Every Smile You Fake Extract

Prologue

Please take care of my baby. You’re the only one I can trust with him. His name is Arie.
I don’t want to do this, but I have to. So please don’t try to find me. You’ll put him in danger.
I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. X

Part 1

Kez

 

16 May, Shoreham

‘This isn’t so much a question as an observation,’ he says.

We’re in Smithdowne Community Centre, a large community centre-cum-library space near Shoreham on the south coast, and this man stands among the 100-strong audience of book lovers, holding the microphone, as he prepares to hold forth.

Every time. Every. Single. Time. There is a someone – usually a man – who will stand up and say this very thing.

This evening began a couple of hours ago at eight p.m. The audience had settled down in their padded blue fold-down seats, and mic’d-up local Sussex crime fiction author Remi Hayford strode out onto the stage and sat down in the blue bucket chair at the centre of the three chairs, ready to talk about her latest book.

Next came the interviewer, Lucy Tumanow-West, an experienced journalist whose work had been in pretty much every national and local publication. She strode onto the stage and went for the furthest seat, next to Remi.

And then came me, radio mic black box in hand because I did not have pockets large enough for it, walking almost apologetically onto the stage to take my seat on the other side of Remi.

Lucy, the interviewer, had gone quickly through her housekeeping – in case of a fire, etc., etc. – and then had asked Remi to introduce herself and the newest book.

‘The Last Dancer At Brightfell Hall is kind of a locked-room mystery set on a crumbling Sussex estate where the inhabitants hate themselves almost as much as they hate each other,’ Remi had begun. ‘Something happens that brings members of the wider family together at the estate and pretty soon they are all trying to bump each other off for profit, revenge and/or fun.’ As Remi laid out more of the plot the audience lapped it up, hanging on her every word until everyone was rapt, on the edge of their seat, gagging to hear more. It was at this point Lucy turned to me and asked me to introduce myself.

After Remi had whipped everyone up, I knew what I said would barely register at first. But ‘My name is Kez Lanyon,’ I’d dutifully replied, speaking slightly to Lucy but mainly aiming my words at the audience. My voice came out as clear as Remi’s and Lucy’s but not as confident. They were used to doing this, I was not. ‘I’m a psychotherapist and profiler,’ I continued. ‘I usually work with companies to give them insight into the dynamics of their staff relationships and how they can improve company culture across their organisation. I used to do a lot of private practice therapy work with individuals, couples and sometimes families, and I have occasionally helped the police as well as working in prisons and other institutions, but I mainly stick with profiling for companies and organisations nowadays.

‘Profilers and psychologists like me often help writers when it comes to researching the criminal mind – although not all psycho- paths and sociopaths are criminals, many of them become fully functioning members of government . . . I mean, society.’ That had caused a few titters and had eased us into the conversation.

It’d been a pleasant evening and the audience seemed to enjoy them- selves as Remi did most of the talking and I provided any additional information. And then Lucy had thrown the floor open for questions.

So far I have done seven events with Remi, and I’ve found that most people are nice, fascinated and have genuine curiosity when they ask a question. But there is always one. Always one that has ‘an observation more than a question’.

And tonight it is this man.

This man who holds the microphone in his left hand like it is a chicken he is trying to choke, while his right hand is up and ready to gesticulate his verbalised ‘observation’.

I can feel Remi cringe and then internally sigh beside me. Because every time someone has not so much a question but an observation, every time someone starts to speak in that way, she knows it’s going to go something like this: ‘I’m sure your story is very nice and all, but you have to admit it is a bit far-fetched even for fiction, because I’m not sure they’d let someone as unstable as your character be in charge of a serial killer case. It’s fiction, but to be taken seriously, you have to at least allow your story to fall within the bounds of reality, and, with all due respect, I’m not sure it does, does it?’

When none of us on the stage reacts, he continues: ‘What, I suppose, I take issue with is this assertion that you can “profile” people based on nothing more than their briefly observed behaviour. You make a lot of how your story is based in reality and psychological pro- filing, how we can all work out other people’s motivations and their “sins” just by talking to them for a few minutes, seconds you said, seconds, wasn’t it?’ He’s pointing at me, talking to me now. ‘I suppose my question is that . . . no, no, not question, observation . . . is that saying stuff like that can be dangerous. It can give people ideas. We all know this is all a pseudo-science, at best, so I think you should be a little more careful about pushing this stuff.

‘It’s all well and good making up your nice little stories, and I expect you find some comfort in it, but you should be careful about parading what she says,’ pointing at me again, ‘as anything other than a fantasy that you write down in those books of yours.

‘Don’t get me wrong, don’t get me wrong, this is all said with the greatest of respect, I couldn’t do what you do, it would be too unbearably trivial, but just be careful, in case you and your hobby harm women, hold them back by giving them unrealistic ideas and expectations.’

Remi has written six books so far. Every one of them has been created while she juggles a full-time job and children and a wife. Writing books is not a hobby, it is her second job; the small amount of money she makes from it is what keeps her family afloat some years. And this man has dismissed all that. With his kindly delivered words, mendaciously dressed up in ‘all due respect’, he has trashed the importance of her work as well as the significance of her life.

We’ve had this type of ‘observation’ before, but not this bad.

I joined Remi on her Last Dancer At Brightfell Hall tour at the very last minute. Usually Remi works with a criminal psychologist and she was down to take part in these events with her but then said expert had broken her arm. It wasn’t so much the arm-breaking that had caused the problem – it was the afterwards. After she’d fallen in the street, after she’d broken her arm, after she’d somehow managed to get seen and sorted in record time – she went home earlier than expected and discovered that her husband’s idea of ‘working from home’ involved screwing their neighbour in their eldest child’s bed.

‘How the hell he got away with it for so long, I’ll never know,’ Remi had said when she rang to manipulate me into stepping in. ‘And ewww, for his child’s bed when other beds are available.’

Remi and I met years ago during the time I was heavily pregnant and would take my stepson, Moe, who was nine, to Hove Park so he could have a run around and play football. I’d seen Remi a few times, a friendly face who regularly said hello among the blur of trying to keep myself going, and then one day, when I just couldn’t peel myself off the bench where I’d practically collapsed, she came over and started playing football with Moe. We were friends for life after that.

I truly valued our friendship, which was why I’d told her more than once when she’d asked for advice, that I wasn’t going to give it to her. As far as I was concerned, our relationship was too precious to sully by letting our occupations collide. But the moment I’d answered the phone and she’d started to recount the tale of what had happened to her expert, I knew I’d end up doing it. Of course I would. How could I say no when she was so desperate?

‘Do you understand what I’m telling you?’ the man with the observation and not a question asks. ‘There isn’t anything necessarily bad in what you’re doing, but it can be dangerous if you carry on unchecked.’

