Written to shock, this succeeds from the very first page, describing a sex act for which a young woman has paid a prostitute. These episodes or ones very like it occur frequently in this novel and Walsh cannot seem to help pushing her sexual fantasies into our faces at any opportunity. These episodes, raw and roughly sketched in are often the opposite of erotic and sometimes quite funny. But don't read this book if you're not ready to be gobsmacked - it is this writer's mission to make sure you are well acquainted with female on female sexuality.
Nothing wrong with that, if it's your thing, and nothing wrong if you want to fill your first novel with the idea that it all has to take place in squalor, between drug binges and the heavy symbolism of lost innocence in a lost city (well, Liverpool anyway). The book is also, touchingly, about friendship. Millie and Jamie are friends and don't fancy each other, but meet up for drugs and nightclubbing forays because they're - like - soul-mates without desire for each other but with a bond stronger than sex. You might see this as far-fetched, but this, and Millie's relationship with her middle-class businessman father, provides the novel with some hope for redemption - there is little else of human nature beyond the basic in this book. If you concentrate on the writing and not on the ego-driven sex factor, Helen Walsh is not a bad writer. Don't ask me about plot though, I couldn't discern one.
If your main reason for writing a book is to be the wildest child in a small corner of literary anomie and cultural myth then this kind of gothic, transgressive, sink-hole nihilism will suffice. This is throwaway stuff however, from the other end of the spectrum and you will not read much here that says anything lasting or meaningful about human relationships. Walsh is no Rimbaud.