When she was at 51kg of perfect, honed muscle – nothing too flashy, but defined enough to declare that here was a woman who valued her body, herself, comfortable in her skin and her identity – Harmony started applying for jobs again, including full body pictures of herself in a smart, sleeveless, figure-hugging dress suit, revealing the tone in her arms and strength in her shoulders.

The interviews started coming in almost immediately.

“Of course, with your sales experience you understand that . . . ”

“Our employees embody our brand.”

“Really respect your positive attitude.”

She took the job at the estate agent in Epsom for its go-get-’em vibe, its promise of excellent returns, and superb health insurance package.

Chapter 9

Twenty-nine years old, Harmony Meads finally hit 82kg three months after the move to the Enfield estate agents. She weighed herself in the morning; she weighed herself in the afternoon. She shifted her weight forward; she shifted her weight back. Nothing could change the relentless conclusion of the bathroom scales. Nothing could keep her from the truth that she was fat.

One week later, her debt to Fullife for unpaid medical services hit £1000, and to encourage swift repayment while still supporting essential medical services, they cut off her sense of smell.

These are the smells that Harmony Meads cannot experience as she roams through London with her head turned down towards the grey, glistening pavement.

Fish and chips. Greasy chicken at 3 a.m. as your stomach rumbles. Boiling pasta in the pan when you come home from work. Blue cheese on a wooden plate; cheddar cheese in the sandwich as you peel back the foil. Too much chilli in the soup, an assault that burns on the way in, burns on the way out. Hot lamb shredded by the man on the market stall, meat and heat, curry powder, mango chutney, coriander and cumin, fresh coffee at 8 a.m., tea at 1 p.m., that first whiff of wine when the cork comes off, tomato soup when you feel low, roses in bloom, lavender, a friend’s perfume, a stranger’s scent as they lean in close.

The gas, when you forget you’ve left it on in the kitchen.

Toast, as it burns.

Microwave meals turning to stone.

Carbonised smoke pouring out of the oven.

Mould in the bathroom.

Mint toothpaste.

Your own skin, freshly washed in lemon gel, just a slime you rub between your fingers, meaningless and ugly without its scent.

Sheets, unchanged on the bed.

The state of your own toilet.

The cat shit you step in as you come home, treading it all over the carpet.

The weather before it changes.

The smell after rain, when all things come back to life.

Chapter 10

“You are in a queue. Your call is important to us . . . ”

“Hi, my nanos are . . . I can’t smell anything.”

“Ms Meads, as I believe has been explained to you, your current owing balance is now in excess of £800 and there is a penalty of £300 for late payment to Fullife and under these circumstances we are authorised to shut down non-essential systems for . . . ”