‘There’s always one,’ Remi had explained to me on the train home from Birmingham after our first joint event, which had been sold out. ‘There’s always one person who wants to make you feel small and dismiss your work as trivial.’ I’d been to her book events before as a regular punter and I’d seen it happen, but it’s a whole new ball game when you’re the one sitting on the other side of the microphone. When it’s you the person with the reasonable voice and the passive-aggressive hand gestures is trying to diminish.

This guy is a bit worse than the others, though. There is something deeper, more targeted and personal in his aggression. I look to the woman sitting beside him. Her gaze is trained fixedly on the parquet floor, her mouth is a set line, her shoulders are hunched as she tries to make herself small, invisible. This man is not just getting at Remi and me, he is trying to put his wife back in her place.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ he repeats to the silence that has followed his tirade. People in the audience, readers who have shown up for a talk by a local-ish author and to hear the stories behind the books, are looking embarrassed for him. He doesn’t realise that. He is so lacking in self-awareness that he thinks the silence is every- one being awed by his brilliance, being impressed with his very public take-down of two people who’d clearly got above themselves, while he simultaneously reminds his wife that anything that matters to her is pointless, meaningless.

He waits to see if any of us are going to argue with him, and the triumph on his face is almost too much to bear.

This book is personal to Remi. Into the framework of the story, the scaffolding of the plot, the structure of the characters, she has woven pieces of herself, elements of her life. Her story is there on the pages of this book; her life and heart are on display in a way that they haven’t been before. It has taken her years to be able to open up like this, to show the hurt, to hint at the healing that is going on, to examine for herself how far she has come. That is why she needed an expert with her – she needed a shield. She needed someone for the audience to focus on so they would not see that this story of a dancer, damaged and hurt, who finally stands up to her past so she can create a better future, is all about what Remi has been through, what she has come through, what she is moving on from.

And this man, this ‘person’ has decided to trash that.

Remi is not going to respond. It’s the best way, in these situations, to pretend it’s not happening, to not allow yourself to be publicly dragged into the muck he’s spreading, but her silence doesn’t mean she isn’t hurting.

‘Well, erm, thank you for that,’ states Ameena, one of the events managers who was in charge of funnelling the questions from the floor, moving to take back the microphone. She has a rictus smile on her face, her body is tense. I wonder how many times she’s had to throw an apologetic look at a stage guest, while smiling at the person who has just insulted or, in this case, hurt said guest.

I stand, scooping up the black radio mic box as I come to my full height. At the same time, I feel rather than see Remi’s smile freeze on her face. She knows what’s coming and she’s . . . well, she’s a hair- breadth away from shouting to the man, ‘Save yourself! You can still save yourself if you take it all back! Say sorry and save yourself!’

‘I do understand what you’re saying,’ I tell him, my voice more confident now. ‘What I think you’re saying is that a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. For example, with the minuscule amount of knowledge that I have, I can’t completely work out if you were four- teen or fifteen when you first tried your sister’s hair conditioner.’

Everyone falls silent and Ameena has frozen mid-reach for the microphone.

‘I’m joking, I’m joking,’ I say. ‘It was, of course, your mother’s really expensive, special conditioner that you used almost all of and it was your sister that you let take the blame for it.’

The man becomes rigid, petrified at what I’ve just said. I’m right, of course, and he has no idea how I know.

‘I just can’t work out how many times, exactly, your sister got slapped about it while you pretended to know nothing.’

The man’s sallow, scooped-in cheeks start to colour, the red rising up from inside his collar.

‘I’m guessing your wife knows it’s you that uses her conditioner now?’

A few titters escape from the mouths of the mostly silent audience, and he whips his head around to glare at them to shut up because there is nothing funny about this.

He’s right, there is nothing funny about this.

‘I think your status as most favoured child in your family has created a sense of entitlement in you that has continued into adult life but has never been adopted by anyone outside of your households. I mean, your job is boring and everyone else seems to get the promotions before you, and yes, even those pesky women and brown people and, gasp, brown women.

‘Your children have never excelled at anything, so you avoid all con- versations about offspring achievements because you can’t even bring yourself to be proud of them for trying or simply being who they are.

‘You’re the butt of your friends’ jokes but can’t understand why because you think you’re the life and soul of the party. I’ll give you a hint why – it’s cos no one likes you. And I’m pretty sure no one will ever say you’re the first to put your hand in your pocket to get a round in cos you always “mysteriously” disappear when it’s your turn at the bar.

‘You truly believe the world is out to get you, which is how you explain why you’ve never amounted to anything. The reality is, mate, the world doesn’t even know you exist.

‘But, I think the most important thing I’ve learnt about you here tonight is this: I would not be saying any of this to you if you’d just sat there and let your wife enjoy her books in peace. You came here tonight because your wife read Remi’s latest book, loved it and was probably so excited to talk to her book group about it that she made the mistake of mentioning how much she loved it to you.

‘How dare she, eh? How dare she decide on what she does and doesn’t like. So you read it, and were outraged to find it was full of empowered women who don’t need relationships or men to live their best life. And that’s your worst nightmare, isn’t it? The idea that women could survive without you. So when your wife booked to come hear Remi speak, you decided to come put that writer in her place so you could put your wife in her place. Job done, I suppose.’

His face is a rock-solid mask of horror. No one is meant to know any of that, let alone all of that about him. And if somehow someone does find that out about him, they’re not supposed to say it out loud.

I pause . . .

One beat . . .

Two beats.

I smile the biggest smile; giggle the girliest of giggles.

‘How did I do?’ I say, softening my expression, opening my hands, raising my shoulders in cringing surrender. ‘I mean, what I do is a pseudo-science right? I’m probably way off base, aren’t I? Go on, you can tell me what I got wrong. I can take it.’

My smile becomes a wide grin, and the people in the room almost collectively let out their breaths. No one was sure what to make of what I was saying, if the words were jibes or truths, if they were moments of insight or seconds of me being a bitch. Now my smile, my laugh, my self-deprecating body language and words have put them at ease. ‘I was way, way off base, I bet, yeah? Because no one could be like that, live like that, could they? At least, not in real life.’

‘You just couldn’t leave it, could you?’ Remi will most likely say to me at some point. ‘You just can’t stop yourself reading someone for filth and then smiling afterwards. Leaving it is an option, you know.’

‘Not for me it’s not,’ I’ll have to reply. ‘It’s really, really not.’

 

Brandee

BrandeeH | @Brandee2ees | Joyn Inn Video | Status: All Joyn Inn | * February 2020 *

Hi there! Thanks for dropping by my Joyn Inn page. Haha! I’ve just got why it’s called Joyn Inn – cos they want people to join in! Honestly, I was today years old when I realised that’s why private videos are called Joyn Only Me, public ones are called All Joyn Inn and ones for select people are called You Joyn Me. Oh wow! I have only just got that after being on this app for like ten years! Haha! Don’t scroll away, I’m not completely ditzy, I promise.

