What was in it for him? ‘Do you think he’s fallen in love with you?’ I’d asked my wife.

She’d looked confused. ‘I can’t see that he can have, to be doing this to me?’

‘You say that, but it’s very successfully keeping him linked to you, isn’t it? He’s still part of your life – connected to you – albeit in a very messed up way.’

She shook her head. ‘He started all of this because he thought I was going to tell everyone he’d tried to blackmail me into having sex with him.’

‘Exactly. You’d have to be desperate to sleep with someone to do that. He’s in love with you. Or whatever his version of that is.’

‘No. He attacked to defend. He got in there first with his own far more shocking story, but it snowballed. Now, he – or just as likely his horrible parents – has spotted an even bigger opportunity: fame.’

That startled me. I hadn’t considered that. Jonny boy made for an arresting photo, that’s for sure, and the more papers that picked up the story, the bigger the accompanying pictures of him became. I obviously wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stop staring at him, but as I noticed his social media numbers beginning to soar, I realised Alex was absolutely right. Whatever his reason for starting this, Jonathan Day had now found a platform, something that was getting him noticed and making him stand out among a lot of other good-looking eighteen-year-old boys searching for a space in a crowded market. Now he’d created his fifteen minutes, he wasn’t going to waste it. It became clear to me that the whole thing had become a massive publicity stunt – with him as the star and Alex collateral damage. In my much darker moments I felt a fool for having wondered if they had been sleeping together for three months and if that explained why Alex had stopped being interested in having sex with me? He had made even me momentarily wonder if she’d done it, when I KNEW Alex wasn’t that person. Bottom line: her version of events made sense and was plausible. His didn’t, and wasn’t.

But everyone seemed to be too busy looking at him to notice.

---

On Monday, 2 October, I came back from taking Maisie and Tilly to school – Alex had not left the house since the first news item about her appeared – to find her speechlessly sat watching TV. Jonathan Day was beaming out of the screen in front of me, sat on a cosy sofa holding the hand of a simpering blonde, being interviewed by some stand-in male presenter I didn’t recognise.

‘What the hell is this?’ I exclaimed in shock to see Day animated and talking where I was used to a static picture.

‘Shhhh,’ Alex instructed, and I obediently fell silent, reaching for the TV remote to turn it up.

‘More and more people have contacted me telling me similar stories to my own,’ he was saying. His voice was accent-less and inoffensive; middle-class quinoa bland. ‘And that’s why I realised it was important to do the book.’

‘He’s writing a book?’ I said out loud, in disbelief. ‘About what?’

‘It’s really more of a manual with practical advice sections in it,’ he answered me himself. ‘Things like having a backup plan for when you find yourself in a situation you’re not comfortable with, and learning it’s OK to say no and how to say it. The pressures we face as young people like, every day, are crazy mad and parents genuinely don’t know how to help their kids with current problems.’

‘What sort of problems?’ interrupted the presenter.

Jonathan shrugged. ‘Being stalked on social media and groomed, just for a start – and that’s while we’re in our own bedrooms. I just hope that because I’m actually the same age as the people the book will be aimed at, and I’ve had direct experience of these issues, it will make everything more accessible and maybe it will make a difference. I really hope so.’

‘“Groomed”?’ I repeated. ‘You little fucker.’

‘Hmm,’ said the interviewer. ‘You’re not cashing in on the publicity surrounding a case that hasn’t even been determined yet? You say this story of yours has hit a nerve; that you were effectively stalked by your female GP and harassed, but you’ve no proof that any of this actually happened, have you?’

I had no idea who this wannabe Piers Morgan was, but I could have kissed him.

‘It’s very rare for victims of sexual abuse to lie about it.’ Day didn’t even blink. ‘The way you’ve just spoken to me is pretty much the number one reason most victims don’t come forward.’

