Hail, Holy Queen

A little less conversation, a little more action? Remembering that the Christmas holiday is as good as time as any for a party, for a walk, for a smooch.

Silver Bells  © Billy London


“Oh come on!” Karim closed his eyes tightly and hoped that when he opened them his aunt wouldn’t be heading in his direction.

“Hello bite!” She called.

He forced a grin to his face. Nothing, nothing about this entire rigmarole made him feel better. Christmas meant little than nothing to him, except a closed office, no ties and Warcraft on twenty four hours. So desperate for a break that didn’t involve fending off the female members of his family who wanted to nail him down so badly it enraged him. He’d tried marriage and it had been a disaster. His wife had been more interested in bleaching her skin and spending money in Selfridges than settling into his family. His father clocked Ayesha for the shallow creature she truly was, beneath the expensive makeup and silk hijabs.

The talaq couldn’t come fast enough and he seemed to be back home  his old bedroom staring up at the stars his mother painted on his ceiling when he was five. “Dream of beautiful things,” she whispered to him every night. He missed her terribly. More than that he missed her way of charmingly deflecting the Auntie Delegation.

Pakoras to hand, Aunt Bena beaded inside. “You should go in as well, Karim. Your bride to be is just in that car.”

Really? He though, his eyebrows lifting with interest. Not that it was a done thing, but he really wanted to talk to this sacrificial lamb in person before she lost herself on the altar of marriage.
“Do you know how many girls I was introduced to before I met your mother?” His father demanded, fed up of Karim’s grumbling. “Fifty six. Fifty. Six. So calm down and embrace your own culture. You did it your way and look what happened.”

Making his way to a silver Mercedes, Karim knocked on the window. He saw her hair, uncovered first. She had cropped hair, dark plum waves sculpting her scalp, blending into her deep skin. He caught the expression of her companion who shrieked. She turned first, not lifting her hijab into place before she grinned at him. She pointed to her lap, mouthing “Christmas cards!”

He smiled, echoing the one on her face. Okay Dad. He thought. Doing it your way. “Can we talk Lujayn? Just at the end of the street for five minutes?”

She rolled down the window. “Didn’t hear you babe,” she said lightly. He repeated himself, feeing the flush of giddiness in his cheeks from her casual affection.

“That’s alright, isn’t it Auntie?”

“No it’s not!”

“Five minutes will make zero difference,” Lujayn dismissed, putting the cards into a sleek bag before lifting her scarf loosely over her hair and exiting the car with the kind of elegance he saw in films in slow motion.

He held out a hand to help her and she placed her fingers in his palm without hesitation. At that touch, he felt such responsibility for her happiness and her security he wanted to fight someone to prove himself.

“Sorry I still have about twenty cards to write,” she said, tucking her hand into his elbow and strolling with him.

“That’s kind of you.”

“I know it’s not our religion but every time I’ve sent Eid cards, I get those weird little “oh, you really are Muslim” looks. So awkward. Christmas cards are “inoffensive”.”

“At least you make the effort.”

“Does that mean I’ll have to when we’re married?” She teased, nudging him. His stomach disappeared at being married to the creature on his arm.

“You seriously want to do this?”

“Why not? I have to do something with my crush on you. May as well be your wife.”

“Wait, your what?”

Lujayn burst out laughing, “I refuse to believe you didn’t know! We went to the same school! You were three years above me. Summer term you and the boys would play football in these best tops and you had the best shoulders. It was before you cut your hair so it was down to here.” She gently touched the middle of his back. “Everyone knew I was obsessed with you. And then you got married and that was it.”

Karim couldn’t close his mouth. “You have to be lying.”

“Haram,” she reminded him, a dimple showing in her cheek. “Well babe, now you know.”

“Do you call everyone babe?” he asked, tickled and pleased that she used it for him.

“No, but if you’re going to put a ring on it, I should be allowed to call you something nice. Or do you prefer Karim?”

“Whatever you want to call me,” he assured her. They came to a halt just outside of the magnificent display of Christmas lights. They danced a vivid, silver display over Lujayn’s cheekbones; silver just like her name. He wondered anew why someone with skin as deep and as beautiful as hers would want to change it so drastically they didn’t look like themselves anymore.

“You want to ask me something?” she pressed. “You’re just staring at me.”

“I think you’re far too beautiful for me.”

“That’s nice to hear,” she teased. “There should be some balance in our relationship. I’d feel better if you continued to think that way.” She gently prodded him in the stomach. “Do you still play football?”

“Every Saturday with my local team.”

“And do you still write poetry?”

Wow she really did have a crush on him to remember that’s what he did in his spare time and what he won an award for in his latter years. “Lujayn you’re shaming me today. I’ll write something for you. You can have it with your dowry.”

She looked down at her hands and he took them in his own, before tucking them under his arms to warm. Her fingers flexed against his ribs and the cold began to seep through his tunic. “Karim. You’re not going to try and change me, are you?”

“Why would I try?”

“You’d be surprised,” she said quietly, a sadness creeping into her eyes. “And I like Christmas okay? Anyone who doesn’t like presents and an excuse to have lots of food is miserable and they don’t deserve nice things.”

“Am I a nice thing, then?” he asked, leaning into her, irresistibly drawn to her amazing aura.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re standing in the shadow of the biggest mistletoe shaped lights this side of Las Vegas. I thought you liked Christmas?”

She darted forward and pressed the swiftest, sweetest kiss to his lips, much to her aunt’s immediate screech of her name.

“We’ll do Christmas properly next year.”

She had no idea…

Santa, Baby!

One of my oldest friend’s is due imminently! I had this idea after her baby shower!

One More Nativity © Billy London

Ryence closed his suitcase, leaning back and cracking his spine. At least at his sister’s house, he’d enjoy a tempered mattress. He’d been needing to replace his own for ages, but he needed to speak to his accountant, get money released from the club to him by way of dividends. They were sold out for New Years Eve. He couldn’t have hoped for better and with the club being in his sister’s sole name, the destination wasn’t associated with his crime.

His thoughts drifted to Morgan as they had every night since he’d met her. They’d been at the start of something so beautiful and… Gwen would never say that he’d ruined anything, because he’d saved her. She told him he saved other women from what that arsehole could have done. Gwen didn’t understand what he’d given up as a result.

Back to Wales for a few days, take some walks, pretend he hadn’t spent the better part of seven months in prison, eat some of his father’s Welsh rarebit and enjoy some beer. If his dad would allow him to cross the threshold…

He opened his Facebook profile and searched for Morgan again. Her profile picture hadn’t changed from what it had been at the start of the year; she wore a long blonde wig and a cut out mini dress as she posed in front of a floral display for his club. Lots of comments on her wall asked if she was okay, to call them, to get in touch, to reply to messages. Where was she?

He tucked his phone into his jacket pocket and lifted his case through his flat. Heating turned off and fridge empty, he locked the flat and made his way down the stairs to the lobby. Braced against the doorway, her hands gripping the frame, stood Morgan.

Ryence dropped his case and flung the door open before he could say anything, she collapsed onto him.

“Hey Rye! Oh you’re going grey,” she observed, touching a cold finger to his temple and tracing the pad to his mouth. A painful grunt burst from her.