All right, so. About me. I’m Brandee, two ees. You might already know my name and my face though cos my mum is kinda famous. I’m not going to link her in this cos we aren’t in the best place right now.

Please don’t you snitch link either. I’m sure she’ll find this video soon enough.

She became famous for her parenting blog, that became a series of videos and posts on various social media sites. She’s a parenting expert and has a spot on a couple of radio shows, a magazine column. She’s got over a quarter of a million Joyners. Oh wow! Just got that, too.

But I’m twenty, I live in Brighton and I started this channel cos I need a voice. I need a way to set the record straight when The Mothership does her thing.

My favourite things in the world are spending time with my BF, reading, drawing and learning. Weird, I know, but also really true.

I feel we’re going to get to know each other a lot better over the next while, so I’m not going to say too much now. Let me know in the comments who you are and what your interests are. And also what sort of things you’d like to see from me.

And please DON’T SNITCH LINK MY MOTHER. Peace In.

 

Kez

16 May, Shoreham

Remi hugs me at the glass front doors to the Smithdowne Community Centre, when her shiny silver taxi pulls up. The driver clicks on his meter as I fold my arms around my friend. The bookseller, Carolynn, from Brighton told us that she’d sold all the books and had to take people’s names and addresses for back orders – a first, apparently – so Remi is happy.

While I was watching Remi sign books, chat and have her photo taken with her fans, a few people had come up to me saying, ‘do me, do me’. I had dutifully ‘done them’ and none of them had been taxing. I hadn’t gone anywhere near as deep as I did with the other man, but they walked away satisfied that they were ‘doable’ but also enough of an enigma, enough of an individual, that I didn’t get everything right.

It’s complicated to explain to people that it is their individuality that makes them profileable. If they were like everyone else, then I would have serious problems working out what made them tick. Like that man, I could tell from the way he had styled his salt-and-pepper hair that he had spent years going to hairdressers instead of barbers, and years trying to find the right products to make it glossy, shiny and manageable. He had been at that a long time, so likely started young. When he was younger, men spending so much time on their looks and hair was frowned upon unless it was to use Brylcreem or the like. His hair obsession had started when he was young and it was a secret, and his contempt for women would have allowed him to let someone else take the blame for using his mother’s products.

His reaction to what I originally said about his sister had shown me that I was right about him, that I had been right about allowing some- one to take the blame for him. This would have grown as he grew, this would have become more entrenched – his sense of entitlement, his refusal to accept responsibility, the idea that his children not excelling reflected badly on him, the fact that he was a thoroughly unpleasant person. It was all there because he wasn’t like everyone else, because he was unique enough to stand up and try to tell off Remi and me.

Explaining to people that being unique makes them more profile- able is difficult because it is counterintuitive and hard to make understandable. So I let people think that their uniqueness, their individuality makes them difficult to decipher, when it’s actually the opposite.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ Remi says, as we loosen from the hug.

‘Yes, I’ll see you soon. This was an interesting event to end on.’

‘I can’t stop thinking about that guy’s face,’ she says in a low voice.

‘I thought he was going to rush the stage and pass out and spontaneously combust all at the same time.’

‘Yeah, I think I might have gone a bit too far,’ I reply. I do regret it when I – as Remi says, ‘read people for filth then smile’. I don’t like to hurt people, and I do sometimes wish I had the capacity to not respond when people did bad things.

‘No, you didn’t,’ Remi reassures. ‘Didn’t go far enough as far as I’m concerned. He was so unpleasant. He came here with the sole intention of hurting me and now he’s the walking wounded. No one asked him to come here. Talk about bringing it on yourself.’

The man and his wife had left the moment everyone stood up. I felt bad for his wife – she’d probably come to get her book signed, maybe have a chat with the author, and her husband had ruined that for her.

Remi hooks her face mask into place before she climbs into the back of her taxi heading home to Haywards Heath, and I take my keys out of my bag and start down the road to go to the back of the centre to the car park. I should have nipped out earlier to move my car to the front of the centre, but I had been so caught up in talking to people, that I’d forgotten. Now Ameena and her staff have gone so I can’t go through the centre to the car park, I have to go on the road.

When I pulled up, it’d still been light and I hadn’t realised quite how many streetlights weren’t working in this area, nor how desolate it can feel around here. Shoreham is nice, and this area is nice, but at this time, it’s taken on a menacing atmosphere. The sprinkles of broken glass and litter that have collected at the base of concrete bollards, and scrappy bits of grassy areas make me feel like I’m walking in a dysto- pian landscape that a series of movies will be made about that will become cult classics. And it’ll start with a woman walking to her car late at night before she’s surrounded by a group of ne’er-do-wells on bikes.

It’s a good thing you’re not overdramatic or anything like that, I tell myself as I turn the corner to the car park. I stop for a moment and my heart sinks as I’m reminded exactly where I parked.

And it’s a good thing I’m not parked right at the other end of this empty car park so I have to walk all that way on my own, in the dark, with my overdramatic sense of fear weighing me down, I add.

This is the type of night that is more menacing than dark. It’s the type of night where bad things lurk, where stories are changed, lives are ended. Rational or irrational, it’s the type of night that makes me frightened.

I’ve been in more than one life-threatening situation, I know that it rarely starts like this, but my heart is already beating faster, my breath is becoming shallow, my skin is clammy. I start to move across the car park, wishing to be in my car as soon as humanly possible.

I sense it before I hear or see it – movement to the side of me, some- one stepping out of the shadows, intentionally coming at me. Someone in the night, coming to get me, to change this part of my story or even end it.

‘I want a word with you!’ he hisses as I move back and sideways to avoid a blow that I thought was coming.

The voice is familiar even behind the threat. It’s him. The man I humiliated earlier. And I’m guessing, he wants more than a word with me. I suspect, he wants several words with me. And probably more than words, now I see how his hands are clenched in fists.

I didn’t notice before how large his hands are. Nor how generally huge he is. When I was on the raised platform, he didn’t seem so big. I might have assessed him differently if I’d known, properly, how tall, rangy, big-limbed, large-handed he truly is. He is massive-handed. He could do a lot of damage with those hands.

I wouldn’t have said anything different to him, I would have just logged in my mind that he was a physical bully as well as a mental and emotional one.

‘You’ve got a lot to say in front of an audience, haven’t you?’ he snarls.

The terror suddenly grips like a vice, clenching my heart, my stomach, my chest. Danger radiates from him like a neon sign. He is going to do me real harm.

‘Now it’s just you and me, say it again. To. My. Face.’

