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.

Island Girl

It’s that time of year again. Love Island time! Every evening (except Saturdays where they get to have a break, go to the beach and try not to crack on with each other without the cameras in tow) we gather via Twitter (Black Twitter UK v Fiat 500 Twitter) to watch, the laugh, to hype a gaggle of girls and a batch of boys find love and maybe win some money at the end of it. It’s fantastic TV and even better social media bants.

This will sound awful unless you understand, but I could watch Love Island in mental peace when there weren’t any black girls on the show. I’ll explain. Last year, Samira Mighty, she of ‘cutsie’ and the ‘yaaaaas’ scream as she got a text fame, was the last girl to be picked. Why? I cannot for the life of me tell you. Except for the fact that she’s a black girl. Her body as a dancer is fire. She connected strongly with the other girls in the villa, especially fan fave Dani but she didn’t seem to inspire the same in the penile of the species. Why? Coz apparently black is a type that men (of all races) are not interested in. The contestants will say this out loud. On national TV. With their whole chest. 

“She’s not my type.” 

“But you said you like brunettes.” 

“She’s not brunette, she’s…” cue awkward gesturing.

It was a disappointing end for Samira, even though she found love in the villa with then beau Frankie, we hardly saw them together to understand Samira’s breakdown when he was selected to leave. The editing made sure their connection was never seen by the light of day. We don’t talk about what happened after. We don’t.

This year we have the gorgeous Yewande. As soon as her face popped up as one of this year’s contestants, I groaned. I guessed far too well where the attacks would come. Her hair. Her teeth. Her mouth. Her sleek physique. But if I tell you the sheer amount of comments about a black woman’s hair in 2019 between 9 and 10 pm BST, you wouldn’t believe me. Brush it; tug it back; do something with it; it’s looking rough. Yewande was another girl chosen last and seemingly none of the boys were interested in because she wasn’t their type. How? She’s crazy smart, she’s got a banging body, and she’s Irish! Yesterday, an Irish girl entered the villa and one of the boys who had a date with her was sparkly eyed because she was Irish too. Guess what colour she was?

It’s ultimately disappointing watching this show fail in diversity time and time again. To keep prompting type as a colour. I swear, if one girl this year says “mixed race is my type” I will hurt people. A lot of people. It's stressful as a black woman to watch a healthy, beautiful, intelligent, young black woman have her self esteem chipped away day by day literally because she's not white and blonde. 

Some would query then why I write interracial romance novels, if I have such an issue with people claiming a type. You cannot unequivocally state that an entire race of people is not attractive because of the colour of their skin and call it a preference. That’s wholly racist, and if you don’t understand why, you’re lost. You haven’t met every single black person on this planet to say you aren’t attracted to them.

Further, black women are bottom of the list where dating and marriage is concerned. It’s exactly why I write stories with black women front and centre. With their hair in any type of way. Wig, extensions, braids, relaxed, twists, natural Afro (represent Miss Eva). It’s why I want black heroines to be appreciated for their beautiful skin. For their heritage. Their sparkling personalities and their pillowy lips (long before women with a surname that begins with a K began to extol the virtues of fillers). My heroines are first choice. Are the dream women. The quality that has been missing from the heroes’ lives. The one thing worth any and all sacrifice to keep in their lives.

I’ll persevere with Love Island. Only because it’s like watching tv with a family of comedians who speak my language. But I’ll keep writing the happy endings for black women that seems to continuously elude reality tv. And reality itself.