‘But you’ve never alleged you were abused. In fact, quite the opposite; you’ve maintained very firmly that everything was consensual. So apart from a very pretty boy having sex with an older woman who just happened to be his GP, what’s the story here? Apart from you using “your experiences” to make a lot of money?’

‘Have you got a son?’ Day asked the presenter directly, who nodded. ‘Ok. If he came home and told you he’d had sex several times with an older woman who was in a position of trust and he didn’t feel comfortable about what had happened, that he felt a real sense of shame about it, would you tell him to man up, that he should be pleased for seeing some action and stick the stripes on his arm? Or would you listen to what he had to say with as much compassion as you would offer a daughter who came home and said the exact same thing to you?’

Jesus. He was good. I began to feel very afraid for Alex.

‘Look – I think if you’re going to conduct media interviews where you’re being paid money and doing a book for thousands of pounds, before there has been any kind of formal determination about what actually happened – and let’s remember it isn’t a trial because there’s no question anyone has done anything illegal here – people are entitled to ask you difficult questions.’ The Piers-bot turned to Jonathan’s girlfriend challengingly. ‘You’ve not once been tempted to chuck him seeing as he cheated on you, by his own admission?’

‘Of course not.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m really proud of Jonny for having the courage to speak out.’

‘Right – and you want to be a model yourself, don’t you?’ He dismissed her and turned back to Jonathan. ‘So to clarify, what would you say to anyone who accused you of cashing in on this story?’

‘Yes!’ I said, focusing intently. ‘What would you say, Jonathan?’

‘I’ve never wanted to make trouble,’ Jonathan replied earnestly. ‘I felt as if I had to speak out, otherwise people will keep abusing their positions of power and nothing will change. You’re right, everything that happened was legally consensual, but that doesn’t make it right. It was inappropriate. As I’ve said, I felt pressured on many occasions in a way I wasn’t comfortable with. I didn’t know how to stop it, and when I tried to walk away, she started appearing in my house out of nowhere. It was chilling, and—’

‘Can we turn this off now, please?’ Alex asked.

‘Hang on a minute.’ I held a hand up, trying to catch what had just been said.

She got up and quietly left the room.

‘I’m aware some people have judged me unfairly based on the fact I’ve done some modelling in the past. Should it make a difference what Cherry—’ he looked at his girlfriend ‘or I do for a living? Isn’t that as unacceptable as saying a woman should expect attention if she wears a short skirt?’

I hit live pause, suddenly unable to listen to another word myself, but the more I stared at his perfect, confident teenage face, full of the arrogance of a kid who didn’t know his arse from his elbow in terms of real-life problems and stresses and probably couldn’t care less about the damage he’d done to my family, the more I hated him.

He had fucked my wife and now he was fucking her over.

---

I went to find Alex. She was lying on our bed, in tears. I gathered her up as she sobbed properly. I felt disgusted with myself for bringing all of this down on my family. ‘No one is going to believe me,’ she cried into my chest. ‘Not with my record, and with him saying all this stuff all over the place.’

‘Of course they will.’

‘I’m a doctor because I want to help people. That’s all, and I’m good at it. I’m a good doctor, I care. I get worn down by it all, sometimes, but I’d never abuse my knowledge or position. I’m not the person they’re saying I am.’

‘Alex, look at me,’ I said fiercely. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong and you’ve nothing to hide.’

But hiding away was increasingly all she wanted to do. She would get the girls ready for school, I’d take them, then she’d go back to bed, emerging once I left to pick them up again in the afternoon. She’d do tea, baths and bed, then return to our bedroom herself. I did all of the shopping, pickups and drop offs, told my boss I might need to work at home for another couple of weeks and took the girls out on my own at the weekends to soft play and birthday parties. It was the least I could do, but by the time we hit two and a half weeks after the Days had confronted her in the surgery – in which she had not left the house once and was only speaking to Rachel and her mother, housebound herself while recovering from a hip operation – I was seriously worried. It wasn’t something that could continue on a practical basis for one, I needed to go back into London for meetings, but I was also concerned that Al was becoming full-on agoraphobic.