His wife is two steps behind him, embarrassed and terrified at the same time. This isn’t the first time she’s been in this situation, I can tell. Had I known the true size of him, I would have realised that he would not slink away, tail between his legs, to rant at his wife, ban her from book club and throw out all of Remi’s books. If I had known he was a physical bully as well, I would have expected him to wait for me in the car park.

‘Say it to my face,’ he threatens, coming even closer. ‘If you think you’re so clever, say it to my face. Right now.’

I’ve been trained to defuse a situation, I know what will stop this thing from escalating. How well-delivered words, suppliant body language, considered facial expressions, can take the heat out of the moment, can calm everything down so everyone walks away with their dignity intact and their bodies undamaged.

I know how.

I know I should.

But nah.

Screw him.

‘Which part?’ I say, my tone cool. You can only hear the wisps of

the worry gripping me inside, the fear fighting with my defiance, if you know me. This man does not know me. He does not know that I can be pretty much petrified, but absolutely able to confront him in the space he has created.

He leans down into my face, his snarl taking over his whole face, pulling his lips back to show his teeth, narrowing his eyes, scrunching his nose and forehead. His wife steps forward because she knows he’s going to hit me. She knows, and she’s going to try to intervene. She’s going to grab at him, shout at him to stop, she’s going to scream at me to run. None of it will do any good. If he crosses that line and hits me, nothing will do any good.

Which is why I say, ‘Seriously, which part would you like me to repeat? I said a lot of things, which part do you want me to say again?’ I am throwing more fuel on the fire of his anger but I don’t care.

Honestly, screw this horrible man.

I have my keys hooked between my forefinger and middle finger – a weapon ready to be used, I have sensible shoes on that will allow me to run to my car, my safe haven at the first opportunity. But, no matter how scared I am, I’m not running.

He tries to make himself seem physically bigger by lowering his head even closer to mine. The orangey light from the car park casts odd shadows on his face, and adds an extra layer of menace to the air.

I have been here before.

I have been in a place where I have had to choose: stand my ground or run and hide. Fight or flight.

And I chose this, I will always choose this.

I see hesitation flit across this man’s eyebrows, the place where involuntary expressions take place. He’s uncertain suddenly.

We’re all profilers, we can all work out people with minimal information. It takes a while to be able to verbalise a person’s personality within minutes of interacting or observing them. But we can all do it. We all do do it.

This man is profiling me as he tries to intimidate me and this is what he sees: a late-forties Black woman with shiny black twists smattered with threads of grey, and a spongey body and smallish stature and smart mouth.

He sees a woman whose dark eyes have stared into oblivion. He sees a woman who has stared death in the face and has walked away.

He sees a woman who is probably traumatised, who probably relives those moments over and over, but she is still here.

And most importantly, he sees that she is not backing down.

He doesn’t know all this on a conscious level, he knows it by instinct, which is how most of us profile other people. He knows this because his usual tactic of using his size to loom over someone and intimidate them isn’t working. Usually, he just balls up those fists, he moves in a threatening way and people capitulate. They shrink away. They concede ground. Rarely does he have to follow through.

With me, he realises, he will have to.

And he really doesn’t want to do that. He’s not so angry that he could get himself into trouble with the law on a Tuesday night in May. The realisation makes him hesitate, his anger wavers, his features

are suddenly showing his uncertainty.

‘Let’s never speak of this again,’ I state and step back away from

him before I walk away.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back, I tell myself as I stride on shaky

legs towards my car. I am still trembling. Yes, I’ve been in dangerous, life-ending situations before, but that has only made me more scared. More aware of how close it’s possible to come to not surviving.

What if you’d read him wrong? I admonish myself as my breathing in my ears ramps up to hurricane levels, and my heart canters in my chest. What if he wasn’t actually a coward who hides behind his size and loud voice? What if all your profiling and psychological training hadn’t been enough, hadn’t given you enough information, and you hadn’t properly understood him? You could be lying in a pool of your own blood right now.

Being catastrophically wrong has happened before.

I thought I had a profile down, sorted. I thought I had a handle on everything; knew everything about everything. Looking back, I can see it was arrogance, it was me thinking it was possible to know every- thing about everyone.

And someone died as a result of that.
Someone died because I got it all wrong.
My hands are quivering so much, my fear is so loud in my head, I

can barely press the unlock button on my car keys. I try the handle and the door doesn’t give. I didn’t unlock my car; I’ve just locked it. That means . . . Jeez. That means I didn’t even lock my car door before I went into the event. That means my car has been sat out here, open and ready for someone to come steal it. I am a ridiculous person.

Still berating myself in my head, I unlock the car door, throw my bag onto the floor of the front passenger seat and climb in.

Once sitting, I allow my forehead to fall onto the steering wheel. I need to pause for a moment. Recentre myself. Calibrate my body so I can safely drive back.

There’s someone else in the car.

I can feel it.

I’m not alone in here.

I’m not sure when, but I’ve stopped checking the back seat before I

climb in. I used to do that as standard and now not only have I stopped doing it in general, I didn’t even think to do it when I realised my car wasn’t locked.

I wait for something to happen, for the person to do something. But nothing. They don’t make a move, don’t try to grab me.

Without lifting my head, I grope for the door handle, carefully pop the door open, and then slide out. From the safety of being outside of the car, I peer into its now illuminated interior. Then double-take.

Can’t be.

Can’t be.

I quickly open the back door to get a proper look. Staring back at me is the face of a very young baby.

CARRY ON READING here: Your chosen bookseller and here: Berts Books and here: Amazon

 

 

So how you doing? Hope things have been all right for you despite all that’s been going on. Cos it’s been a LOT hasn’t it? I’ve spent a lot of time trying to regroup, and I think I’m getting there. Hope you are, too.

Anyways, I asked you a question about whether you’re a natural-born profiler? Do you think you are? Well, I do. Truly. There’s a bit in Every Smile You Fake that says: ‘We’re all profilers, we can all work out people with minimal information. It takes a while to be able to verbalise a person’s personality within minutes of interacting or observing them. But we can all do it. We all do do it.’

The more I researched that part of Every Smile You Fake, the more fascinated I became about the area of psychology – mainly behavioural science – that covers profiling. I’ve always been interested in psychology, the human mind and how people interact with the world as well as themselves; and I think I told you before how I sometimes wonder if I should have pursued the psychology part of my degree instead of the media/journalism part? Creating Kez, a character who lives – partially – the life I could have was a wonderful chance to explore that path not taken. And it added to my love for her and the other characters.

You know I’m all about sharing the love and helping others, so OBVIOUSLY, I want to share the fascinating insights I got writing Every Smile You Fake with a book event where you can learn to tap into your natural profiling skills and start to use them to understand and profile the people in your life.

That’s right, on Tuesday 3 September 2024 (next week) at 7pm, I’ll be joined online by profiler, therapist, behavioural analyst and crime novelist, Lesley McEvoy to reveal the psychology behind the book AND teach you how you can tap into and use those natural profiling skills you have.