Music In Me

I saw Rocketman over the Bank Holiday weekend and if you could have seen my face after I came out of the cinema, I'd have been the heart eyes emoji. Elton John, God Bless him and his divaness, put his whole life on screen until the moment he emerged from rehab a bejewelled and bespectacled phoenix from the veritable ashes of his life. The way he used his own music to propel the story and to speak to the emotion each and every person felt in that moment, at that time, was extraordinary. Time used to be that I couldn't hear Rocketman without hearing Stewie from Family Guy pretending to be cool, singing this in his faux British accent, as a gig in a smoky bar. Now, I hear Elton or moreover, I hear Taron Egerton (thanks Spotify!). I feel how badly he wanted to escape. How he wanted to be true to himself. How different he was from the man in feathers on stage. And something I read struck me. Don't write to music. You won't convey the emotion of what you're writing as well as what you're feeling when you hear the song.
Or something similar. Don't quote me, but it was in the same vein as the above. What you're writing won't have the same emotional impact without the music. Look, everyone has writing advice for all seasons. You can't go on social media without tripping over someone starting a tweet yelling "AUTHORS!" I write to music full stop. It's the only way I know how to write. The entirety of Shibah's Monster came to me listening to when I listened to Storm  by Craig Armstrong and A R Rahman. Remains started with Vaults' Premonitions. I wrote a whole scene in Windows around Que Sera, Sera by Sly & The Family Stone. Wynne's Surprise wouldn't have been the same, if I hadn't listened to Jack Garratt's Fire. If I told you how many versions of Verdi's Requiem I listened to for the right soprano singing Libera me  for Verde Bianco Rosso you'd be concerned for my general mental health - also the perfect distraction: "It's for the book!" Army of Me and You's ending chapter has Ellie Gouldng to thank. It was better to cry happy tears, than just sad tears to Explosions. I wouldn't have had a clue what to do with Gabriel in Angel's Baby if it wasn't for Keaton Henson's To Your Health or with Auden's midnight strolls without BoB's Ghost in the Machine in Addicted to Witch. Sympathy for the Devil was a reworked old story that I'd never got around to finishing and without each and every track, I know I wouldn't have finished it. I could see Toni getting off the tube at Brixton while COOL played. Cari knocking the shit out of Pierce outside halls to Deadmaus. The same two sitting in that café while James Vincent McMorrow's Look Out tore at my heart.
I know when I was in the midst of my Sahara Desert (the time of Hank abandonment and all my various issues) I wasn't listening to music. No Coldplay. No Rudimental. No Vaults. No Missy Elliot. No James Blake. No Hans Zimmer. That serious, not even Hans got me out of the pit.
I had these crazy expensive Beats headphones and I was watching film trailers with them. Sad times. I can't recall which song/film/advert started it all back up again, but I know it was my link with music that Hank came back to me and said the immortal words "double decker Routemaster bus". When you read it, you'll know. And without the music, I wouldn't be at the finishing line of what is now the longest Italian Knights book in herstory.
So I say thank you for the music! Wouldn't be here without it. ps go see Rocketman. It's a joyous biography of a man who knows his music.

Love Me Again

I spend far too much time on Instagram. It is the perfect place for high-key stalking. Will Smith's Instagram is amazing. Both complete with life lessons and hilarious child-mockery, it sustains me. Anyway, my favourite cover artist, Bree Archer is posting again! Hopefully this means I can get back to re-releases of the last few books still suffering in backlog purgatory. Put Out The Zombie has been out of play for sooo long. It always reminds me of the late great Rhonda Scales.

I was thinking about her a few days ago and it hurt anew that I couldn't shoot her a quick email for a chat. It was Ms Rhonda's idea to have more zombies in books and to give it a different twist. I included her suggestion in my tale with gusto. She also was the one behind Kissing the Canvas and Lily having her name, instead of something not as floral related. Librarians always come through but Ms Rhonda took it to another level.

Her openness, her intelligence and wit and the way she embraced the authors of Beautiful Trouble Publishing, and other black authors was extraordinary. I was so pleased I got to meet her in NC and enjoy her joie de vivre in person. I will always be grateful for her ideas, her support and her all around effervescence.

When I do get it a new cover, the dedication for Ms Rhonda will be bold and beautiful. Just like she was.

Under Attack

It's been impossible to avoid. The hashtags, the call to arms, the feeling that we are all being inevitably being pushed towards a Handmaid's Tale of a future. It's terrifying to watch. Because there will be countries taking note of what is happening in the West in order to justify their own cruelties. I'm sure some have taken the Northern Ireland line of reference for their restrictions - a deeply unjust deviation from what should be law there as much as it is in England and Wales. It starts with abortion, then it filters into control of every aspect of a woman's life and her ability to make the simplest of choices. You've watched A Handmaid's Tale. June tells you how it starts. You get the flashbacks from Serena Joy preaching the virtues of 'traditional values' while never thinking it would apply to her. That slope is the steepest of declines and we should all be worried.  

 

Liz Lincoln tweeted that we needed to start normalising abortion in our romances. We do with contraception and sexual health. We normalise everything else - we should do this too. I wanted to contribute my own. So here's Athena's Quiet, a short tale of a normal woman, doing a normal thing, to continue with her normal life. 

Athena's Quiet © Billy London

The scent of ginger mingled with fried onions, stirring Athena from her sleep. Local anaesthetic for the win, she thought, half sitting up in the duvet smothering her. He was cooking for her. Cooking by Shan was reserved for special occasions only. She supposed this counted as a special occasion. it wasn’t every day you had what rhymed with a schschmortion.

Apparently doubling up on the injection and condoms was kryptonite to a determined zygote. At work, a colleague watched her open a window, then turn her personal radiator on, then close the window again before announcing, “Athena that looks like a hormonal thing. You might be pregnant.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Her colleague shrugged. “First thing that tripped me up. My temperature.” She paused. “Do you want me to get a test for you? I know a good one for a tenner.”