I didn’t know what else to do, and pretty much forced her to come with me on the morning school run the next morning, pointing out the more she withdrew, the guiltier she was making herself appear.

‘Everyone’s going to stare at me,’ she’d said as she pulled on the same jeans and jumper she’d worn the day before and looked at herself in our bedroom mirror, while Maisie and Tilly ran around excitedly upstairs in their uniforms before breakfast.

‘They won’t. Everyone knows what he said is complete bullshit.’

She didn’t say anything to that, just picked up the hairbrush and began to scrape her hair back into a ponytail. She hadn’t washed it and it looked a bit grim, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t care for me, but I wanted her to feel better about herself and not letting things slip was an important part of that. She didn’t put on any make-up either and gripped my hand tightly as we made our way into the playground, Maisie and Tilly running ahead, thrilled to have both of us doing the drop off.

She’d been right, of course, they had all stared. I tried to pretend I wasn’t noticing them looking, and instead smiled widely and waved hello at the parents in Maisie’s year group, like everything was totally normal, as we walked over to the nursery. Most of them were polite enough to smile back, but they all darted curious glances at Al as we passed. She’d very noticeably lost weight and kept her eyes down on the ground, not making eye contact with any one.

‘You need to look up,’ I said under my breath, ‘Hi, Paul!’ I called cheerily to another Dad I knew well enough to have gone out for a few pints with on several Dads’ nights out. He hesitated, glanced at Al and nodded a silent greeting before scurrying off. ‘Seriously, look up,’ I ordered my poor wife. ‘You’re acting like you did it.’

It was, of course, my own guilt that made me so hard on her. I couldn’t bear that what I’d done with Hannah could have led to this: my children skipping along unawares that all of their friends’ parents were looking at their mother like she was at best a slut and at worst some sort of predator.

We walked into the nursery and the busy hum of chatter noticeably stilled. Several of the teachers glanced over curiously, and poor little Tilly said proudly: ‘my mummy and daddy are taking me today!’ My heart almost broke.

‘Aren’t you a lucky girl, Tilly?’ said one of them, kindly, but I felt Al’s grip on my hand tighten, and she practically dragged me into the cloakroom out of the sight of prying eyes.

‘Come on then, Tilly – let’s get your coat off,’ I said, letting go of Alex and starting to undo the zip.

‘I’ll put her water bottle in the box,’ Maisie said helpfully, and disappeared back into the main room with it.

Alex just stood there watching and then jumped slightly as Melissa appeared in the doorway with Zach. I watched both women eye each other, and Al cleared her throat and said bravely: ‘Hey Mel.’

I smiled encouragingly and waited for Melissa to say something back, but she simply stepped past Al like she wasn’t there.

‘Let’s take your coat off, Zack!’ she said cheerily.

I saw Alex frown in confusion and then glance at me.

‘That’s it, hang it on the hook, well done!’ Melissa grinned at Zack. ‘Come on then! Now, let’s go and see who’s here!’

She simply walked past us as if we weren’t there. I watched my wife’s eyes fill with tears and I went to march out after Melissa, but Al caught my sleeve.

‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s just go.’

We kissed Tilly goodbye and walked Maisie to her classroom. There was a good deal of chatter going on because so many people were there, but somehow that made it easier for Alex to sink into the background and not need to say anything. I knew she’d be devastated by what Melissa had done. Understandably so. I was livid with the short-sighted ignorance of the woman. Whatever the hell happened to innocent until proven guilty?

‘Let’s go and get a coffee,’ I suggested afterwards, like everything was normal, as we got back to the car.

‘Don’t you need to go home and start work?’

‘I’ve got another half an hour. It’s fine. Come on.’ I took her hand and led her off before she could protest any more.

I spotted the photographer when we were coming out of the coffee shop. At first, I was stupid enough to think he was capturing the building behind us, and even turned to see what had caught his attention, but then I realised it was us he was focused on.

