Nobody thought she was brave. Nobody admired her for not being chicken. She was just Lily, the slag, a girl with a cock in her mouth. It made her stomach go into knots even to think about it. She had swigged more Jack Daniel’s and told them all to go to hell.

Meet me at McDonald’s Tottenham Court Road.

By then her mother had changed the locks to her house. She couldn’t take money from her purse any more. They had blocked her access to her savings account.

I haven’t got anything else.

Do you think I’m a mug, Little Rich Girl?

Her mother had never liked the Mappin & Webb earrings. Lily had hoped she wouldn’t even notice they were gone. She had made fake cooing faces at Fuckface Francis when he gave them to her, but she had muttered afterwards that she really didn’t understand why he’d bought her heart-shaped diamonds when everybody knew they were common, and a pendant shape was far better against her bone structure.

Peter had looked at the glittering earrings as if she had handed him small change, then tucked them into his pocket. He had been eating a Big Mac and there was mayonnaise in the corner of his mouth. She felt nauseous every time she saw him.

‘Want to come and meet my mates?’

‘No.’

‘Want a drink?’

She shook her head. ‘That’s it. That’s the last thing. Those earrings are worth thousands.’

He had pulled a face. ‘I want cash next time. Proper cash. I know where you live, Lily. I know you got it.’

She felt as if she would never be free of him. He texted her at odd hours, waking her up, keeping her from sleep. That picture, again and again. She saw it in negative, burned onto her retinas. She stopped going to school. She got drunk with strangers, went out clubbing long after she really wanted to. Anything not to be alone with her thoughts and the relentless ping of her phone. She had moved to where he couldn’t find her and he had found her, parking his car for hours outside Louisa’s flat, a silent message. She even thought, a few times, about telling Louisa. But what could Louisa do? Half the time she was like a one-woman disaster area herself. So Lily’s mouth would open and nothing would come out, then Louisa would start rattling on about meeting her grandmother or whether she had eaten something and she had realized she was on her own.

Sometimes Lily lay awake and thought about what it would have been like if her dad had been there. She could picture him in her head. He would have walked outside, grabbed Peter by his neck and told him never to come near his little girl again. He would have put his arms around her and told her it was all okay, that she was safe.

Except he wouldn’t. Because he was just an angry quadriplegic who hadn’t even wanted to be alive. And he would have looked at the pictures and been disgusted.

She couldn’t blame him.

The last time, when she’d had nothing to bring him, he had shouted at her on a pavement behind Carnaby Street, calling her worthless, a whore, a stupid little skank. He had pulled up in his car and she had drunk two double whiskies because she was afraid to see him. When he’d started shouting at her and saying she was lying, she had started to cry.

‘Louisa’s chucked me out. My mum’s chucked me out. I don’t have anything.’

People hurried past, their eyes averted. Nobody stopped. Nobody said anything, because a man shouting at a drunk girl in Soho on a Friday night was nothing out of the ordinary. Peter swore, and turned on his heel, as if he was leaving, except she knew he wouldn’t. And then the big black car had stopped in the middle of the street and reversed, its white lights glowing. The electric window hummed its way down. ‘Lily?’

It took her a few seconds to recognize him. Mr Garside from her stepfather’s business. His boss? A partner? He looked at her, and then at Peter. ‘Are you all right?’

She glanced at Peter, then nodded.

He didn’t believe her. She could tell. He had pulled over to the side of the road, in front of Peter’s car, and walked across slowly in his dark suit. He had an air of authority, like nothing was going to faze him. She remembered, randomly, her mother talking about him having a helicopter. ‘Do you need a ride home, Lily?’

Peter lifted his hand with the phone in it, just an inch. Just so she knew. And she opened her mouth and it came out. ‘He has a bad picture of me on his phone and he’s threatening to show it to everyone and he wants money and I don’t have any left. I’ve given him what I can and I just don’t have anything left. Please help me.’

Peter’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected that. But she didn’t care what happened. She just felt desperate, and tired, and she didn’t want to carry all this by herself any more.

Mr Garside regarded Peter for a moment. Peter stiffened his shoulders and straightened, as if he were considering whether to run for his car.

‘Is this true?’ Mr Garside said.

‘It’s not a crime to have pictures of girls on your phone.’ Peter smirked, an act of bravado.

‘I’m well aware of that. It is, however, a crime to use them to extort money.’ Mr Garside’s voice was low and calm, as if it were perfectly reasonable to be discussing someone’s naked pictures in the middle of the street. He moved his hand to his inside pocket. ‘So what will it take to make you go away?’

‘What?’

‘Your phone. How much do you want for it?’