Athena agreed, only because she didn’t need the worry of a potential pregnancy in addition to everything she needed to do by day’s end. Low and behold, the test that should have bought her some lottery tickets gave her a minor panic attack instead.

Shan has been as shocked as she’d been when she showed him the test once. “But…” he began, frowning over his black rimmed glasses. “Fucking hell. Fuck. Fuck!” He drew out the word in a loud exhale. “We just bought this place. We’re so broke!”

“Yuuup.”

Athena rested a hand on her cheek while Shan grappled with the news. His hands went from his hair to flexing back and forth from fists, making his arms strain in the thin cardigan he wore. His disquiet both pleased and confused her. He definitely wasn’t happy. But his devastation couldn’t be defined. In addition to their lovely little cottage which cost far more than it was worth, they’d booked themselves a proper holiday. The last one they anticipated having before home improvements would take over. She loathed the idea of cancelling their time away. Of having to get a pram rather than the pouffe she wanted for the living room to complement their open fire place. To watch her body lose the control she’d fought so hard for. To risk the delicate balance of her mind. It just seemed horribly unfair.

“Can I say what I think we should do?” Shan offered. “And if you want to hit me, can you hold off until I’ve finished.”

She sniffed. “I’ll allow it.”

He closed his eyes. “Not have it.” Relief poured through her. God, thank you for being in mental sync with my man. He opened one eye. “You’re not hitting me.”

“Is there more?” She asked, feeling benevolent. “You said to wait until you finished.”

He spread his huge hands apart. “That’s it. I just wanted you to wait before you hit me.”

“I’m not hysterical,” she said mildly.

“But you’re pregnant.”

“Still not hysterical, mate.”

He looked a sickly colour of pale. Poor man. “What do you want to do?”

Athena shrugged, feeling bile rising in her throat. “I don’t want it. I’m sorry.”

He let out a whooshing breath and scooped her up into his lap, resting her on his thick thighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think my balls contained that power.”

She snorted with laughter. “You should be, for the bullshit I’m about to go through.” A thought occurred to her immediately, sending a wave of nausea through her at the very idea. “Don’t tell Garret.”

Shan looked taken aback. “What? Why?”

“He’s a judgemental cunt,” she answered. Athena couldn’t remember how the conversation came about; they’d been out celebrating their first home, fully owned (mortgaged to the nines but theirs all the same). Maybe that progress soured the taste in Garrett’s mouth and he decided to get political with her arse. A mistake after so much tequila, her articulation always improved after a drink or four. Garrett was one of Shan’s oldest friends. Loyalty was her boyfriend’s strongest and weakest trait, but she’d learned the hard way in getting between friends in life before Shan. She refused to risk it again, but intuitively, Shan kept his distance from Garrett since that night.

“I supposed you’re an improvement in company.” He slurred after trying to irritate her on female politicians on social media. “After Lynn and her baby killing ways.”

“Whoa!” Athena yelled, leaping to her feet. “What the fuck man? Who says that?”

He yanked her back down and spluttered into her ear. “She was all for men’s rights until it came to me. Got rid. Told me after and I shouldn’t worry.”

“When was this?” She asked, feeling horribly sorry for Lynn, that she hadn’t felt enough of a kinship to speak to Athena about it.

“Last year. ‘S why we broke up. Couldn’t look at her any more. She stole that from me.”

“Stole what? You barely liked her,” Athena blustered.

“I could have been a dad!”

“Yeah but did you ask her if she wanted to be a mum?”

“What about me?”

“What about you? You can have a thousand kids if you want to! Be a dad tomorrow if you like!”

He sneered at her. “Of course you’d back her up like a typical feminazi. Bet you’d do the same to Shan if he looked the other way for a second.”

“The only time Shan looks the other way is if I’m cooking,” she spat back. “Why are you feeling sorry for yourself? With all the I want to be a Dad business, do you know what pregnancy does to a woman? Do you know how it can kill her? How she can get diabetes, piles, high blood pressure, hair falling out. Teeth falling out. It’s not sunshine and fucking rainbows and that’s before she’s even given birth. And while you’d be in the pub, I guarantee you would,” she added before he could protest, “Lynn would’ve been at home with the baby for you to tell her she’s a frigid cunt for not putting out.”

“I’ve never called her that!” He blustered.

Athena’s lip curled in disgust. “Yes, you have! At least three times when I’ve been standing right next to her!”

Garrett shook his head, his eyes reddening, from anger or upset, she didn’t know or truly care. “It’s not right. You can’t say her doing that without me knowing is okay.”

Oh yes I fucking well can.  She posed a question to him, “if she had cancer, and she cut it out without you knowing, what would be the problem?”

He stared at her in utter horror. “What? Athena! You can’t compare a baby to cancer!”