Lesley was one of the many experts I spoke to when researching Every Smile You Fake, and she’s so good at teaching with humour, I know we’re going to have so much fun.

You can get tickets for this Learn To Be A Profiler event via Berts Books website: Learn To Be A Profiler The ticket pricing:

Event ticket & Book Bundle – £9.99 (Includes: a ticket to the event, a paperback copy of Every Smile You Fake and p&p worth in total £15.98)

Event only ticket – £2.99 (includes ticket to the event)

Do come if you can, it’ll be soooo good.

 

 

My hope for this book. . .

So, you probably know by now that in two days (Thursday, 29 August), Every Smile You Fake is out in paperback. It’s been a bit of a journey writing this book, so I hope you don’t mind me sharing my hopes for the book with you.

My hope is that it becomes the most talked-about novel on your shelf – virtual, audio and real life. Why? Because every day I turn on the TV or log onto the interweb and see one of the themes explored in the book playing out in the real world. Every day I see the things I wrote about happening in my immediate reality and I want everyone to talk about it. I want us to be aware of how the online world can absolutely effect and influence our real life experiences, even if we’re barely online.

Someone I spoke to over the weekend said she’d given a copy of Every Smile You Fake to a friend to explain to her friend why she should be cautious about documenting every moment of her child’s life on social media.

A person who messaged me after reading the book said: ‘I just finished reading Every Smile You Fake . . . It’s so terrifying to think that characters like [redacted to avoid spoilers] exist and can have that much influence over people, yet I do know they exist. I teach children in foster care and have had to do a lot of work recently with a young man where we’ve had many discussions about the real-life version of [redacted to avoid spoilers] (who I imagine you’ve based this character on) and how my young man is influenced by what he is saying. Like I said, it’s terrifying. . . Thank you for bringing these very current, relevant issues/situations to your story.’

And as a reviewer on  Amazon  wrote: ‘Aside from being a gripping read this was an intriguing look at the psychology behind some of the online figures pushing their misogynistic views. It showed how young men can be radicalised, even if they have never previously shown any leanings in this way, and how important it is to keep conversations open, particularly with the young people in our lives and keep an eye on what content they are consuming online.’

Like I say, I want us to talk about these things, I want you to think of Every Smile You Fake as your gateway into exploring how sharenting, online influencers and pressured family lives are being shaped in the modern world. These are important conversations we need to have and I want you to find where to start those chats via my novel.

Really hope to see you at the event next Tuesday, it’s going to be so much fun and I would LOVE for you to be a part of it.

If you can’t make the event, but want to pre-order Every Smile You Fake, you can do so here with this  Link To Your Preferred Retailer  or  Berts Books  or  Amazon.

Hope all is good with you.

Dorothy x

Hello! I am SO EXCITED to present the TELEVISION advert for #AllMyLiesAreTrue! 🎉🎉🎉 It is SO GOOD!! It’s voiced by Maria Gbeleyi, who is Verity from the audiobook, and airs from tomorrow. Let me know when you see it! I love it so much… 😍🥰 x

#TheHappyAuthor #AllMyLiesAreTrue #Bestseller #Television #Advert #Paperback #Bookstagram #DorothyKoomsonBooks

 

It’s a cover up… All My Lies Are True is coming out in paperback THIS THURSDAY!

Did you notice we’d changed the hardback cover? Do you want to know why? Well, it goes back to that saying – don’t judge a book by its cover. We say that, but the whole of the publishing industry is based on people judging a book – then buying it – by its cover.

So why the change? Several reasons. One of them is that we – my editor and other peeps at my publishers – have been talking for a while about moving the covers on.

When you’ve written as many books as I have, you tend to update the covers every few books to keep things fresh, while hanging onto the familiarity of previous works that people like.

We talked and planned and, you know, we decided not to wait until book 17 to make the change – I’m kinda impatient so it happened now.

I loved the original cover. The model – Jocelyn, is beautiful and it was absolutely what we needed for the hardback – as proved by the book selling well and going onto the bestseller lists.

With all these accolades, why change? Because I never want to rest on my laurels, never want to get stuck doing the same thing over and over with what goes into the book or on the outside of it.

Changing the cover between hardback and paperback also gives you a chance to focus on a different aspect of the story.

Beach huts feature heavily in both #TheIceCreamGirls and #AllMyLiesAreTrue so I love that we’ve got the chance to explore this aspect of the story with this cover.

And the colours – pink and yellow – was a running theme through all the Ice Cream Girls covers and have been carried on to #AllMyLiesAreTrue.

Have we got it right with the paperback of #AllMyLiesAreTrue? I think so because I am in cover love. What do you think?

#TheHappyAuthor #AllMyLiesAreTrue #TheIceCreamGirls #paperback #hardback #bestseller #dorothykoomsonbooks #podcasts #bookstagram #authorsofinstagram

      

 

All My Lies Are True, the sequel to my bestselling novel The Ice Cream Girls, is just around the corner. If you haven’t read the book and only saw the TV mini-series loosely based on the book or decide to track down the series to watch instead of reading it, I need to let you know there are quite a few *ahem* differences. These changes won’t make sense when it comes to reading All My Lies Are True (AMLAT), so here are the most important differences to keep in mind.

THERE ARE QUITE A FEW NAME CHANGES Serena is raised a Gorringe and in the book her married name is Gillmare. The TV series changed her married name to Farley. Not sure why, but since AMLAT starts off with someone remembering Serena for having a surname that begins with a G, it’s kinda important to point this out. Most of Poppy’s family – her brother, sister and dad – are also renamed in the TV series. Since they form a HUGE part of the sequel, and for the avoidance of doubt: Poppy’s brother is called Logan and her sister is called Bella.

QUITE A FEW CHARACTERS DISAPPEAR/ARE REIMAGINED In the TV series Serena has a child, a sister and her father disappeared from her life. These original characters from my book are a huge part of the second book so here’s a reminder: Serena grew up in a two-parent family with a mother and father. She has older twin sisters called Medina and Faye who are a big part of both books.

The TV series also makes Poppy the product of a single-parent family (do you think there’s a stereotype they were trying to shoehorn in or something?) with an evil step-father. In the book, she actually has two parents and was closer to her father than her mother. The destruction of her relationship with her father due to going to prison is one of the core elements of Poppy’s story arc in the first book and carries on into the second book.

CHARACTERS MEET/HAVE CONVERSATIONS THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN In the book, Poppy stalks Serena and finds a spurious reason to meet Dr Evan (Serena’s husband) but doesn’t let on that she knows Serena. In the TV series, Poppy does tell Evan she knows Serena and she also tries to befriend Serena’s daughter, Verity, which doesn’t happen in the book. Serena also has a huge confrontation with Alain, Poppy’s lover, about him being a journalist, then tells Poppy about it. In the book, Poppy finds out Alain’s secret when he confesses to her at a crucial moment in their relationship. There are very good reasons why none of these things happened in The Ice Cream Girls book – mainly for plot and plausibility reasons. But, also, if any of these things had happened, there’d be no All My Lies Are True. So, disregard all of these changes from the TV series when you read the sequel.

