There had been choices to make, of course. The Meads women were good at making difficult decisions. The necessary upgrades would have been financially crippling; there would never have been any chance of Harmony paying off her debt or achieving anything with her life, even if they’d taken the minimum package. Whereas paying for Roman to come and visit Karen three times a week could just about be covered by Karen’s pension and disability allowance, if they were careful. He was a nice man. He seemed perfectly happy to talk inanely at Karen, even if she didn’t seem to understand. Sometimes he put Karen in her wheelchair and tootled round the neighbourhood, rattling over loose flagstones and huffing and puffing up the hill to the roundabout. Or he parked her in front of the TV in the downstairs living room, which they’d converted to a bedroom so she didn’t have to do the stairs.

When Karen wanted to pee, she could usually make it to the toilet by herself, shuffling and huffing on her Zimmer frame, left leg dragging hard behind her. Sometimes she’d get stuck there, or drift off to sleep on the bog, and Harmony would find her when she got home, half-sagged into the bowl, knees sticking up and chin drooping down. Then she’d tut and sigh and help her back up, and plonk her down in front of the TV again with some microwaved spaghetti hoops, and let her do her thing.

Karen didn’t seem to mind.

She wasn’t a complainer.

This is Harmony Meads, thirty-two years old, applying for a job at the estate agents in Ascot.

She should get it. She’s the strongest candidate of anyone there. She’s a good saleswoman, a confident and funny personality, and she really knows her stuff. The other candidates are just kids, straight out of college. She’s got drive, experience, personality. She’d be ideal. When people ask her where she gets her positivity, she exclaims that the colour red and the smell of coffee in the morning are gifts to be savoured, and everyone nods and smiles like they understand what she means, and has just said a very important thing.

This is Harmony Meads, staring at herself in the mirror.

She has £50 a month spare if she’s very, very careful with her money. More if she gets the job.

Downstairs, Karen Meads goes, “Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . ” and her voice is language without meaning, just a movement of audible air.

Harmony strips off in front of the mirror and examines her body. She isn’t skinny, no, but isn’t anything extraordinary or grotesque. The secret is to be happy with yourself, with who you are – to find your inner confidence and beauty.

Her arse, though – her arse is a bit much, and it’s got these weird stretch marks on it now, like tiger stripes, and the texture of damp goats’ cheese. One day she’ll meet someone who loves this backside, but until then she’s got a career to fulfil, opportunities to grasp. There is a fire and she intends to start it; she intends to make something of herself again, wiser, enlightened by her past.