‘Oi!’ I shouted, from across the street, but he didn’t even bother to put it down, just calmly took another snap of us, then ambled off.

Alex got straight back into bed the second we got home. I texted Rachel to ask her if she could possibly come and see her at lunchtime, but when she arrived, Al refused to see her, saying she felt as if she might be coming down with flu.

‘I’m really concerned,’ I admitted quietly, on the doorstep. ‘She’s such a strong person but because of everything that she’s been through already over the last few weeks…’ I wasn’t prepared to gloss over what I’d done or try to discount it, and I knew without doubt Al would have told Rachel everything anyway. ‘I’m terrified she’s heading for some sort of proper breakdown.’

‘How does it work, going to see a GP when you are a GP?’ Rachel said quietly, glancing up the stairs.

‘Doctors don’t tend to tell people if they’re struggling themselves. Mentally I mean. They just keep their heads down in case they’re judged. Plus, technically, if they have mental health issues they’re meant to notify the GMC and are investigated under the same procedures as misconduct.’

‘God, really?’ Rachel looked disgusted. ‘No wonder it’s a taboo subject. She’s not – suicidal or anything?’

‘No, no.’ I shook my head emphatically. ‘But she’s very, very low. And not sleeping at all. I think that’s part of the problem too; she’s somehow managed to reset her natural body clock. She can’t sleep at night and catches up by dozing during the day, just so she can basically function, but then isn’t tired enough to sleep at bedtime and is too anxious anyway. It’s a vicious cycle.’

Rachel sighed. ‘It sounds like she needs something to break this new pattern.’

‘I thought that as well, so we took the kids to school together this morning and one of the mothers completely blanked her, then on our way back to the car, someone took a photo of her.’

‘Oh God!’ Rachel exclaimed. ‘That’s horrible. The poor thing.’

‘He on the other hand, seems to be enjoying his moment very much.’

Perhaps it was the naked hatred in my voice, but Rachel shifted uncomfortably, and I realised I was in danger of overstepping the mark.

‘Yes, I saw him in another online piece,’ she said. ‘He’s got a very good publicist, whoever they are. But what I really meant is it sounds like Al needs something like sleeping pills to help break this new sleep cycle.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I felt a bit stupid. ‘Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll see if I can persuade her.’

‘I know her mum isn’t able to come down and help, but is there any mileage in your parents coming to stay, to give a bit of a practical hand?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve asked Al that, but she doesn’t want them in the house right now.’

Rachel nodded diplomatically. We both knew Al suffered my parents under duress, finding my mother’s insistence on ironing all of my shirts as well as dusting, baking and generally reorganising, stressful at the best of times.

‘Maybe just this once it needs someone to take over for a bit though?’ Rachel said. ‘What about a mother’s help or something? There have got to be loads of agencies who supply people at short notice.’

‘That’s a good idea. I guess it’s no different than if she was recovering from an op, or something. Perhaps that’s how I should treat it. And I’ll definitely see what I can sort about the sleeping pills. Thanks, Rachel. And sorry she didn’t actually let you see her.’

‘It’s fine,’ Rachel assured me as I opened the front door again for her. ‘Hopefully all of the press stuff will start to settle back down in a couple of days, which will help a lot. Are you all right?’ she added, and I paused, surprised. ‘Er, yeah? I think so, thanks.’

‘You’ve got someone you can talk to?’

I thought about my university mates for a moment. I’d had a couple of texts offering an ear if I needed it. Workmates were obviously out. Ditto the school dads WhatsApp group – this was all too private for that. Karl, my oldest schoolfriend and best man would fit the bill, but I couldn’t actually remember the last time we’d spoken. He also now lived about two hundred miles away, and I hadn’t seen him since before Tilly was born… How would I even start that conversation? ‘Yes, I have,’ I said, because it was easier.

‘Good.’ She looked relieved. ‘And remember; today’s news, tomorrow’s fish and chip papers.’

