And here they come, all the words, the cascade of stupid sounds that Karen has been saving up for so long, they’re finally out and maybe it’s God, maybe she heard something in church that made her think this might be a good idea, because here are all the phrases that Harmony has been waiting for from the second, from the very moment she came home.

“ . . . and if you believe in yourself, and value yourself, then maybe it doesn’t matter if other people think you’re beautiful, and I always think the most beautiful people are just the ones who are confident, who really know themselves . . . ”

Here is the judgement, the judgement she’s been waiting for, the great gush of homely fortune-cookie wisdom that doesn’t mean shit in the real world, that hasn’t ever left fucking Bracknell, that thinks a trip to Kingston is the height of adventure.

“ . . . if you think about it, you’re actually very lucky. You’ve got brains, you’ve got a lot of really good experience, you could try for jobs, pick yourself up, and of course you’re always welcome here – I really love having you around – really love you! – but you could make so much of yourself without this . . . this fashion nonsense getting in the way, without . . . ”

Harmony Meads, being fucked by Jarek, do you have upgrades, do you have Elevation, when you get fucked people are like that was the greatest thing ever, babe, baby, give me your phone, you’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever . . .

“I mean, can’t you just be happy about who you are?”

Harmony was on her feet.

Karen whimpering behind her, all the little hollow sounds: “Oh darling, dearest, I didn’t mean to make you . . . I just thought it was worth saying the . . . And you’re so precious to me I love you so much it’s . . . ”

She picked a random direction and walked away, tears brimming around the rims of her stupid, ugly, beady eyes with their saggy lids and bruised, tired grey-brown smears, although who knows what colour they really are she hasn’t seen colour for so fucking long the money and the debt it just keeps on climbing; there’s nothing she can ever do that will ever change any of this fucking shit, not while she’s in Bracknell, not while she’s ugly and fat and . . .

Karen tries to scramble after her.

Can’t move as fast with only one stick: she’s not done her power walking warm-ups.

Breathless, calling her name, but not too loud, because there are the fishermen around and she doesn’t want to cause a scene.

If Harmony looked back, she might see her mother cry.

But probably not. Crying didn’t help anyone.

Harmony walked.

She didn’t care where, or if she went in circles, or when it started to rain, or that her legs ached or that people were staring at her. She didn’t even recognise the pub in Martin’s Heron when she found it, but it was a pub, and it probably stank of beer and old men with nowhere else to go and kids who’d just waste their lives pulling pints for £5.40 an hour and toilets with sticky paper on the floor and graffiti on the wall written by idiots who thought they were in love, and it was perfect.