“With all those side effects and risk of death? I fucking well can. It’s in her body, it depends on her body, on her sacrifice.”

“It’s a living person.”

Athena rolled her eyes so hard, her retinas ached. “So, what did you pay for as soon as she got pregnant? Days off work? Start a trust fund? Stocked up on nappies? Buy a house? Exchanged that ridiculous car for a family saloon?” His face turned puce. “Hmm. Lynn was supposed to do all of that herself and you just what? Turn up to wet the babies head?”

Garrett stood up. “You’ve got a sick mind. Shan should get rid.”

“He’s never had oral sex like it, he’s not going anywhere.” She smirked and raised a glass to him as he stormed to the bar. He’d been vile to women at the best of times, but after that Garrett actively sought to insult her out of Shan’s hearing. It never bothered her. Until now. The thought of him knowing. Labelling her “baby killer” along with Lynn who was now the “psycho ex” even though she was getting married next year. It made her feel ill.

“He won’t understand. He thinks women are either baby containers or baby killers.”

Shan’s face contorted. “When did he think like that!”

“It’s there. Just please. Trusted folks only. Even then just sound a motherfucker out first. They’ll feel sorry for you and call me a bitch for snatching fatherhood from you.”

His jaw flexed. “I’d dare anyone to say that to my face. I’d fucking dare.”

“You actually like me!” She said it on a delighted laugh.

“I love you,” he corrected her, squeezing her gently into his bulk. “No one gets to say shit about us. No one.”

True to his word, he didn’t relay a single thing. She had no idea how his parents felt about it, only that they sent her some flowers with a card to say they were thinking of her. She called Lynn the day before the procedure.

“Hold on, let me go to another room,” she whispered into her mobile. Eventually, Athena heard a door close. “Was it Garrett who told you?”

Athena winced. “Yeah.”

“He’s such a cock,” she fumed. “Bet he still calls me a baby killer, doesn’t he?”

“I set him straight.” She promised.

Lynn gave a half-hearted laugh. “I’m sure you did. Look, my fiancé doesn’t know any of the old lot. He doesn’t know I’ve had one.”

Athena blinked. “But you’re getting married.”

“Yeah. And he wants kids. So do I. I just didn’t want them with that walking, insulting muppet. Can you imagine being tied to that prick for the rest of your natural days? I want to have kids with someone who gives a fuck about me. Adam’s family is really fucking middle class. Like scratching climb into higher society middle class. Nice girls don’t have abortions, and certainly not their daughters in law.”

“That they know of.”

“Oh Athena, I love you I really do but you don’t understand how people look at you differently when they find out. It’s so fucking disappointing. Who’ve you told?”

“Shan. My mum. You. That’s it.”

“Why’s that?”

It was a rhetorical question. “It’s personal. I don’t want everyone to be talking about my body.”

“What do you want to know?”

“How much does it hurt? I’m too far gone for the pill.”

Lynn took a deep breath. “Depends on your pain threshold. The procedure itself didn’t hurt. I was under local, so I was awake. It was probably the longest ten minutes of my life. After it just felt like the worst side of period pains. You may cry. A lot at nothing. You may not. You may be fine. It’s different for everyone.” Lynn hesitated. “Fee?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you do me a favour?”

“What?”

“Don’t go on your own.”

Athena started.

“Please. It’s just not something you especially should do on your own.”

“What did you do?”

She sniffed. “I got an Uber.”

Shan told her they’d get an executive car from the clinic back home. He excused the expense as a necessity because fuck getting on a tube after that. He’d shuddered, describing in detail the potential disgust a journey on the Northern Line at one in the afternoon would entail. Body odour. Smelly food. Someone tapping makeup onto your jeans. A suited twat stepping on your French Soles. Man had a point. At the consultation, with Shan sitting forward resting his hefty arms on his knees, the consultant told her that she didn’t have to talk to anyone about it if she didn’t want to. No one had the right to tell her what to do. The consultant sent an arch look to Shan and repeated the two words with such emphasis, a blush rose on Shan’s cheekbones.

“Rude,” he said under his breath, to Athena’s smuggled giggle. She thought about the friends she wanted to talk to about it, to the point where she had to bite her tongue. The same friends who were talking about how they tracked their ovulations, who were meeting doctors to discuss their fertility, ones who were about to send out invitations to their baby shower. In an eye twitching moment, Athena promised any of said pregnant friends that if they decided to have a gender reveal party, she’d report them all to the Home Office. She wanted to talk about it so badly. The leaflet told her one in three women had an abortion before the age of 41. She knew them. They just weren’t talking.

The only person Athena truly worried about calling was her mother. Her overly religious, traditional mother.

“What in God’s name Athena!” she bellowed when Athena said she was sort of pregnant.