“Wow contractions really are a cunt!” she said through her teeth. Only then did he look down and saw her protruding stomach.

“You’re pregnant? You’re fucking pregnant?”

She yelped, pressing a hand to her lower belly, hunching over. “Yep. Thanks for that by the way.”

 “And you didn’t tell me?”

Morgan grunted. “Look, can we have this conversation somewhere else please? I’m literally about to drop this little twat out of my twat, so let’s move.”

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to pass out. Practicality kicked in. Snow swept inside the door in a flurry of flakes, dotting Morgan’s coat with white and resting on his arm. He lifted her into his arms, kicking the door closed and leaving his suitcase behind.

Morgan yelped, but he ignored her, taking the stairs with grim determination to his flat. “Hold on,” he said, unlocking the door and carrying her inside, kicking the door closed. Quickly and carefully, he set her on his bed.

“I’m turning the heating back on and I’m running you a bath.”

Morgan grimaced. “What for?”

“It’ll help.” He promised, removing his jacket and flicking on the heating. Christ, he didn’t have anything in his flat to even eat. Turning on the kettle seemed a good idea while he tried to grapple with the idea of Morgan going about her life, carrying his baby and giving birth on Christmas Eve. What the hell. The kettle’s blue light switched off and he poured the water over a green tea bag and carried it into the bedroom. Morgan had shed her coat, boots and her leggings, leaving her in a reindeer printed jumper dress and bare legged.

She struggled to sit up when she realised he was standing, staring at her.

“Hi. Oh is that tea? You’re amazing.”

“It’s green. Sorry. I don’t have any milk.”

“No, this is perfect,” she said with a sigh of delight, reaching for it. “My throat is dry as hell.”

“Morgan,” he began, his voice low.

“Are you running that bath?” She grinned at him. His brain flooded with memories of how she smiled that way when she was satisfied.

“I will. Just explain to me how we’re here right now. And why we’re not at a hospital?”

Morgan lifted the mug to her lips again. “I’m at least eight centimetres dilated and I give it twenty minutes, or maybe half an hour before I push this baby out. I’d rather not risk it in a car. Or God forbid, a taxi.”

“You can’t be!” he whispered, panicked.

Morgan pointed a finger between her thighs. “Have a look.”

He lifted the hem of the dress and took an instant step back. “Running the bath.”

Once the tub was full, he took the cup from her hands and lifted her into his arms again, carrying her into the bathroom. Gently, he lifted the jumper dress from her body, and eased her into the water.

“Oh mate, that’s the perfect temperature.” She gave a murmur of delight, before she absolutely bellowed the bathroom down. “Oh fucking hell! Okay, truth time. I found out that I was pregnant when you were sent down. I didn’t know which prison you were sent to and no one would say. When I asked at the club, your name was my god I hate this so much!” she screamed. Ryence reached into the tub and rubbed along her spine in soothing stroking motions.

“And then?”

“And then, I dithered about keeping it or getting rid and then it was too late so I was like, alright lemme look on eBay and see what shit is cheap.”

“Why didn’t you contact my sister?” He asked.

“I thought about it, and then I was argh butt fucking shit!” She breathed out in short sharp gasps. “I thought about it, and I thought, this poor bitch doesn’t need this too.” She looked up at him, her eyes watering with pain. “I looked up your address on Companies House you’re listed as a former director so here I am. I’m not due for another three weeks. Everything’s at home. My bag, the baby’s crib, nappies. I hate this so much!”

He helped her to her knees in the large bathtub, resting his palms on her biceps. “Morgan, look at me. You’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine, I promise.”

“You haven’t even got a Christmas tree!”

“Okay, it’s what, five. That huge Tesco down the road closes at eight tonight. I can get everything from there that we need. You’re staying here. Do you have your notes?”

“How do you know all of this?” she demanded, wincing.

He shrugged. “They played One Born Every Minute in the prison sometimes. I’ve got one of those memories that sucks that shit up. And I don’t have a tree because I was going to stay with my sister and my dad. But since, I’m about to be one, I’ll buy one from the guy outside the train station.”

She touched his face. “I really hope you’re ready for this, Joseph.”

He pressed his mouth to her forehead, feeling tears prickling at his eyes. “You don’t know how ready.”

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Carrying on the free reads, and skimming over an issue that really does impact people especially at this time of the year. Stay strong, stay super strong.


Walking in a Winter Wonderland © Billy London


“Come on Bailey!” Naomi called to her terrier who yapped at her, his white paws braced on the first step, wagging his tail.

Her sister popped her head around the dinning room door. “Aren’t you coming back?”

She shook her head. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

Her sister’s face fell. “Please don’t go…”

“I just need some air, I’ll be back in an hour.”

“But the park walk is twenty minutes…”

Naomi secured the lead to Bailey’s collar and shoved her arms through her fake fur coat. “I’ll come back.”

Tugging on gloves and wrapping a scarf around her straightened hair and slipped out of the door. Bailey shot off to the greenery across the road before Naomi could even grab his lead. She screamed, running after him as the setting sun burned into her vision.

“Bailey no!” she yelled. Her entire Christmas dinner with cranberry sauce and extra helpings of sprouts sat heavy in her stomach, her feet kicking against her buttocks. Her dog took a flying leap and Naomi only realised why when her boot heel slipped across the frozen ice puddle and knocked her onto her bottom; right on top of a fresh layer of snow.

“Fucking hell!” she roared, leaning to her side to grab her bruised bottom. 

“Are you alright?” a deep voice asked.

A huge pitbull rested its paws on Naomi’s knees, its head tilted to the side and its tongue lolling out.

“Daisy, get off!”

Daisy found herself tugged from Naomi. Blocking out the sun, probably the most beautiful man she’d ever met held out a hand to her. “Can you get up?”

Naomi opened her mouth and no sound emerged. Daisy’s owner crouched beside her. “Did you hit your head?”

She shook her head, staring openly at him. Where have you been? With a toned arm, he scooped around her waist and lifted her to her feet. Bailey bounded back to her side, yapping at her heels.

“You’re so naughty, Bailey,” Mr Beautiful told her dog. Bailey whined as if in apology.

“How do you know his name?”

“You were screaming it.” He reminded her. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Thank you. I’m okay. It was more of a shock than anything.”

His eyes glinted in the dimming sunlight. “I’m Connan. This is Daisy.”

“I’m Naomi. And you heard me yelling at this one.” Bailey scrambled at her denimed leg before she gathered him up in her arms and buried her face in his chilled, damp coat. “Post turkey dinner walk?”

Connan scuffed at the snow with a booted foot. “I just needed some fresh air. You know when you come back home after being away? And there’s only so much you can take of your family?”

“Oh yeah.” She looked up at him. “I’m back from uni. Everyone’s got eyes on me as if I’m going to…”

Not everyone needed to know.

“Binge?” he asked.

Naomi started. “What?”

Conan nodded to the park. “Do you want to keep walking? I can talk about this if I’m not looking directly at you.”

He started walking, Daisy trotting beside him. Still cradling Bailey, she walked after him. “I spent the last year still dealing with my brother’s ED. I know, men don’t have eating disorders.” He sent her an amused look. “Well, you know what it’s like. It’s something you can control when you can’t control anything else. Being at uni was…” He breathed out heavily.

