She hung up, and for the first time in a while cried, and it made her ugly and weak.

She reported him to Facebook.

Facebook sent an automatically generated response saying they’d look into it. She couldn’t reach anyone human to talk about it.

Oh WOW, I didn’t know they let you post pictures like this . . .

Mate, you should sell this stuff, seriously, this is gold.

I’d do that ass, yes I would.

Jazzy came to her, when the boys started avoiding her gaze.

“Sweetheart, Harmony, seriously. Girl to girl, heart to heart – everyone’s seen them and you need to get him to take those fucking photos down.”

Harmony needed a drink, and her £28 in hand at the end of the month vanished.

She met Jiannis for a cup of coffee. She insisted on it being a public place.

“Jesus, Harmony, I don’t know why you’re so stiff about this!”

They met on the South Bank, at the concert hall, while below children galloped through purple light and blue spinning splotches of colour, and the river reflected shards of sodium, neon and LED red off spinning black waters.

She was shaking when she arrived, and Jazzy came along, sitting one floor up, back turned to them, pretending to read a book, left hand locked around her mobile phone.

Jiannis pulled his chair too close to hers, grabbed her hand between his and whispered, “Babe, I love you. You know I love you; you can feel it. I know you can.”

“I just want it to stop.”

“I’m nothing without you. I’m going to die without you. Come home. You need to come home. I’ll look after you. I’ll buy whatever you want.”

“No. I want you to take the photos down. I’ve spoken to a lawyer.”

“I only posted them because I’m proud of you, of who you were, of how beautiful you used to be. I’m just proud.”

“You’re not,” she snapped. “You controlled my body and my world. You’re not proud. I want them gone.”

He leaned back, releasing her hand, flinging it back into her lap, lips curling. There were tears in his eyes, and she realised with a moment of sheer, mind-boggled bewilderment, that he meant it. That he knew himself to the be the victim. That he knew she was wrong. That even if tomorrow he met the next most beautiful woman in the world and married her and was happy for ever after, he would still look back on this moment, this second in time, and know that everything he said was true and absolute, unchanging as the mountain high.

He didn’t shout, except once, when he threatened to kill himself and roared that she was an unfeeling bitch.

Then people turned to stare, and Jazzy left her seat on the floor above to come to the balcony’s edge, peering down, face white and teeth bared. That seemed to make Jiannis feel better, as the shame of staring, accusing eyes on Harmony’s face made her burn – how profoundly crimson her skin blazed as her body adjusted to a life without Control My Blush – and, sitting back down again, he snapped, “Looking after you was very expensive. I spent a lot of time and money on you.”