“It happens. I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? More importantly, what are you doing about it?”

Athena didn’t hesitate. “I’m not keeping it. I can’t. We just bought this place and I’ve got less money than I did when I was a student.”

“Oh thank God.”

She removed the mobile from her ear and put it back again. “What?”

“After all the money I spent putting you through school and university. The fact that you can’t even fry plantain properly and you want to have a baby? No. It’s not your time.”

Athena’s mouth twitched. “I said I don’t. I can’t.”

“And that’s one of the better life decisions you’ve made.” Her mother sighed. “I wouldn’t want for you what my mother had to go through. You know that’s what killed her, don’t you?”

Athena heard the gossip from cousins as to what took out her Grandma Ruby. From pneumonia to a snake bite. She hadn’t a clue that it was... “What happened?”

“She went to someone to help because she couldn’t afford to go to a doctor. They cut her badly, Athena, she bled to death.”

“Oh my god,” Athena whispered and a hundred horrific thoughts spun through her mind. Good Ol’ Blighty wouldn’t kill her. But then again, she was a black woman. What wouldn’t? “How old were you, Mum?”

“Seven.”

“Then who told you?”

“Your Uncle Martin,” she said dismissively. “He can’t keep his mouth shut for anything. He said she didn’t want any more children and to be fair, seven is enough for any woman. There was no reason for her to have eight. And it killed her.”

“Mum. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Why would you?” came the sarcastic retort. “It’s never been something we talk about. The only reason I’ve accepted you living with Your Man is because he’s told me he’s going to marry you. Time’s ticking on that.”

She ignored her mother’s stance on marriage. She could afford to with all this brand new information. “I thought you’d talk me out of this.”

“God’s sake, why? Alright, say I did have a problem with you having an abortion. What would you do?”

“Still have an abortion?” She offered with a shrug.

“Then don’t worry about me. Unless... What’s Shan’s thoughts?”

The first time she’d called him anything other than Your Man. “He’s one hundred percent with me. No time for baby time.”

Her mother sighed in relief. “Good. At least you’re both being sensible. Do you want me to come with you?”

Athena felt tears prickle behind her eyes. In relief of her mother’s words, in her offer, in a wave of hormones she wanted to stop fucking with her. “No, Mum it’s okay. Shan’s coming with me.”

“He should do, since this is his fault.”

“Takes two to tango.”

“Well, he should have worn a waistcoat then.”

It made her laugh even now, despite how much it made her back ache. “I want the best for you,” her mother added over her laughter. “You know what that is better than anyone.”

“Thanks Mum.”

“What else am I here for? I’m letting the dog in now. Call me after.”

The revelation of her grandmother’s tragic death made her talk Shan’s ear off. And off he went on Google, using a iPen to circle diagrams and highlight articles.

“But you don’t even want to read reviews. This is basically the same thing,” she wondered at his interest.

“I need to know how to look after you. It’s not a bad period,” he replied. “Anything that involves anaesthetic has risks.”

Lines between his arched brows were becoming more defined. Ever since she’d told him. She promised to rub a little snail serum into his skin before he slept. Or maybe they should go to a spa. Get a cheap Wowcher deal and peace out of London for a bit. His care seemed almost too much. She really wanted him to go back to giving her bum a cheeky slap and calling her a future Nailed It contestant. You burn pancakes just one time…

That day, she would be able to recall with the strangest of clarities; what she wore (a BooHoo lougewear co-ord in an oatmeal colour she’d seen on a reality tv star the week before) with the Adidas trainers Shan bought for her to go running with him, how the sky was the lightest blue she’d seen in sometime, Shan’s usual cardigan, t-shirt and jeans combo but in a complimentary colours to her oatmeal get up, sharing his earpods with her so they could watch The IT Crowd on their way. Her boyfriend’s eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. Served him right for falling into the black hole of procedural risks. In the theatre, Athena focused on the enormous earrings of her doctor. Enormous diamonds that sparkled with every movement.

When the earrings were out of sight, she looked at the nurse who was losing his hair, a widows peak forming. Eddie Munster, she called him. His name was Carlo. He’d told her to reach for him if she was in any pain or if she needed anything. Just please let it go well. I don’t want to deal with this any more. She was tired of feeling sick, tired of feeling tired, of her breasts aching to the point that her bras were verging on S&M without the possibility of an orgasm at the end which seriously pissed her off. Lynn had been right. It was the longest ten minutes of her life. Eddie Munster/Carlo, wheeled her into the recovery room which had a haze to it. Whether it was the sunshine or the local anaesthetic weaving its way into her, she hadn’t a clue. Only that she felt lighter than she had in weeks. All that worry; all that hushed talk; all that fear… evaporated. She slept. Just peaced out for a cloud-like rest. When she opened her eyes, Shan sat next to her bed, his iPad balanced in the crook of his arm while he rummaged in his rucksack for something. He glanced up to see she was awake and his face glowed with his smile.

