“What do you want?” she asked, standing in the kitchen door in the bright pink onesie in which she went on power walks with the over-sixties group, her only concession to luxury the diamond wedding ring she’d worn since the day they’d said their vows, and which she’d wear until the day she died and joined her man in heaven. Harmony’s dad had spent most of his savings on this ring, Karen whispered, and when she found out she’d been so angry at the stupid man. But even now, scrimping by, coping, she’d never been tempted to sell it. Not once. Not ever.

Gently curling hair the colour of imminent autumn rain, the same green eyes as her daughter, Karen was beginning to shrink, but not to stoop. At night she slept in a hairnet, and before she pissed in the morning she put on mascara and checked her hormone levels and blood pressure on the computer. She didn’t like syncing her nanos to her mobile phone; what if someone pinched it while she was out? What then?

“You know I’m very happy for you to be here,” added Karen as Harmony paused to digest the layers within her question. “It’s so nice having the time with you; you’re always welcome. It’s nice for a mother to help out.”

“I can pay for it, Mum,” Harmony sighed. “I’ll be fine.”

Harmony Meads was also a coper.

When her sexual health package came up for renewal, Harmony thought for a long time about going back to the basics. If she paid for only the minimum of immunities – colds, flus, the nasty stuff like pneumonia and measles – and saved carefully, she could look at renting her own place away from the endless semi-detached backstreets of Bracknell, away from the yellow-brick houses and white porches, trimmed hedges and winding flagstone alleys where direction lost all meaning.

If she rented, of course, she’d never have the money for a deposit on a place of her own, so in the end, she chose to keep the full package, including Take Control, and stay with her mum. Besides, she liked having a say over when her periods happened, if they happened, and being able to disable the worst of the cramps.

“I can pay some rent, Mum!” she exclaimed in the high voice of the truly hopeful, truly pained, and curled inside with relief when Karen replied:

“Oh no, of course not, I won’t hear of it! I mean, we’re not living like queens are we, dear, but we’re fine, and it’s very nice having someone else in the house. Now, what would you like when you come back for supper? Macaroni cheese or carbonara?”

Her mum was a feeder, and to make matters worse, a good cook, as long as what she cooked involved pasta or cheese.

Slowly, a little squelchy fold of flesh at a time, Harmony began to put on weight. She realised it was happening, would raise her knees to her chin and see flesh rippled across her belly, pinch at her sides and bum in disgust. She joined a local jogging group but was horrified to discover it was also mostly women over the age of sixty, some of whom had more stamina than she did. She quit, and went to the local leisure centre instead, but it was hard, after ten hours at work, to get home, change clothes and go out again for her £7.50 spin class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and even though her mum bought her three months’ membership for Christmas, she was often too tired to do much, in mind if not in body, and nothing seemed to make much of a difference anyway.