“A challenge?”

“Yeah. I had to resist the urge to call him every day to check that he was eating and caring for himself and going to meetings.” He sighed. “I got it in the neck for not being supportive of my brother, so I decided to come for a walk instead. I asked Max to come with me, but he’s scared to let himself out of our parents’ sight.”

“It’s hard.” She admitted. “You want to prove yourself to your family but it’s a lot of pressure. It’s so much pressure. The plate my mum made for me was enormous.” It prickled at her eyes to see the look on her mother’s face; so hopeful and eager for her to eat that her stomach closed up at the thought of it. Yet, she had eaten. Everything and resisted the near choking desire to purge every mouthful. “I don’t think anyone understands what it’s like at this time of the year. Everything revolves…”

“Around food. I know.” He sighed. “I’ve asked my family just to back off a bit, but they’re not getting it.”

Naomi shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. I’m sure your brother understands, it’s like losing control again.”

Conan nodded. “And did you?”

She grinned at him. “This is beginning to feel like a session, rather than me taking a walk with my dog with a strange dude.”

He grinned back. “I’m a neighbour. I live down there.”

He pointed to her street.

“Which street?”

“Stanley Road.”

“That’s my road!” she burst out. “How haven’t I met you?”

Conan made a face. “It’s London. No one knows their neighbours. We’ve probably passed each other a hundred times…”

No I would have noticed you. She thought. “Anyway. The answer is no. I didn’t lose control. I ate my Christmas dinner and for the first time in a long time, it was delicious and guilt free. I just didn’t need anyone watching every bite and hovering over me if I got up from the table. I just wanted some water!” She yelled at the sky, laughing. “Everyone else is having booze, and you don’t even have a single bottle of Evian within reach?”

“Fucking rude,” Conan agreed.

Naomi put Bailey down and he forced her to run after him. Conan called out after her, jogging to keep up.

“Sorry, we didn’t have time for a morning walk,” she gasped trying to slow her mental animal down. “What uni are you at?”

“Manchester. Doing physics.”

“Leeds. Music.”

Conan made an impressed face. “We’re not that far from each other.”

Naomi pursed her lips together, trying to suppress a smile. “Why is that a statement to make?”

His face filled with colour. “Just making an observation.” Something vibrated and he removed his phone from his pocket. “That’s my brother. Asking me to come back and tell our parents to chillax.”

Disappointment washed over her. “Oh. Okay.”

“I’ll walk you home.”

She edged Bailey towards their street, feeling all at once alone and abandoned. Conan nudged her shoulder.

“I literally have my phone out, put your number in.” He ordered.

She took his phone from his hand and tapped in her details, not just her mobile but her email address onto her contact. He took his phone back and dialled her. “That’s me,” he said.

They arrived at number 14 and Conan hesitated outside of her door.

“What number are you?” she asked.

“Sixty-six.”

That made her laugh for no good reason. Bending down, he gave Bailey a ruffle and Naomi did the same with the cute Daisy. She lifted her head and found a gentle kiss being placed on her lips.

“Happy Christmas Naomi. I’m just down the road if you want to go for another walk.”

“Okay,” she whispered. He stretched to his full height and waited until she and Bailey were inside. She touched her fingertips to the door as her sister rushed into the corridor.

“You’ve been gone ages! Are you alright?”

She unclipped Bailey’s lead, smiling. “I’m good. I’m really good. Shall we have some pudding?”

Wonderful Christmas Time

I'm on a roll! I've been writing little Christmas shorts and I can't stop! I love this time of year, which makes it weirdly easy to imagine all sorts of people doing all sorts at yuletide! Read, enjoy, help yourself to some Christmas cake...


French Kissmas © Billy London


Going to the party had to be her worst mistake of the year. Of course he’d be there. Why wouldn’t he? Portia tapped her fingernails on the stem of her champagne glass, stepping back towards the enormous Christmas tree hoping her forest green jumpsuit would help her blend into the background. She had no idea why she didn’t follow that immediate instinct within her to stay at home, watch The Crown and eat her way through the hamper her boss bought her from Fortnum and Mason as a sweetner for coming to this stupid party.

“It’s just for a few hours, if that!” Hayley promised. “And as soon as you go, I’ll transfer your bonus.”

“You’re a bitch,” Portia said, her temper short as her hair.

“I know, but you’d work for me anyway.”

It was why she hated creatives. Their work had been award winning this year, but Portia was just the salesgirl. The flash and bang. The you need us to do this for you, no one will do it better and even if you trawl Twitter to get this, it won’t be anywhere near as good. And she’d been right. Every time. So one of their tech companies was throwing them a party.

Portia really wished people would understand how hard Christmas could be when you were alone. As each year passed, less people asked why she was on her own and assumed that she did enough to deserve to be alone. Maybe she had.

Cosme told her so. If you want to be on your own, Sha, just say. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. Portia bit down hard on her inner cheek until she tasted blood. It wasn’t working. She put down her glass and slipped past the tree and her boss, heading past the throng of people in the private dinning room to the cloak room.

She caught sight of him, towering in the room but lounging with that French elegance over a petite blonde, whose gaze never left his face. Once upon a time, she’d gazed up at him that same way. Until she sabotaged it.

Ducking her head, she reached the cloakroom and handed over her ticket. The attendant sent her a tired look prompting Portia to apologise for taking up time.

“Leaving already?”

She closed her eyes briefly, before summoning a professional smile. “Hello Cosme.”

He bent to touch his smooth cheek to each of her own. “You could have said that an hour ago.”

“So could you and here we are.”

He glanced down to her mouth to meet her gaze with amusement. “Still the sharp edge of the knife I see.”

“Change isn’t my thing.”

The assistant handed over her coat and she thanked them, placing a ten pound note in the tip bowl. He blinked, stuttering a thank you.

Cosme curved a hand around her arm. “Shall we have a quiet drink?”

She jerked a chin to his fingers on her bicep. “You’re going to take me without even asking.”

“Not my kind of arousal,” he dismissed. “This way.”

He led her to the quiet rooms, where members sat with friends, martinis to hand and pizzas between them. The music drifted in at a low ebb and the lights of Soho glittered from the huge windows.

Cosme sat her down in a plush, high backed armchair. “Stay there. I’m bringing you a drink.”

She opened her mouth to remind him that someone would be at their table soon but he disappeared. She braced her chin on her upturned palm, staring out of the window, watching the Christmas lights flickering below, people still shopping. For who? Go home and actually be with them!

Cosme returned, placing a frosted glass of champagne in front of her, while he cradled an old fashioned. He sank into his seat opposite her and held up his glass.

“Merry Christmas Portia.”

Oh. Back to Portia, eh? “Merry Christmas,” she echoed, touching her glass to his. “Well thank you for the drink, but I’ve reached my…”

“Sit down and tell me why you’re so intent on running away.”

That rankled. “I don’t like feeling uncomfortable. I’m too old for that.”

“You’re too old to be running away. You walked last time.”

She inhaled, trying to reign in her temper and to be fair, the bitter loneliness threatening to spill into the world. “With good reason.”