SERENA SPENDS A LOT OF TIME ANGRY AND SHOUTY I’m not sure why the TV series made her that way. . . Actually, I’m being disingenuous – I do know why: they fell into the tired old trope of Black girls being shouty, aggressive and oversexed and then growing into cold, shouty, aggressive women. But, there we are. The Serena in my book is a quiet, shy, thoughtful girl who doesn’t flirt with and seduce her teacher but instead is manipulated, groomed and ultimately abused by a man who knew she would keep his secrets. She grows up into a quiet woman who avoids trouble and focuses on bringing up her children in a stable, happy environment. She loves her husband and she is quiet and unassuming. Very different from the Serena we’re shown on screen.

POPPY HAS VERY LITTLE DRIVE In my book, Poppy was decisive and clever enough to find and stalk Serena, but we see none of that in the TV series. She seems to spend a lot of time waiting for things to happen to her, and I think that was because the core of her story – the relationship with her family – has been removed. In The Ice Cream Girls book, Poppy has drive and ambition and is in charge of her own life, despite living with the constant threat of being sent back to prison. That is a part of her character that is essential for the sequel to work.

MARCUS IS THOROUGHLY UNLIKEABLE In the book, Marcus is charming and manipulative. He grooms and seduces Poppy and Serena before he starts to abuse them. You see very clearly how and why they fall him. In the TV series there is very little evidence of charm, he mainly uses shouting, violence and brute force to get what he wants. It’s hard to believe anyone would go near him, let alone two young women.

EVAN LEAVES WITH VERITY When Serena’s past is revealed in The Ice Cream Girls book, Eva is so incensed by her lies that he forces Serena to leave. In the TV series, he takes his daughter and walks out. Not a significant difference you might think, but it is for the sequel – there’s a pivotal All My Lies Are True scene based on where Serena ends up when she is thrown out. I often wonder if the TV series did this to give Serena another chance to shout at someone. Hmmm.

THE ENDING/KILLER IS DIFFERENT I’m not going to spoil the TV series for you. Only a monster would do that. But a sequel, this sequel, just would not be possible with the ending of the loosely based adaptation. I had many, many issues with the ending that I can’t discuss because I’m not a spoiler monster, but know this – the ending is not the same. It comes from left-field and I don’t think it works, even for the way the adaptation has altered my original story.

 

These are the main differences between my book The Ice Cream Girls and the TV series loosely based on it. There are many, many others, but these are the ones you need to know about in case you want to know in full the story of The Ice Cream Girls before you read the second book. (By the way: you don’t actually need to have read The Ice Cream Girls to enjoy All My Lies Are True, but I don’t want you to rely only the TV series either, to get the idea of the plot.)

I have to state that there were some outstanding elements to the loosely based TV adaptation: some of the cinematography was stunning; and the acting was excellent. I think the actors did a fine job with the material they were given.

But it was the material they were given that I had the real issue with. The Ice Cream Girls, like all my books, was a labour of love. I particularly sweated over this one trying to get the abuse storyline right by attempting to show that it could happen to anyone. Not those ‘others’ we’re stereotypically shown to be abused; I wanted to illustrate that any one of us could end up in a situation like Serena and Poppy. To watch something with my name on be used to perpetrate negative tropes and stereotypes was a bitter pill to swallow. . . and, yes, it still stings all these years later.

I should add, though, that if you enjoyed The Ice Cream Girls TV series, there is no shame in that. I’m genuinely pleased for you. It was a good, solid TV drama (stereotypes excluded) and I might have enjoyed it, too, if I hadn’t heard all those stories about people’s real, lived experiences.

Either way, I hope you feel all caught up now, and you’re All My Lies Are True, ready. If you want to know more of my thoughts on the Ice Cream Girls TV series, then click here and read: The Two Ice Cream Girls.

 

All My Lies Are True is on sale from 9 July.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Find out more about All My Lies Are True here: All My Lies Are True

And buy it here: Buy All My Lies Are True

Find out more about All My Lies Are True here: All My Lies Are True

And buy it here: Buy All My Lies Are True

Read this guest post by Sharon Wright about her book, The Mother of the Brontës: When Maria Met Patrick

I wrote the book that could never be written. Writing it took over my whole life for a long while but The Mother of the Brontës: When Maria Met Patrick is definitely, definitely written.

So, I’m the author of the first biography of Maria Branwell, enigmatic mother of Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë. Why first? Because everyone else thought it couldn’t be done. While countless biographies have been written about the Brontë sisters, their brother Branwell and father Patrick, not a single life of marvelous Mrs Brontë existed before I came along. That didn’t seem right. That didn’t seem fair. This fascinating woman gave life to the most gifted literary siblings the world has ever known, then vanished for almost 200 years. Who was she? And why had nobody gone looking for her? And just what was her influence on the masterpieces of the daughters she left behind, Maria’s legacy hidden in Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall?

To be perfectly honest, I didn’t realize just how convinced people were that a Mrs Brontë biography was mission impossible until many and various Brontë fans and experts told me, truly delighted to be proved wrong, when the book was published. Perhaps ignorance is bliss. Perhaps not. Perhaps a long career in journalism just makes you a bloody-minded nonfiction author – bloody-mindedness always magnified by being from Yorkshire. To be fair, when I first wondered aloud why no-one had ever written a biography of the neglected mother of genius, the answer did come swiftly: “There isn’t enough on her.” But telling a journalist there’s no story is the single most effective way to send her scooting off to find it. She just doesn’t believe you. Because everyone has a story, don’t they? I bet there is enough, I thought, if you go looking properly.

When I embarked on my bid to rescue Maria from obscurity, her location in the Brontë story was… nowhere, really. We knew a few sketchy details. She was born in Cornwall and she died a young mother of six in Haworth, everything else was shrouded in mystery. Even the information boards at the Brontë Parsonage Museum refer to her as “a shadowy figure”.

Irresistible, really, to a writer like me.