“Alright, Love Muff?”

She grinned. “I’m okay. What are you looking for?”

“Those spicy tortilla chips you love. I know I threw them in here. With the crème caramel.” A look of guilt crossed his face. They’d bought the small chiller bag when looking for a baby gift for one of their friends. It was useful. The times it had come with them to open air theatres, cinemas, after work picnics. They had such a beautiful life together, just the two of them…

Carlos came back to run over her aftercare, just to ensure she’d go to her GP or hospital if anything felt wrong. Shan assured Carlos with a familiar flicker that looked like possessiveness that Athena would be well cared for.

Their executive car arrived to take them home. To be fair, Athena couldn’t really appreciate as her stomach rolled in protest of the chips and the crème caramel – her guaranteed recovery treats. She just didn’t want to be sick in a fancy car. Shan scooped her from the vehicle once it smoothly came to a halt outside their cottage. His strength sank into her, her hand cradling the cords in his neck.

He stripped off the oatmeal get up and wrapped her in their duvet. Lying down next to her, he stroked her hair until she fell asleep again. Her dreams slipped from the beach to the city to the mountains. Just her and Shan.

The scent of food woke her up. She grabbed Shan’s discarded cardigan and padded downstairs to the kitchen. He did an electric wave, shifting the ladle from one hand to the other and her laugh startled him into juggling the utensil. He put it down to cup her face, examining every part with his liquid dark eyes.

“You alright? Feeling nauseous?”

She shook her head. “I’m not bad. Probably just need to eat so I can take some more drugs. Drugs,” she added with a singsong.

“I’ve done that donburi you’re obsessed with.”

“With duck or chicken?”

He sent her a disgusted look. “Don’t even try to checkmate me, I know you. Call your mum,” he ordered. “She’s been texting me prayers every hour on the hour.”

Shan spooned some kimchi into a bowl then set the table while she FaceTime’d her mother.

“I’m coming over tomorrow,” her mother insisted. “Lower the camera so I can see what you’ve got.” Her mother made an appreciative sniff after Athena showed her the huge bowl of food. “I’ve made some soup for you.”

“Thanks mummy,” she whispered, feeling overwhelmed.

“It’s just soup. If I really was worried, I’d have made you waakye and fried some fish. You had a ten minute operation. You’re fine.”

“Harsh but fair,” Shan murmured.

“Thanks Mum,” she toned it down for the disrespect and blew her a kiss to end the call.

Food finished, Shan sent her to the living room. He’d already started a fire to toast the cold room and turned the tv on. She flicked through Netflix, wondering who could offer her comfort. Oh yes! Final Space. As soon as Shan heard the titles, he snatched the remote control from her.

“Absolutely not.”

“What the fuck?” she bellowed. “That’s my comfort tv!”

“No, you’re just going to cry. Stop it. Watch something you hate. Watch Riverdale.”

He had a point. “I could watch you wash up badly. I hate that.”

The grin he sent her usually would have her half naked with her legs in the air. “You adore me.”

“Do you still adore me though?” She didn’t know where the question even came from, or the flood of emotion that came with it. Instead of what should have been a reprimand for questioning his feelings, she found herself on her feet and tucked into a Shan hug. Enveloped in his arms, she knew the answer, even before he scattered kisses in her hair, tugging at the plaits so she would look at him.

“You did the most incredible thing for us. You and me. I’ll never forget it, and I’ll love you forever for that. I mean it.”

The last cobwebs of doubt evaporated by the sheer strength in his words, in his arms, in his love. She closed her eyes and savoured the embrace. Her bones felt as weightless as the heaviness in her lower body. She searched for upset, for guilt, for regret and found not a single one. She had Shan.

She piped up. “We’re still going on holiday though, right?”

“Oh, without a doubt,” his voice rumbled with determination over her head. “We deserve it. House buying is stressful as fuck and this is just unnecessary additional bullshit. We need Vitamin D. You know how important that is for us ethnics.”

God’s sake, she thought with a giggle. He did know her too well.

The start...

https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/abortion/

https://mariestopes.org.uk/abortion-services/

UN Committee confirms abortion is a human right

Woes vs Whoas

Yikes. I don't know if you watch Game of Thrones, but that word encompasses a lot. Anyone who follows a series, whether in books or on screen, you want any type of conclusion to fit the arc of the characters that have been drawn for them. You want a pay off that meets your expectations and satisfies you to a glass of whisky on the rocks and a vape. Even if you don't watch it, you can tell by the scent of barbecue smoke on Black Twitter roasting the writers that the bar has not been met.
Sometimes, a series will never meet the expectations that the fans have for it. Their theories, ideas, their dreams for how matters should play out may not align with what the writers have intended, especially if based on lore, comic books, a previous series, novels. Their disappointment will weigh on the makers indefinitely. Well, the ones that care.