“Which was?”

“Oh come on, you were there. You heard what I said.”

He lifted his glass to his firm lips, his eyebrow quirked. “I heard.  Doesn’t mean I understood.”

She inhaled, looking out of the window again until the urge to start crying passed.

“Portia.”

“Nope,” she answered. “If you want me to be audience to you treating some little young, fertile thing like a queen.” The tears would no longer be held back and they coursed with heat and shame over her cheeks, streaking her blusher in their destructive path. “I can’t give you what you want. I’ll never be able to.”

Portia closed her eyes, begging her emotions to hold off for just ten more minutes so she could leave with the remains of her dignity in tact. Her ears prickled at the sound of a chair moving over the rich carpet of the members’ room then her skin blazed at Cosme’s touch on her bare arm, before his palm encased her hand.

“Let me say this to you again and I hope you hear me. My sister has four children. My brother has six. My father is one of eleven and my mother is one of nine. There are more than enough of my family. I don’t need to do any more.”

She turned her head, her other hand still damp with tears. “But your mother…”

“Is very African and doesn’t understand my motivation, but she doesn’t need to.” He traced his thumb over her cheek. “Sha I don’t want to be on my own any more.”

She dragged in a shaky breath. “Me either.”

He smiled, his beautiful eyes turning soft with affection. “Listen, Christmas Day I’m going to be at home eating through that hamper Hayley sent me. Maybe roast a duck. Will you come to me?”

He said duck, she thought. Not a dry-arse turkey! Portia threw her arms around his neck and crushed him to her. “Sounds perfect,” she whispered to him.

In the warmth and comfort of his hefty arms, she couldn’t even reach what had almost consumed her moments before. She’d bring them something divine to drink with the wine. She’d go to Fortnum and use her bonus.

Oh hell. Hayley!

“If you being tense right now is you worrying about something, I’ll talk to Hayley,” he grumbled into her shoulder. Hmm. A friend in high places. Merry Christmas to her, too!

Venice Bitch

We're here babies! It's taken a long time and if you read my blog regularly, you'll know that it's been a struggle. But we have arrived, Mother! I feel the message I can offer through this book, is that love will pierce through the darkest of nights.

I'm so excited for you all to dive deep into this and link all the little teasers I've provided, see where everyone connects to one another throughout the Italian Knights and fall in love with Beppe and Mimi as much as I did.

Murano on Amazon

Il retro

“How do you accidentally fall on a seven inch knife?”

And so began Mimi Johnson’s first argument with the man, the myth, the walking migraine that is Giuseppe Nardiello. If she had a pound for every time she thought about having him sectioned, she wouldn’t need to work at the Da Canaveze’s state of the art private hospital. She wouldn’t need to work at all.

With their two best friend’s falling in love and getting married, eyes fell to them to do the same and sharpish. Mimi couldn’t truly appreciate the convenience of someone as gorgeous and ripped and borderline unbalanced as Beppe landing in her surgical lap just like that. What else could be wrong with him?

Beppe is the last man standing among his be-ringed mates, a status he feels rather content with until he catches Mimi’s cheeky little grin and gets firm confirmation which end she’s had her piercings; plural… He’s ready to give his all to her, but he’s missing the familial piece of his own puzzle that will make him feel whole. Adopted as a baby after the gruesome murder of his birth mother, he’s never truly known himself, until a letter arrives from a lawyer in Venice, finally telling him that the island of Murano holds all the answers key to even his very name.

Borderline or not, Beppe is the perfect man and Mimi couldn’t bear for anything to happen to him. If she has to use all her skills and piercings to convince him to protect himself from the obvious danger on that island, they’re all on the operating table.

From London to Marseille to Venice and the island itself, Murano drags Beppe and Mimi on a dangerous journey of discovery. Love truly saves all, but will it be enough to save them both from the terror behind the truth?

This is book seven in the Italian Knights Series, to be taken all at once, preferably with something stronger than water coz it’s about to get a bit mad… 

Estratto

Beppe moved into the seat next to Mimi. “Nice toast. How’d you like my speech?” he asked.

Mimi laughed. “It was genuinely sweet and ridiculous. You know he’s going to kill you, don’t you?”

Beppe pooh-poohed the very idea. “He’s not doing shit but checking out his wife’s underwear.”

She tilted her head. “I can honestly say he’s going to have the best night tonight as long as he doesn’t drink too much. Her underwear is fire!”

He waited a beat. “You’re not going to excuse this as a girl crush or a momentary bi leaning?”

“My friend is insanely sexy. I can say that without any latent homophobia.” Mimi shrugged and picked up her champagne glass. “What the fuck is a ‘girl crush’ anyway? If you think someone’s attractive, male or female, why does it need to be excused? It’s not like I’m going to try and get her into bed. Let me feel my friend’s oats!”

He paused again. “You don’t want to try to get her into bed?”

“No. Don’t get a hard-on about it.”

Beppe opened his mouth to protest, when Anna’s father tapped Beppe on the shoulder. “Son, we need to have a chat about your language. Anna’s ninety-year-old grandmother is here.”

He blinked. “But did she hear?”

Anna’s father frowned briefly. “I’m… Maybe not.”

Beppe spread his palms. “Sorted.”

Immediately, he looked for Mimi who was talking to Lydia as she had emerged from under the table. Fuck! His disappointment at being interrupted was only slightly assuaged by the mild bollocking he received from his friends and the hugs he enjoyed from Rocco’s sister and Nonna. The tables were cleared for Rocco and Anna to have their first dance. As truly befit them, Dinah Washington crooned to them, Rocco swinging them across the floor like a professional.

“He’s missing a number on his back,” Mimi said into his ear.

“What would he get if he was on tv?” he asked, barely looking away.

“Len Goodman’s a traditionalist,” Mimi replied, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Maybe an eight if he threw in a fleckle.”

The guests were encouraged to join in as Etta Jones sang softly and dreamily to them all. “Come on. Let me see if I can throw one in. Get myself an imaginary nine.”

“You seriously watch Strictly?”

He frowned at her. “Were you not just giving me a lecture about latent homophobia?”

She nodded and accepted his hand to lead them onto the floor. He gently lifted her arm for her to circle him in a pretty little round before he curved her into his body. “Foxtrot,” he advised. “Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.”

“How?” Her mouth parted on a huge smile of surprise.

“My mother taught me.” He said it casually enough to hopefully not lead Mimi into further questions. “She said it was important for me to know how to lead on a dance floor and how to handle a woman respectfully.”

Mimi gazed at him. “I’m impressed. Am I doing a heel lead?”

“Can’t see your feet, Amelia, but I’m assuming you’re not turning on your toes, or else you’d be bobbing up and down. There’s no rise and fall in the foxtrot.”

Mimi took a deep breath. “I’m not going to lie; this is turning me on a bit.”

He looked down at her, mouth parted and breasts heaving inside her pink embroidered dress. “Let’s go somewhere a little quieter.”

Leading her out of the main ballroom, he could sense a tangible anticipation in the air. He’d never been so grateful to his foster mother.