So off I went with my notepad and pen. Like the Brontës, I was born in Bradford and as a cub reporter I had covered Haworth for the local paper. It was wonderful to now visit the Parsonage as a bone fide researcher, getting to know the wonderful staff as they helped me comb the Brontë collection for the sparse evidence of Maria, once mistress of the home that’s now a shrine to her family. Then I set off to travel the country, getting lost for hours and days in obscure historical archives doing original research, walking in Maria’s footsteps across the West Country and the West Riding, solving age-old Brontë puzzles and unearthing some startling family secrets. Untold time went on tracking down all the pieces to the puzzle, ferreting around in dusty records, persuading people to let me look around their homes and schools and churches, exploring Maria’s turbulent world of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

As I worked on, consumed by my relentless quest, Maria began to step out of the shadows. My secret life plan, codename: Hiding In Libraries, was working. Meticulous original research allowed her life to take shape on my page. And what a life it was, with more real-life drama than a Brontë novel or episode of Poldark. A cast of unforgettable characters, Gothic fiction and haunted houses, a bigwig father in business with smugglers, a mother placing too many babies in the grave, a poor sister married to a ‘bad man’, Enlightenment ladies’ book clubs and balls, a social life not unlike her contemporary Jane Austen. Then a plucky decision to take a dangerous 400-mile journey by stagecoach and that unlikely, fateful meeting in Yorkshire with a handsome Irish parson she called her “dear, saucy Pat”. The rest is history except, somehow, Maria was lost in the telling.

Most of all I was writing a love story, one with world-changing consequences for us all. Going back to book names for a mo, my working title was always simply ‘When Maria Met Patrick’. When Maria Branwell met Patrick Brontë in real life, it meant one day Cathy would meet Heathcliff and Jane Eyre, Mr Rochester in the books of their children. Maria’s gifted daughters would quite literally write themselves into history. It was only fair that someone should write hers. Her life as a clever, witty and brave bluestocking was shot through with hope and adventure, radicals and writing, smugglers and shipwrecks, Regency romance and tragedy. I knew I was writing the untold Brontë backstory, the key to it all. The illuminating prequel to the far better known life stories of her brilliant brood and heartbroken man.

I went looking properly for the remarkable, forgotten Maria Branwell Brontë – lady of letters, lover of Patrick, mother of genius – and I found her.

* The Mother of the Brontës: When Maria Met Patrick (Pen and Sword) by Sharon Wright is out now in paperback. Click here to buy.

I don’t normally document my year, I usually move on and will sometimes talk about my hopes for coming 12 months. But 2019 has been something of a wild ride and I had to get some of it down just so I could read it and weep or laugh. The last 12 months have been a wondrous, terrifying, strange journey into the surreal, the joyous, the painful, the heartbreaking and the downright enraging experience that is life.

I’m sure other years have had all these elements, but this one is the first that has had so many extremes wrapped up in 12 months. In honour of those ‘firsts’ this is the first time I’m going to properly review my year – not chronologically cos that’d be crazy – and note down what lessons I’ll be taking from what has happened into 2020 . . .

 

Sad beginnings

The year began on a terrible note. I’d left 2018 knowing it was coming, but when we did lose someone very loved and very close, it was still a terrible blow. I wasn’t sure how we were going to cope going forwards, I knew we would cope because you have to, but I wasn’t sure how. I’m still not sure how we did, but we’re getting there. I dedicated Tell Me Your Secret to our loved one and I think about them all the time.

After this, it felt like things were not going to be good again, I’ll admit that. But life is nothing but stubborn and surprising, and the good times did indeed show up in my world.

It’s All Science To Me

I was asked by the Royal Society to be a judge for their annual Science Book Prize. I was a bit, ‘Me?’ at first then my husband, a scientist, impressed upon me what an honour it was to be asked, and said I should do it. And I’m so glad I did. Not only did I get to read some excellent books that added to my knowledge of the quantum world, the skin and the environment, I also got to meet some wonderful people. I got to hang out with Professor Sir Nigel Shadbolt, Stephen McGann, Shukry Habib and Gwenyth Williams who were a pretty cool bunch of people. I also met Professor Brian Cox who presented the award. It was a hard slog reading all those science books and then having discussions about what we thought and THEN coming to the decision we could all live with but I think the right book won in the end.

Lesson for 2020? Don’t always think some things aren’t for you, think about it before saying yes or no.

 

Hello Secret . . .

My first book with Headline was published and made it onto the bestseller list – twice! I can’t speak for other authors, but for me, whenever I finish a book and send it ‘out there’ I’m always terrified about how it will be received and how it will fare in the big wide world. It’s never a simple case of just bashing it out, and after some recent experiences, I was questioning my abilities. I knew from my wonderful editor, Jen, that she loved it and very soon other people were buying it and telling me they loved my 15th book, too. In fact, enough of them bought it to make it a bestseller and I couldn’t have been happier.

Lesson for 2020? keep showing up and keep going.

 

Ms Morrison, Missed

Toni Morrison died. I went onto BBC News to talk about her the day it happened for a few minutes. It was all anyone seemed to talk about for a time, and so many people had insightful things to say about her. It was a comfort of sorts to see so many people with so many amazing things to say. And, while it was a shared grief, privately, my heart felt like it was breaking.

I’m by no means a Toni Morrison expert, I loved her writing, and I have gifted her books, but her dying felt like once again, a good person had been taken out of the world and they weren’t replaced. And I hated knowing that we aren’t going to have any more wisdom imparted by her. I know others will and have come, but I still feel sad that Toni Morrison’s wisdom won’t be added to by her and that she was here for a finite time. Her work will live on, of course, but I am still bereft that the world has been robbed of another black voice that was leading light.

Lesson for 2020? When the nonsense in the outside world rises (as it has been recently) remind myself of my most favourite Toni Morrison quote: ‘The function, the very serious function of racism, which is distraction. It keeps you from doing your work. It keeps you explaining over and over again, your reason for being.’

 

Back to Trinity

I had the absolute pleasure of having an event at my old college, Leeds Trinity University. It was called Trinity & All Saints College when I attended and it was a lot smaller. But, it was nice treading over the grounds again and catching up with some old friends. In fact, it was such a nice time I started to wonder why I didn’t still live in Leeds.

Lesson for 2020? I’ll be trying to get back to Leeds a bit more often and I’ll make more of an effort to see my old friends down here. I’ve let that slip this past year and I must reconnect with them.

 

I had my confidence bashed

Aside from the bereavement, I had some struggles this year. Several things seemed to conspire to bash my confidence on so many levels. At one point, I thought I’d never show my face again, let alone write another word. I rarely talk about these things because, well, it’s hard to admit when things get tough. And people constantly expect you to be positive and ‘up’ all the time.

But, you know, it was a case of taking a proper step back, having a long hard look at myself, examining what I’ve achieved, the people I’ve helped and inspired, and realising who I am. And who I am is Dorothy Koomson. I can do this. I got back out there, attended every event with that at the front of my mind, started my next book, and remembered to enjoy as many things as I can. It wasn’t easy, but I did get myself back together enough to carry on. And wouldn’t you know it, hot on the heels of getting myself back together . . .

 

I was presented with a Black British Business Award.