---

I wish she’d been right about that, but unfortunately two things happened. Firstly, the picture of Al coming out of the coffee shop appeared. It was an unflattering shot of her, holding her takeout cup and seeming to frown at the photographer in disapproval. In fact, she hadn’t been wearing her glasses – she’s short-sighted – and was just peering over in confusion. They’d also cropped me out of the photo completely, making it look as if Al was out on her own, having a nice relaxing time of it, while suspended on full pay funded by the taxpayer. What a lovely reward for being brave enough to finally leave the house and face everyone in the playground. Alex looked at it silently – she appeared to have run out of tears – and I was gutted for her.

Then the Harvey Weinstein story broke on 5 October.

Immediately, everyone began talking about how it was a watershed moment, and that this was going to change the way women responded to sexual abuse forever.

The following day Jonathan Day uploaded a new vlog to his new YouTube channel:

‘But you are a liar,’ said a voice over my shoulder.

I jumped, not realising Alex was stood behind me as I watched it on my laptop over my lunch. I paused it quickly. ‘Hey! You’re up! Fancy something to eat? I could make you some pasta? Or maybe a sandwich? Talking of food, shall we get a Friday night curry later, and watch a movie?’

She stared at the screen. ‘How does he live with himself, exploiting other people’s genuine suffering? Knowing everything he says, he’s made up? I hate him so much.’ She darted down and inspected the screen. ‘Twenty thousand views? Are you fucking kidding me?’

‘It’s all going to die down,’ I reassured her. ‘The spotlight will move off him now. You’ve just got to hang on in there.’

‘I wish he’d die.’

She said it so vehemently I glanced up at her in surprise. There was a moment of silence and then I cleared my throat and said: ‘I’ve arranged for an agency girl to come over to meet Maisie and Tilly after school, just to have a chat with me about helping us out next week, I hope that’s OK?’

But Alex didn’t seem to hear what I’d said. She was fixated on Jonathan Day’s face, paused, with the play button under him. She reached out and clicked it so he sprang back into life.

‘Argh!’ Alex shrieked. Before I realised what was happening, she reached out and grabbed my mug of tea and hurled it at the screen as hard as she could. It shattered instantly as the whole lid almost rebounded with the impact. The hot tea arced up and splashed over the table into the keyboard and began to drip on the floor as the mug rolled off the edge and fell to the ground, smashing instantly.

‘Alex!’ I said incredulously. ‘Stop!’

But she didn’t. She reached out and shoved the laptop sideways off the table, and as the whole thing somehow landed on the floor right side up, she started kicking the screen with the side of her bare foot, as she stepped in among the shards of broken china on the other one.

‘What are you doing?’ I shouted. ‘You’ll hurt yourself. It’s glass, Alex!’

I reached out and tried to pull her off, but she half shook free and, still screaming, tried to bend down, reaching out her fingers, attempting to pick up the screen. Terrified she was going to manage it and then throw it through the kitchen window, or hurl it at the wall, I grabbed her round the waist and with all my strength lifted her completely off the ground, away from it all. I was shocked to realise how comparatively easy it was – how light she’d become, how thin her frame felt beneath her baggy T-shirt, jumper and pyjama bottoms.

She kicked and thrashed about wildly, hammering her fists on my clasped hands, but just as quickly as it had started, she ran out of energy; her screams turned into desperate wracking sobs, and she leant back first against my shoulder, turning her face into my neck, and went completely limp. I half staggered over to the kid’s sofa in the playroom part of the room, more or less completely carrying her, and we collapsed down as I held her tightly.

‘This is so unfair!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t do it! I got drunk, I had a one-night stand. That’s all, and I’ve lost everything!’

‘No, you haven’t. It just feels like that.’

‘Everyone’s acting like I’m a dangerous, obsessive sex-offender.’

‘No, no they’re not.’ I stroked her hair, and rocked her like I would Maisie or Tilly.