Lost Boy

So six years later... Here we are! The herald of the coming of a little story I've been working on. No big deal. Just the seventh book in the Italian Knights Series. Forewarning - it's nuts - as you'll be able to tell from the sheer variety of music that I've included in this soundtrack. Enjoy, brace yourselves and send any complaints to the BBC!

Murano on Spotify

1. Progeny – Hans Zimmer 
2. Hey Mami – Sylvan Esso
3. You See All My Light – Jacques Greene 
4. Change Is Everything – Son Lux 
5. I Was Glad - Hubert Parry 
6. It’s Magic – Dinah Washington
7. Too Original – Major Lazer 
8. 212 - Azealia Banks 
9. Playinwitme – KYLE ft Kehlani 
10. Suddenly, Seymour – Rich Moranis, Ellen Greene 
11. Sing, Sing, Sing – Benny Goodman 
12. You Give A Little Love – Paul Williams
13. Ultralight Beam – Kanye West  
14. Palm Trees ¿Téo?
15. Shadow & Light – Martin Luke Brown 
16. Surprise Yourself – Jack Garratt 
17. Waking Up – MJ Cole & Freya Ridings 
18. Back To You – Benjamin Gordon
19. I Am – Rock Mafia ft Wyclef Jean
20. Breathe & Stop – Q-Tip  
21. Tell Me That You Love Me – James Smith 
22. Oh Baby – LCD Soundsystem 
23. Same Drugs – Chance The Rapper 
24. Movement – Hozier 
25. The Gulag Orkestar – Beirut 
26. Not Dark Yet – Bob Dylan
27. Lost Boy – Ruth B. 
28. Lie – Halsey, Quavo 
29. Do You Remember – Jarryd James ft Raury 
30. Fear Will Find You – Hans Zimmer 
31. Hell To The Liars – London Grammar
32. War Prayer – This Will Destroy You 
33. If I Go, I’m Goin – Gregory Alan Isakov
34. Slide – James Bay  
35. Cloudbusting – Kate Bush 
36. Don’t Forget About Me – Cloves 
37. On The Nature Of Daylight – Max Richter  
38. Decks Dark – Radiohead 
39. Elephant – Tame Impala 
40. On Thin Ice – Hans Zimmer 
41. Set This House On Fire – Nick Vallee 
42. I Know All What I Do – Jack Garratt 
43. Overture – Michael Kamen 
44. Romantic Flight – John Powell
45. Hard Place – H.E.R 
46. All For Us – Labrinth
47. Selah – Emeli Sandé
48. Strange Weather – Anna Calvi ft David Byrne 
49. Alone In the Dark – Will Cookson 
50. Carry You – Novo Amor 
51. When The Party’s Over - Billie Eilish 
52. Outro – M83 
53. God Only Knows – John Legend and Cynthia Erivo
54. The Vow – RuthAnne  
55. Etta James – Til There Was You 
56. Under Attack – Kin Palo ft Amy Stroup 
57. Smack My Bitch Up – The Prodigy
58. Mean Demeanour – Run The Jewels 
59. Ruelle – Take It All
60. Mount Everest – Labrinth 
61. Why Do We Fall – Hans Zimmer
62. Vasily – Martin Phipps 
63. We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow – Soko  
64. What You Won’t Do For Love – Luke Burr

Real Life

Right. I've made a decision and not at all due to the subliminal messaging I've received in my gmail inbox.

I'm going to do NaNoWriMo this year. November marks National November Writing Month, where people across the globe commit to writing 50,000 words in 30 days and see if a novel can be formed from those words. I've had three stories emerge from the fires of NaNo - Remains, An Art To It and Hideout, and I need to feel that dedication to the writing. I mean, I'll probably be juggling edits at the same time, but if anything pushes you to write better, it's your editor telling you not to give an inanimate object feelings or a body part acting independently. Breasts don't talk do they? I mean mine make themselves very present (because they are ginormous) but speaking words? No... no...

I've been fiddling about with an idea for a while, mainly because I've been playing the Love Island Game and my obsession with pixelated dick is out of control, Hot Muse Hank has directed me to put the obsession to the laptop screen. If you follow me on Twitter, you are probably over aware of how much reality tv I watch. I know it's scripted, I know producers tell people what to do, how to breathe, when to fuck over their mates, and what to wear while they're doing it. In the age of social media, it's easy to find out how that those singletons continued their relationship on First Dates, if the stars (and I use that term loosely) of an entertainment reality show are still together, who got engaged, if it's true that so and so is pregnant, and the mystery is very tough to keep secret. Hot Muse Hank thought about it for a moment and said "Challenge accepted!" Means I'm writing one.

It's going to by a typical Billy London scrap with plenty of nonsense, a few twists, a quite a bit of sexy time and wrap it all nice and neatly in 50,000 words. With NaNo, the pantsing has to go out of the window and I need to be somewhat more structured to get the writing done. The last time I struggled to meet my word count, I just threw sex scenes at it until the words count depleted. May try the same cheat sheet this time around but I'm excited to start, to form my characters and to lead them on a path to love.

Waking the Demon

Facebook is still good for something! It reminded me that Said The Demon To Little Miss Eva is eight whole years old. Eight! Walking to school by itself and doing homework and watching Hollyoaks. Please don’t ask me where the time has gone!

Said the Demon was my first foray into horror! I’ve been obsessed with the supernatural ever since I visited the Tower of London and was told that Anne Boleyn’s ghost wanders the corridors at night. I’d haunt the fuck out of the Tower of London too if my husband accused me of incest and treason because I had the temerity to give birth to a girl... anyways! The frisson of fear; the kiss of cold on the back of one’s neck, the rake of icicles inside your stomach... all those sensations have been my theme park, my rollercoaster (let’s be honest Thorpe Park ain’t cheap!) I remember seeing The Blair Witch Project and having a job interview with Topshop the next day. I. Had. Not. Slept. Safe to say my wife, red eyed distress did not earn my a job. Probably best as retail was not my best work! I’ve always had an affinity for what goes bump in the night and nothing to do with bump n grind. I suppose it comes from being taught from an early age that demons are real and they will test you if you wander the desert for forty days.

It’s not for the faint of heart - there is an actual demon in this story. Eva Mensah is freakin’ haunted out of her home! Eva is an empath and that ability is probably conversely one of the most human and most draining ability to have. To feel and understand every emotion, as if you experience it yourself and to get through day to day... it would not be me. I have to have some empathy in my day job (I’d be a robot otherwise) and it can be so overwhelming. Imagine having nowhere to put those feelings and becoming a beacon to evil. Not what you want in your first home in London overlooking the Thames.

I gave Eva a happy-ish ending (I’m a romance author it’s gonna have a happy ending so not a spoiler!) but the ending I gave her didn’t ring complete which is why she got a sequel. We all know babies don’t solve things. As an empath, having a baby would only make Eva an even bigger beacon to evil. So it felt absolutely natural to give Eva and her man Gabriel a second go.

I never say never, as there’s nothing stopping baby Elijah from becoming teenage Elijah and causing yet more demonic shifts (that’s so Raven vision taking over me!!!!!) so don’t be surprised if Miss Eva pops up again. If you’ve never given her the chance because horror isn’t your thing - romance is my thing. Give it the old college try. See if you fancy a buy!