The lovely Matt Tobey tweeted: Write as if David Benioff  and DB Weiss will get to finish your story if you don't.

If anything would motivate you to not only add him to your acknowledgements but finish your book, it's the idea of someone else taking the strains of what you've written and turning into something else that won't meet what you want for your characters, your plot, your design. To watch your characters, as mad, bad and dangerous as they may be  making utterly illogical decisions, throwing away any and every bit of goodwill they've earned on the way; to see them doing a disservice to their intelligence, their morals, their history for shock value? It is a painful watch.

I was at a meeting for the Dying Matters week and realised that I needed to build in a plan for what happens to my unfinished works. Wildfire that shit. I swear. Just burn the notes. Delete the files. Wipe the hard drive. Delete the stuff on the cloud. I think of David Gemmell's last story, finished by his wife Stella. While I know it was the ending David plotted and it was well written, it was so very obviously not him and I could sense it in the fibre of the story. I honestly don't want anyone to do that for me. Just pls, no, stop.

As an author, you know you won't make people happy. I know there are still people side-eyeing me for Tony and Lydia and that Massimo and Belinda are a complete anomaly but me and Hot Muse Hank have let every single character follow through what has felt true to them. Did I tell you about the time I tried to write a threesome into Wynne's Surprise? And Brendan Macclellan legit went hardcore Scot on me and said "are ye outta ya wee mind? Ahd neva share ma Wynnie. Neva. Take that oot. Now." And how close Arlo Vitale came to losing his life on paper? And both Ella and Durante were like, "Don't do it. We'll haunt you until you die."

Whatever I've written, I know it's what my characters have told me they wanted. And not just to bring it to an end so I can move on. It's exactly what they've told me to write. It's half of why Murano has taken forever. I want Beppe and Mimi to tell me how this story goes and they straight up blocked me for months on end. Now they're chatting, it feels authentic to them, to the old gang making their appearances and to the series as a whole.

There's one more week of this and Game of Thrones comes to an end, for D&D to go off to write Star Wars. Can't wait to see how that turns out! Honestly, I just hope I live long enough to not see myself become the villain of my own works. That would be cruelty of the highest order.

Homecoming

Oh Beyoncé, Beyoncé! What you've done with Homecoming cannot be overstated, underestimated, or dismissed. I cannot get over the fact that this woman had three children (fifty-'leven as she called them), established a whole stage at Coachella, choreographed it, directed it, chose all the dancers, singers, musicians, chose the lighting, the costumes, arranged the set list, got her body into shape after what sounds like yet another traumatic birthing experience, got her confidence back, rehearsed for eight months so when the video was filmed over both nights, it was actually seamless in the transitions, sold it to Netflix and arranged a deal with Adidas with enough black people in the room to ensure she was doing enough for her people. And I've been sitting around eating custard creams while listening to Freedom.

She's extraordinary and I have to breakdown the reasons why this had such a profound effect on me:

1. Black Women

"Let them know we're real!" Danai Gurira.

King Bey was the first African-American woman to headline Coachella. The first. In 2018. *judging sigh* The milestone meant that Beyoncé could have done anything. And what she truly did was raise black women up in the same loving way she did in Lemonade. She handpicked everyone. The majority of her dancers are black women and after taking note of criticisms, black women of a variety of sizes and shapes. You wouldn't understand unless you're black how we look for someone who looks like us in everything. If I watch Ice Skating, I'll look for another Surya Bonaly. (Not that another Surya exists!) but I'll look for a dark skinned black woman. I'll look for any black woman to be fair. In football. On television reality shows. In soap operas, We've been hidden for so very, depressingly, long it means the world that we are visible. Carefree. Having an absolute blast. Front and freakin' centre. Playing instruments. Dancing. Singing. You cannot miss any of us. We are glossy, beautiful and we are here.

2. HBCUs

"It was more important that I brought our culture to Coachella." Beyoncé.

As a Brit, for the longest, all I wanted to do was live in America and be a female Blair Underwood in LA Law. I mean I sort of am Blair Underwood in LA Law now, with LK Bennett dresses and Mulberry shoes but the law isn't even a 1/100th as sexy as that show; but the idea of going to a college/university and being surrounded by other black people and not having to be wary about what you say or how you act to meet a certain standard or to not be judged in a particular way, held such sway. If the fees weren't insane, I'd have talked my parents into it. Believe me! Beyoncé didn't go to a HBCU either. She was being an international superstar. In my author sisters, I've seen the pride in the sororities, I've seen the steppers, the formations with the marching bands. The precision and the talent and the intelligence and power in the spaces that were created for young black men and women to excel and to have that celebrated genuinely brought tears to my eyes. For Beyoncé to create an entire show to celebrate HBCUs and let the entire world know about them is simply extraordinary.