‘Then where are all of my friends? Who has come to see me, or called me, apart from Rachel and David? They’ve sent me emojis or texts and that’s it. They’ve ticked the box without actually having to talk to me. Who has offered me actual support? They all looked and whispered at school or ignored me completely. I have told the truth about everything. I KNOW the injury he first came to see me with was made slightly more unusual given he’s type 1 diabetic and perhaps I should have been able to remember him on first sight in the club, but I just didn’t! I was hammered. I wouldn’t have noticed him as being good-looking when he came to see me about his leg. He was a schoolboy! Even if George Clooney had walked in for an appointment I wouldn’t have taken any notice, because I’m too fucking tired! I see someone pretty much every ten minutes of every working day I’m there. Yes, that’s a lot of people with a lot of very ordinary problems, but it’s also a lot of really weird ones too, kids with bizarre things they’ve shoved up their noses and in their ears, hideous inflammations or cysts people have been too embarrassed to come and get checked out, lumps they’ve tried to cut out of themselves. A kid with an AstroTurf burn just isn’t that memorable. That probably offends his precious little mummy’s boy ego, but it’s true. I didn’t notice him. Maybe that’s even part of what’s pissed him off so much. He’s evil. He doesn’t care about ruining us, what this will do to the girls or you, never mind me. You didn’t see him in the car park when he threatened me unless I slept with him again – he was totally comfortable saying it, like it was no big deal at all. And now all of this other stuff is in the news and such a hot topic he’ll use that and feed off it. In this climate, no one will dare suggest he might be lying, and the GMC will be desperate to show how well they handle sex allegations, and they’ll make an example of me. I’ll get struck off and it’s so, so unfair. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

She began to weep, finally burnt out after her lengthy tirade, and as she fell silent, I carried on stroking her hair and making calm soothing shhhh-ing noises, while trying to hide my fear, because I just hadn’t realised the relentless extent to which she was chasing every dark detail round and round in her mind, like tracking a flock of ever-circling birds. It was making her ill – really ill. I could see that now.

‘Sweetheart, let’s take you up to bed. You’re exhausted. Would you mind if I called David to come and have a look at you? I know you won’t want to go and see anyone formally, but I’m sure he’d be happy to pop round as a friend. Maybe we could ask him about the sleep issues you’ve been having?’

‘You really wouldn’t mind?’ she asked, so quickly that I wondered instantly if that’s what she’d been hoping I’d say. ‘I know you don’t like him, but he’s offered to help when I need it – and I do.’

‘Of course I don’t,’ I said. The truth was, I wasn’t happy about it. While he’s never been anything but respectful to me, I’m not stupid and I know how he feels about my wife. You just do when someone fancies your other half, it’s instinctive. But, I wanted Alex to get some proper help and feel like there was someone else on her side other than me, far more than I cared about my own feelings. ‘You go up and I’ll call him now, if you give me your phone?’

‘It’s OK. Surgery won’t be finishing for another five minutes. I’ll do it then.’ She sighed and leant her forehead on the side of my temple for a moment. ‘Thank you.’

‘You don’t have to thank me for anything,’ I said quietly as she got to her feet stiffly and looked at the screen on the floor by the table.

‘I’m so sorry I did that.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said quickly, ‘I’ll sort it. At least it wasn’t my work one; I was just messing around on mine over lunch. Go on, you go up and I’ll bring you a sandwich in a bit.’

She nodded and left the room. I waited until I heard the creak on the top stair, then the click of our bedroom door and finally the groan of the ceiling as above my head she walked over to the bed and climbed back in. I exhaled heavily, got to my feet and walked the few steps over to the table, staring down at the mess. I have never, in all the time I’ve known her, seen her lose control like that. Her rage was extraordinary and terrifying. I didn’t recognise her as my usually calm and controlled wife.

I looked at the now white screen with what looked like a massive black ink spot pooling beneath a gunshot in the glass. Jonathan Day had been successfully silenced and was gone.