Last in this ramble is a thank you to Evangeline. She helped me exercise my own ghost in the telling of these tales and I feel all the better for letting that madness go. Couldn’t expect any more from a true empath!

Said the Demon on Amazon

Finish Line

Faaaackin' hell, I feel like Frodo at the end of Return of the King. I'm at the top of a flaming Mount Doom and I couldn't give a monkeys because I've finished. It is finished (sorry had to go Biblical). I am done! Funnily enough, I had a pre-completion cry because stupid me decided to listen to Grey Havens. My nerdishness around those films knows no bounds. Apart from the Titanic soundtrack, Lord of the Rings, Return of the King will guarantee me to cry. I used to think that if I ever became an actress (still a chance, Lady London will tell you about my dramatics) I would be able to cry on command by just recalling that music. "Miss London, you need to be emotional in this scene. Do you need some fake tears?"
"Move man. Bring my my phone and my Beats!"
Back to the main event. You know I write out of order. I don't write a story from A - Z because... well that's kinda boooorrriiiiing (Villanelle yell). I write the bits that are interesting first. So usually sex. Fight scenes. Banter. Food. Oh my god, so much food! More banter, and probably my favourite dinner scene between two characters ever. Obvs because Giuseppe Nardiello is one of them. Actually, there are two and Nonna Mamione is one of them.
I can be honest about why this book was so hard to finish. In between traumatic events which have been far too frequent, I'd like to end my trial period of trauma until 2031 please and thank you God, I didn't really want to say goodbye to these folks.
Nick and Gina have been my bezzies for the better part of a decade. Tony has been winding up Lydia for eight years. Rocco has succeeded in taming his storm, Anna, Luca has found his peace with Frankie, Auntie Belinda is getting it good and regular from OG Massimo (my true sugar daddy) Sofia is making herself content with Paul who is concentrating on being a good husband, a good son to a woman who never had her own children and keeping his wife in booze. Durante Da Canaveze has made Ella settle down. Ella! The freest of free spirits who couldn't give a fuck about anything but her son and Arlo Vitale. Speaking of, that little fucker is a big boy now. With a degree and everything! I've wrapped everyone up with Paperchase wrapping paper, with nice little bows and invisible sellotape.
So Beppe and Mimi were both like, "Excusi, what the fuck about us?"
Hot Muse Hank totally told me "Tell them both to do one, we're not ready! Too much junk is happening right now."
So I did. In the middle of all the shit that goes down for both of them, I needed a break. It was too much and too close to home and you all know I can't and don't write when I'm emotional. I cannae do it, Captain, I just don't have the power!
After Hot Muse Hank told me to get rid sharpish, Beppe and Meems were like "Well, fine. Fuck you too!" And disappeared into the night, never to be seen. Until Jack motherfucking Garrett and his voice of knicker-wetting gold. There's one song, and it rocks up on the soundtrack for Murano and the story came at me again, like it was playing at the IMAX. I saw Beppe and Mimi falling in love. I saw their wedding in Technicolor, down to the type of shoes Bep wears and the colour of Mimi's dress. I saw everyone backing Beppe up when he needed it. Anna being such a badass and yet fearful of losing the only friend she really has (Rocco doesn't count, he pounds her). Mimi told me where her piercings were and Beppe his favourite holiday. I love these people like they are family and half of why I burst into tears last night, wasn't just relief, or happiness, it was goodbye. I didn't want to let them go, they're bloody hilarious!
Anyway! It's done. Finito. Hot Muse Hank gave himself a pat on the back and snored off. I stayed awake until 2am, thinking what I'm going to do with myself, now my babies are all grown up causing havoc in their own world without me.
It woke Hot Muse Hank enough to remind me to finish my Japanese dragon story. To finish Carole and Aneurin's tale. To sort out Taemar and Jack. Or do that murder at a wedding story which has written itself bar a few details. Or deal with those four women and a gun in East London. Maybe I could think about that fantasy novel I started years ago or fill out the short story about a director and her Irish seducer. And now that the biggest weight is off my shoulders with Murano, I feel I can dedicate that time to those tales.
Until edits. I mean, it could be 112,400 of utter shit and needs a hella load of work to even begin to be read-worthy (you read that right. 112,400 words). Or I'm just gaslighting myself and I need to chill out. I'm chilled. I'm happy. Truly, for the first time in a long time with the words I've typed to reach my "The End"...
Happy. Me.
I feel... I feel... I feel pretty good.

Beloved

“If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, you must be the one to write it.”

Chloe Anthony Wofford “Toni” Morrison. It’s been a few weeks since she passed away, and it’s taken just as long for me to put what I felt into some semblance of understanding. That quote, one of many that blossomed from her fingertips, from her lips, from her beautiful mind, convinced me and I know thousands of others to put pen to paper and write what they wanted to read.

Toni Morrison epitomised the black American female experience. She wrote for black women and won Pulitzer Prizes (1988) and Nobel Prizes (1993). To a young black girl in England writing about girls getting lost in a shopping centre to get into secondary school, she was aspirational. Her calm and grace and the beauty in her work, the evocation that whispered like a memory, the pain felt chronic, the world tangible to the point where I lived the lives of the women she wrote about.

In a world where we are being suffocated with the “fake news” narrative, to lost Ms Morrison now, when we are so much in desperate need of her wisdom, of her truth, of her ability to cut straight through nonsense (sexist and racist) it cuts like a knife to know she’s no longer of this world. The words that remain are just as important, if not even more so now.

It reminds me to keep going, to keep writing, to speak the truth, to make my voice, Black and British as it is, be heard. There are still books that I want to read. There are still books that haven’t been written. Ms Toni told me to write it. I’m gonna write.

Perfume

Little known fact about me. I have about thirty odd bottles of perfume. My olfactory senses are legendary. I can tell what a woman and sometimes a man is wearing if they drift past me. I’ve scented Philosophy, Gucci and Byredo on people sitting next to me on the tube – often because they’re wearing far too much of it and I’m slowly suffocating while an episode of The Good Place reminds me about treating my fellow human beings, rather than throwing said person off at the next stop.

I have my Spring fragrances like Jo Malone’s Red Roses or Peony and Blush Suede, my Autumn fragrance, Miller Harris’ Peau Santal, my winter moves Tom Ford’s Tuscan Leather and YSL’s Black Opium and my Summer vibes are about Narciso Rodriguez’s For Her Musc for the evenings and daytime is about Calvin Klein’s Truth an oldie but a goodie.

I used to wear Armani’s Code and was called “Dangerous” by a guy who passed me. Insulting and complimentary. It reminds me of some great times, when I was running around London like a dervish, causing all kinds of trouble. I had to stop my mother from “borrowing” my bottles because she decided she liked the smell. I used to wear Coco Mademoiselle non-stop until Lady London nicked it and then bought her own bottle. So now the scent is associated with arguing with Lady London that you can’t replace perfume without buying a new bottle. She disagreed; basing her counter argument on the fact that she’d given birth to me. So I owed her. I reminded her that she’d been fine until she had my brother. So it’s his fault.

