After a while, he lay down next to her.

“You know I love you,” he said at last. “You know you’re special to me.”

She didn’t answer.

He tried holding her for a while, but it didn’t last. Eventually he got up, went round to her side of the bed, picked up her mobile phone from the bedside table. Tried to open it. “Babe, what’s the password?”

She didn’t answer.

“Seriously?” he hissed. “Seriously?”

Threw the phone down on the bed beside her, marched away.

The estate agents sent her a “get well soon” card.

A day later, Graham called, asked when she’d be back. “There’s a lot to do, you see, a very exciting time in the market.”

Jiannis went out feasting, dining, golfing, drinking, drugging with his friends, and came home sober, calm, perfect, with shit that stank of vodka and piri-piri chicken.

Karen called. “Darling, you know you can come home any time . . . ”

“I’m fine, Mum.”

“Of course you are, dear. It’s just a mother’s prerogative to worry. But I know you’re fine. I know you’ll cope.”

It occurred to Harmony that she should look up “dopamine withdrawal”, but it seemed hard – really hard – to do it. She could itemise the tasks involved one at a time, even imagine herself achieving them, but whenever she went to move her arm towards her phone it seemed futile, wearisome. So she lay, facing the wall, and time rolled by.

“I’m going to – no, I’m going to – I’m not going until I’ve . . . ”

Voices raised from the door. Jiannis actually starting to shout; it’s been a while since he’s shouted, or maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s talking at his ordinary level and she just hasn’t heard him speak for a while; these things are hard to measure.

“Get out of my flat. Get out of my fucking . . . ”

Jazzy burst into the bedroom, perfume, mascara, crimson lips, sex in a little black dress, fire and light and perfection in high heels, took one look at Harmony and exclaimed, “Fuck’s sake, what have you fucking done?”

Jiannis couldn’t get rid of Jazzy without physically hurting her.

Touch me, she said, and I’ll call the police.

“It’s OK,” mumbled Harmony from where she lay. “It’s OK.”

“I’m going out,” snarled Jiannis, snatching his coat from the back of the white leather chair by the unused, untouched make-up table. “Don’t stay up!”

The door slammed hard enough to rock the monochrome art photos on the wall, all architect’s lines, hard light and unknown torsos of beautiful women. They’d come with the flat; they were part of the cohesive aesthetic that was so . . . was so . . .

Harmony couldn’t remember what it was. Wasn’t sure if she cared.

Jazzy kneeled down by the side of the bed and stared at Harmony for a long while. There was a thing in the older woman’s face that might have almost been sympathy, or perhaps more likely pity. Pity for the broken woman. Pity for a little, lesser thing.