3. Body Positivity

"I have to take care of my body." Beyoncé

Yes, my queen had two whole children and now has a thigh gap. It can be disheartening to know how much work she had to put into getting her body ready for the show, but she treated her body as an athlete would for competition. I didn't see her promoting eating pure oxygen for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but her cutting down to a most likely nutritionist approved plant based diet to help her shed the pounds in a short amount of time, to get her energies at a premium to perform a two hour show two days in a row and sing while performing and dancing (two separate things!) She openly admitted how she didn't think she would be the same and how she lacked confidence. Child birth changes so much about you as a woman - emotionally, mentally and physically. I was amazed to see her slowly but surely reclaim her confidence to flawlessly do what Beyoncé had set out to do. She also said she'd never push herself that hard again. Herself. Not the Beyhive. Not any young woman looking up to her. But herself. It was for her.

Another young woman, a dancer, added that she didn't think she'd be able to get back to dancing after she gave birth and yet, there she was, making history with one of the greatest artists ever. Another said she thought she was "too short, too thick" to be part of such a show. The show was full of positive body representations for everyone. Standing ovation for that.

4. Boss

"There's always something we can improve upon." Beyoncé

As a professional, and as a black woman, there will always be that sidelong glance when you're just that bit too loud, too aggressive, or you're talked over because someone knows better than you - right? To see that happen to Beyoncé, that she provided notes and they weren't applied and she had to tell her people to do it in the calmest, chilliest "get the fuck on with it" tone made me grin. That Virgo perfectionist. She's been doing this for 22 years. 22 years and you're not going to apply your boss's notes? Really? People are brave. You wouldn't dare call Beyoncé a bitch for gathering her folks together; same should apply to any black woman in a position of authority or even seniority. Respect shouldn't be relative to the melanin in your skin.

5. Friendship

"Give it up for my best friends!" Beyoncé

Kelly Rowland and Michelle Williams have been part of Beyoncé's life forever. The importance of female friendships in all walks of life was ultimately highlighted by the unison, the harmonious prescence of those three women on stage. All of what they've experienced, their highs, lows, weddings, break ups, breakdowns, career milestones, babies. When you go through life, you want the people who know you best to be right next to you. To tell if you're wildin', to back you up, to lift you up, to give you a hug, to go on your multi-million dollar yacht for a week with you. I honestly feel so many lives would be ultimately improved by having a solid friend who you can just chat shit to. I get that Kelly and Michelle are that for Bey. I know Solange is more than a friend, she's Bey's little sister but she needs to be included in this section because their unity, their closeness is evident in the fact that perfectionist Beyoncé included them falling over in her video, rather than when they did it right! Having two male siblings, being close with them is a matter of work. You can love your family and not like them - and on stage, I see more than love between Solange and Beyoncé - I see love and friendship.

6. The Rise of Queen Blue

"I wanna do that again! Cause it feels good!." Blue Ivy

My favourite little girl in the world is my niece. Without doubt. Forever until she becomes an adult. It just is what it is. Blue Ivy took a look at that listing and said "Oh rily?" There she is on screen, singing, following dance moves with her immaculate braids, watching and learning from her mother. Being an all round icon and she ain't even seven yet. When your mother is Beyoncé and you have a front row seat to an insane work ethic and a dedication to you, your brother, your sister and your Dad? What else are you going to be but amazing? Don't worry Bubbie - you're rating is still 1. Promise!

7. Music

"SING! LOUDER!" Beyoncé

When I found out Beyoncé was headlining Coachella, I knew it'd be incredible. I didn't know she'd do remixes and breakdowns and bring out Kelly and Michelle. I know I should have paid that £165 for those tickets in Ireland to see the OTR Tour. I've listened to the live version countless times and you cannot keep me still. I am dancing, I'm singing along, I am reminiscing as most of these songs (the old ones) are full of great memories in my life. Now I'm learning different choreography for them all because a bitch has to be dedicated now. The live band, trumpets man, the drumming, the singing, the gospel influence (black church on a Sunday realness!)
Subtitles saved me because I've been singing so many of these songs so wrong. ***shame intensifies admitting this***
It will never not annoy me that Lemonade didn't receive the amount of awards it should have done. It's a magical love letter to black women. Our struggles. Our healing. Our love. It deserved every accolade possible.

Enough of my own love blog to Beyoncé. I simply think she's extraordinary and should be lauded as such. Whenever you're back in London, King, I'll be there. With a credit card, coz, goddamn...