On the masculine side, I’m a fan of sandalwood. Nothing gets the knickers off faster than the scent of wood and leather. I don’t know what it is, like it’s similarity to the working man, getting his hands dirty, working his muscles to chop wood, how good an open fire smells on a fireside rug… Tom Ford has a knack for scents that emphasise a man’s virility. Helmut Lang has the cleanest male scent – it’s the scent equivalent of a tailored suit. I put this in An Art To It, how Art used fresh lime as his fragrance. I swear to you, it works, smells incredible and it tastes nicer than a squirt of Gucci.

Smell is such an important sense, not only that it creates intense sensations instantaneously, but it revives memories, leads one into temptation, clears the mind, transports you across the world and sends a tingle from your throat, through your tummy to give your buttocks a squeeze, tickle your knees and caress your ankles.

Now I’ve talked myself into a horny pretzel, I’m going to apply this to an Italian or two.

Beautiful Ones

So I’m on the home stretch with Murano, aka Italian Knights 7, aka Beppe’s story. There are about ten or so scenes that will connect the story from beginning to end and finish the flow. It’s not been an easy write, I’ll be honest. I knew what I wanted to write and I knew essentially what would happen and that the focus would be on Bep. Everything played in my head like a Christopher Nolan story, to the point where The Dark Knight Rises soundtrack has been my go to with everything. I mean not the bang-bang scenes, that would have been weird – but all the deep bits, the funny bits, the ‘where is this going mate’ bits, have had Hans Zimmer cheering it along. But I had a George RR Martin moment. The story got too big for me. I worried about how people would take to Mimi. Really worried. Because everyone knows that the heroine has to earn the hero – rarely the other way around, especially if he’s been established in previous books. Mimi is like a best mate and I want to protect her from any nonsense. It made me think what Beppe likes about so much that he falls for her and pretty damn hard. Let me try to do this without giving anything away. No spoilers.

1.       She’s a surgeon and she really enjoys it to a sort of perverse level. You kind of have to, in order to cut up people for a living and go home to sleep like a baby at night, no drugs involved.

2.       Speaking of drugs, she understands Bep’s vocation. You’ll get that when you read it.  

3.       She listens. To be as distracted as Beppe can be and to be patient enough to wait for him to get to his point and to hear what he’s said to have a conversation with him, rather than dismissing him as weird is something wonderful.

4.       She doesn’t give a fuck and she will tell you to your face. There are few people’s opinions that matter to her and they happen to be the same as Bep. Kismet.

5.       She’s kinky like him. You’ll see.

6.       She accepts him for who he is and that’s a lot when you think about the type of dude he is. Man’s wild.

7.       She’ll fight people for him. Verbally and physically. What it is to have a girl bat for you and bat hard with all the tools she has in her arsenal and then some, can only be a sign of true love and affection.

8.       His happiness is her happiness. The simplest things makes them both delight in the world and that shared joy brings the world into focus, excluding everyone but the two of you.

9.       She doesn’t hide her affections, making her as straight as a die. In a world of coded messages and timed communications, it’s refreshing to not doubt how a person feels about you.

10.   She’s fit. Come on, he’s Italian! He likes good looking girls and Amelia Johnson is buff.

Let me do the same the other way around for evens stevens:

a)       Giuseppe Nardiello is ridiculous to look at let alone to touch. There’s a scene where he lets her put hands on and… yah.

b)      He’s a South Londoner and proud of it. He knows the city inside out and enjoys it with her.

c)       He does something for her that heals a crack in her heart like nothing else could have and no one else would have done. Actually, he does that a few times.

d)      He tear gases her neighbours for her. That’s romance when your neighbours are bastards.

e)      He appreciates her dedication to her craft and that sometimes, it comes first. It just has to.

f)        Beppe cracks her up. He’s said things to me that I’ve repeated to other people that has made them laugh just as hard.

g)       He’d kill to protect her. No questions asked.

h)      He loves his friends like family. You’ll see.

i)        He’s a feminist.

j)        He’s a clean freak. He has his places of sanctuary and they must be clean at all times. Good times or no. Think Naomi Campbell in flight mode.

Funny how that’s been the easiest thing of Murano to write – why Bep loves Meems and why Mimi loves her Beppe. They’re just two nice folks, with terrible things happening around and to them who hold on to one another to live through the storms. What they have together in the quiet, the stillness, after the rages have passed, is something that I’m rather proud of.

You’ll see when it’s done. Let me get back to it.

Good To Love

Now I've got all this time on my hands, I'm reviewing the stories that I started and abandoned due to, well the nonsense that's been going on in my life. Last week's post about Black-British history going back to Roman times was partly in connection with my research for a paranormal story that is so much fun to write. I wonder why more authors don't throw it back into the past. Black history is so much more than slavery and absolutely so much more than the Western World. Black women in the Netherlands, in England, in early 20th Century Hong Kong - we've been places!
This week, I've been thinking about my intersectionality, especially after the wonder that was UK Black Pride. If you saw some of the comments beneath the twitter posts from the organisations, you'd dislocate a retina rolling your eyes so hard - the melanin-deficient tears were abundant, despite there being plenty of the paler persuasion being present at the event itself. It made me have another look at one of my stories, and the daughter of my heroine - Jacqueline.
It's hard to be a black woman in this day and age, no doubt about it. We're the "least desirable" on dating sites, but the most frequently copied in fashion, style and looks. We're more than 5 times more likely to die in child birth related complications than our white counterparts. We're paid less even though we're more educated. Throw LGBTQ into the mix and life is inevitably harder. Reading the story with a neutral mind (really not that hard, it's been a while so I can truly question who the hell wrote that!) I can see where my prejudices have come through a little too obviously.
I'm too hard on Jacqueline. Her mother's perfect - truly Carole is a dream, I love her - her brother is getting all the support for his messed up love life, her sister can do no wrong and has the decency to be straight and her father is an emotionally abusive bully, who can't stand Jacqueline for being a lesbian. And I'm more critical of her than the other siblings because a little niggle in the back of my head keeps forgetting to beat me into remembering that her life is just that much harder and she's had to be just as hard to protect herself from a world that berates her for what it considers as "choices" and not what she can't help but be.
Jacqueline is a tough cookie who needs my understanding, for me to lean into that intersectionality I brag I know so much about. She is, despite what she knows, her mother's favourite. Like I said, Carole's perfect. And if Jacqueline is her mum's favourite, then she should be mine. I'm tapping away to do right by her.
It's what she deserves.

Remember the Time

I see Romancelandia is having one of its moments about historical accuracy and the existence of

melanated folks in the Western world before the 20 Century. Again. 

Did I ever tell you that history was one of my favourite subjects? And if I’d chosen a different path,

I’d be one of those mad history professors, wearing bedazzled glasses, full maxi skirts and pencils in my hair to mark my most treasured textbooks. It always intrigued me that I would never see anyone with my skin tone in period dramas and be told it’s a matter of historical accuracy after all, black people were only slaves.

Huh. Weird then that the Romans who conquered nearly the entirety of Europe and a good portion of the North and East of Africa, whose peoples joined their armies and were promoted in their ranks never stepped foot in Britain - also conquered by the Romans. But yet they did. Evidence of that was found of a lady of mixed heritage buried with seriously expensive jewellery.  The Ivory Bangle Lady. It shows that there was intermarriage and integration into England. Beachy Head Lady dated to 245AD was found in East Sussex. An Arthurian romantic novel depicts the hero as dark, save for his teeth.

