On the right of the photograph is a bookcase full of titles such as Little Women and Jill and the Perfect Pony. My photographer seems to have captured the final moments of childhood. He came to live with us when I was 12 and he was 18.
He had been "getting into trouble" in his home town and my father thought that he would have a better chance in our nice middle-class suburb.
Left to my own devices I would probably have developed a more healthy crush on somebody new. John never told me that she knew, but I do remember him saying that we had to "stop".
I was so hysterical I couldn't speak without my words being punctuated with sobs.
But I also knew that to get what I wanted I had to pretend I didn't want it.
So by 13 I had added being a manipulative bitch and an accomplished flirt to my list of new-found talents. My mother did once try to tell my father about what was going on.
My face is still round with puppy fat, but I'm trying to compensate by smothering myself in make-up and gazing "seductively" at the camera.
I still have some of the pictures that my half-brother took.
They are mostly shots of me at 15 or 16, adopting poses which are a bizarre cross between Wuthering Heights and Page Three.
He told me rude jokes and discussed politics with me. I thought he was the most amazing, exciting, fascinating person that I had ever met. " Soon the presents came attached with a request for a hug. She even caught us leaping away from each other when she came home unexpectedly one day.
Basically, I had a massive schoolgirl crush on my new, exotic big brother. In the last few years she has told me that after that she took John down the pub and told him to stay away from me or else she would tell my father, who would beat the shit out of him.
Apparently he laughed at her and said that John was just "very fond" of me. It was always John who made the physical demands and this is one that he never made.