Edward III’s consort was said to be a woman of African decent - Philippa of Hainault from 14 Century.  

In trading in gold from West Africa, men travelled to England to be intermediaries, to be translators, already extremely wealthy as a result of the sub-Saharan trade routes in the early 15 Century. 

We are well aware that Catherine of Aragon, in the course of her marriage to Prince Arthur (King Henry VIII’s brother who tragically died and thereby gave us the biggest marital drama of all time) brought servants and ladies in waiting with her that were from Africa. There is a wealth of information detailing the black Tudors - some freed from the Spanish colonies, others settlers following the trade routes between West Africa and England, others family members of European traders such as the Netherlands, France and Spain. There were Africans in the Scottish Court of James IV. Diplomats and statesmen were part of the Courts of this country. From Benin, Ghana, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Morocco, Libya.

Liverpool, outside of London, because it is a port, had what was considered to be a large black population, particularly in the 17 and 18 centuries, as not only did you have seamen of African descent settling in England, but you had attendants and servants, who married their white counterparts.

They were shopkeepers, composers, writers, musicians, cooks and soldiers. African Chieftains sent their sons to England to be educated - something that still happens to this day. 

On Nelson’s column, considered one of Britain’s greatest heroes at the battle of Trafalgar (a whole square is named after him!) he is depicted fighting alongside an unmistakably African man. Queen Victoria had a young girl gifted to her. That same girl, Sarah Forbes Bonetta, had a wedding that was a societal event as she was under Queen Victoria’s protection. Many former slaves found themselves at the patronage of rich Britons who gave them means and an education; not just as abolitionists but as just decent people. True Christians - who knew?

Far from writing a history lecture here - there are people who have done this much better and far more in depth than I have David, such as Olusoga’s magnificat Black and British: A Forgotten History, which has also a rather brilliant BBC series that accompanies it. It was his tv series that first alerted me to Nelson’s column and I went to have a look. I mean I live in London, it’d have been daft not to. 

Black people, especially in this country, have not been invented to guilt white people about anything at all. Simple acknowledgement of our existence in this country long before the general populace were able to read and write or even vote will suffice. If there can be hundreds upon hundreds of romance novels of earls and dukes of pale skin and sleek hair and all of their teeth and enormous penises that they know how to use(???), there can be and should be just as many of colour.

Not that I should tell any romance author how to write, but the threads of a thousand tales are woven in the very history of the U.K. They are multi-faceted as well as multi-coloured.

It’s not historically inaccurate to feature other races into a novel and to have those races lead, take your reader on the wildest of rides, to let them fall in love and be happy. The history is there: bold, accurate and realistic - let’s use it. 

Holiday!

I don't know if you can tell, but 2019 has not been kind to me. It's put weight on me. Made me commute on the Northern Line in the morning for work. Not allowed natural deodorant to work on me and I detoxed I swear! It's also trapped me in London - miserably. And I love this city, I do, but I need to be able to miss it once in a while.

My friends (experts in psychology) tell me that I need to have a break at least every three months as I work with members of the public in a stressful job. If you saw the number of grey hairs invading my scalp, you'd agree.

But this month begins the great travels of Billy! I'll be off to Oxford for a bit of boating. Then up to Leeds for some rebonding and meeting a new London descendant! Best of all, I'm going to Greece! Get me kalamalataed! Greece, if you remember, was the scene of drunken Lady London and I talking about getting Windows written up for other people to read. It was our first holiday away together and we spent a lot of it in the supermarket. I love a foreign supermarket! Cheap booze, cheap quality snacks, all those things you’d have forgotten at home are right there for you.

Greece also has an insane amount of mosquitoes who absolutely love the hell out of me and their repellent is the best, cannot tell you. Although I will be popping to Dulwich to get some natural repellent. Expensive as hell, but it smells like luxury, rather than chemical.

I'm not exactly returning to the scene of the crime but going to Corfu instead. It’s all beautiful, turquoise blue waters, sandy beaches, fresh fish and bread and olives and inching to 40 degrees C in August which will deepen this melanin to ecstasy!

I’ll be taking so many photos, probably of my toes in the water or in the sand, but lots that will carry me through the winter. At least until I’m back in Italy. Yep. That’s happening again this year too. I owe it to myself!

Our Father

It's Father's Day! I talked to my brother today, father of my beloved niece (who apparently counts me as one of her friends and I can't because she's too much) and he lamented the commercialisation of the day. That it's just for shops to make some extra cash. Then he talked to our dad, after I'd made him jollof rice, baked spiced chicken, salad, Goulder beer and some cake. When my niece is older and she's taken after her mother's extraordinary talent with baking, my brother will appreciate Father's Day a bit more. His daughter will be able to show her appreciation for him a little more.

It's a day fraught with complex feelings. Absolutely no parent is perfect, some imperfections can never be glossed over. I think of Marek Kaszinski's father and everything he took from his son. Things that can never be replaced. Auden Garceau's father who procreated him and failed to lift a finger to help him thereafter; an absence that cut so deeply it allowed an evil to take its place. Lily Asare's father who drank away her inheritance and her way to escape her horrendous, handsy boss. Pierce Callun's father who's selfishness put his son in the darkest of darkness that he almost missed out on the love of his life. Mical Wentworth's father who brought such evil into her life it destroyed her entire family. The unique pain they suffered as a result of paternal action or inaction is immeasurable. Only a parent can hurt you in ways that last a lifetime and sometimes beyond.

But some of those imperfections are shallow enough to lead to avenues that ultimately bring happiness.

If Art McWorth didn't have such compassion and connection to his father, he wouldn't have skipped out of his mother's wedding and started an inevitable path to meeting Patricia, who wouldn't have seen a photo of him to peak her interest. Without his utterly useless, criminally minded father Rocco Mamione wouldn't have become a lawyer, wouldn't have talked Lydia Atta Mills out of the trouble she got herself into, wouldn't have got Luca Cariso out of Italian prison so quickly and worst of all would never have met the storm that is Anna Taylor. Those children are so much stronger in spite of their fathers.

In a contrast to the evil stepfathers, there are the ones that step into that role quite literally as if they were born to be a father. Wynne Jones' stepfather who became a second and number one father after her own decided Scotland was too much for him and his daughter wasn't enough for him. The incredible Durante Da Canaveze who took not only Rufus Harrison under his wing, he stood between Arlo Vitale and utter devastation without hesitation.

Then you have the unicorns - magical dads.

Helena Sarpong's adoptive father who gave her siblings, purpose, calm and safety. Liam McNamara who built a whole website to talk through sex education with his daughter. Gina Robinson's father who loved and cared for her after her mother passed away with such dedication he became her friend as well as her lone parent. Lonan who killed to protect his child. Madeline Mpoyi's father who got her the hell out of Rwanda with only one bullet wound to show for it. There's another one, but I can't tell you about it because spoilers!

Not all fathers are dads. And not all dads are magical. For those of you that have the later, be ever so grateful, enjoy every single minute with them and pass the joy in remembered story for the next generation.