  

I was given the Image Award at The Black British Business Awards. The Image Award recognises and celebrates an individual, who over a considerable amount of time within their chosen profession, has stood out amongst the crowd and set a record of excellence. I could not have been more surprised when I was given this award. After being ignored in certain circles and certain people seeming to go out of their way to act as if I don’t exist, to be presented with something that not only recognised my work but celebrated it, was next level amazing. I never expect these things to happen to me so I was very taken aback. I’m not sure who nominated me but I’m truly grateful to them.

Lesson for 2020? Even if it doesn’t seem like it, other people see and appreciate you.

 

My words, their mouths/fingers

At a few author events I was lucky enough to attend recently, I sat and very quickly experienced a tingling up my spine and upside-downed stomach when I heard very well known, successful authors parroting words that I had said in recent months about writing. I was open mouthed.

Oh I know, I don’t own words, I don’t own ideas and writing motivations, but when people who I’ve heard over the years deride the things I’ve publicly said I do and they have stated quite clearly that they don’t, emote on how these things are part of their book-creating process, well, I can’t help but think they’re full of it. And using my words, not because they mean it, but because they sound good to those listening.

If that wasn’t enough, I was lucky enough to write a piece nominating some rather excellent people for an award. They, happily, won. And the award givers, shamelessly, took my name off the piece I wrote about the nominees and basically passed it off as their own. What was sent out into the world was practically word-for-word what I wrote. Again, I sat with my mouth open reading it, impressed by their gall, hurt by their behaviour.

When black people (women particularly) say people steal their work and ideas, do believe them, this has been happening to me for a long time but this is the first time it’s been so consistently high-profile.

Lesson for 2020? To be honest, I don’t know – like something I mention below, it’ll be hard to speak up without those involved turning themselves into the victims and me becoming the evil one.

 

I wrote a sequel

 

Over the years of penning books, I’ve been very much of the ‘don’t do sequels’ school of thought. I almost always put my characters through so much that it didn’t feel fair to revisit them and dish out more pain. But in 2019 I had a story to tell and it needed The Ice Cream Girls to help it be told. And it was HARD. Really, really hard. Writing All My Lies Are True tested me to my core and I was pretty wiped out by the end of it. But you know, it’s my job, I have to put everything I am into it to make sure that I’ve done the best I possibly can to do justice to the story, so I had to do it. It was exhausting, but I can’t wait for you to read it.

Lesson for 2020? Work is hard but it’s what I do and what I love. And because of that hard work, I get to call myself a bestselling author.

 

I met some truly brilliant people in 2019

I met a LOT of new people in 2019 – it was like a roll call of truly brilliant souls entering my world properly. I finally met Nicholas Pinnock, who played Dr Evan in the TV version of The Ice Cream Girls. I’ve been in touch with him since 2013 and we finally met. And I met Jamelia. Have always loved her music and to meet her and have her tell me she liked my books . . . just heart eye emoji. Along with her I had an excellent chat with JJ Bola and Mr Robin Walker.

And I met Daniellé Scott-Haughton. Have followed her for ages on Twitter and when the divine Paula Akpan and Nicole Crentsil (who I met them for the first time this year, too) asked her to interview me for Black Girl Fest I was truly overjoyed and honoured.

Oh and then there was Aimée Felone founder of Knights Of, Eishar Kaur Editorial Director of Knights Of, who have shown the world what is possible when you have a dedication to inclusivity like they have. And I met the amazing film director Amma Asante. And I met Dawn Butler, the MP. And I met Tobi Oredein, creator of Black Ballard, an online magazine for black women, who told me that she had named one of her wedding tables after me (chuffed, crying face emoji).

And then there were amazing readers who sometimes travelled for hundreds of miles to come to my events. I appreciated every single one of them who gave their time to show up.

Basically, I met so many brilliant people this year, I’m sorry if I’ve left anyone out, but these are just some of the ones who found themselves ensnared in the Koomson Klutch™.

Lesson for 2020? I love meeting people so hopefully more of that will happen in 2020.

I met the next generation of writers

 

Two of my most favourite literary girls are Melissa and Natalie of The Black Girls Book Club. I’ve attended a couple of events with them in the past, but together with my brilliant editor, Jen, Melissa and Natalie came up with a masterclass where up and coming writers could ask me (and Jen) anything they wanted to help them get writing. It was such a brilliant event because I got to meet all these wonderful black women at the start of their writing careers, I got to help them as much as I could, and I got to feel so proud at what I knew they could achieve. If you don’t already follow Melissa and Natalie at Black Girls Book Club, do, they are a couple of the shiniest stars on the t’interweb.

Lesson for 2020: Keep my eyes open for these wonderful women’s stories.

 

‘I’m not her’

So, another low: a white author* who I’ve known for well over a decade thought I was another black author. When I say ‘known’ I don’t mean online known, or ‘met in passing’, we’ve been to many, many events together, we’ve had many, deep meaningful chats about painful, personal experiences and we were, at one point, at the same publishers. So, it’s fair to say I thought we knew each other. Apparently, not.

She walked in to the last event we attended together and made a comment that made me suspect she thought I was this other author. I batted that comment away. But twenty minutes later she was back to tell me that it was me she was talking about and then launched into some detail about why it was definitely me. I listened to her dig this huge hole then eventually said, ‘I’m not her. I’m the other one.’ Cue: Awkward silence.

She was sort of mortified – not mortified enough to not try to excuse what she’d done by saying how she’d grown up in an area that was 99 per cent white – but kind of mortified. It was a very strange experience. I look nothing like this other black author, by the way except we both happen to have dark skin. And not even the same shade. What’s most upsetting is knowing I’ll probably be expected to brush it off because she didn’t mean anything by it. You know what, though? I get to decide how I feel about this and how I feel is . . . urgh, just urgh!

Lesson for 2020? People – even the ones you think you know – are going to throw you urgh, just urgh balls!

*I’m not going to name her because this isn’t my first rodeo as they say – once names are named, lots of people who I like will perform all sorts of mental gymnastics to find reasons to excuse her and reasons why I’m being unreasonable to not just laugh it off, the net result of which will be me ending up as the bad guy in a situation not of my making where I’ve been poorly treated.

 

Politics

Urgh, just urgh.

Lesson for 2020? Urgh! Just urgh!

 

My face ended up on a T-shirt

 

At the Black Girl Fest in October 2019, I had a look around at the market place. There were so many black women selling all sorts of goods and it was fantastic to see and be amongst so much brilliance. At the Hannah Pratt Clothing stall I saw a T-shirt with an array of women black British women who had contributed something unique to society depicted. I smiled to myself at all that excellence on one piece of clothing and was about to move on when one of the ladies from the stall told me that I was number 31. Me! On a T-shirt! Me! I almost burst into tears.

Couldn’t believe that I had made it onto a T-shirt with all these other amazing women. So there you go, Dorothy Koomson on a T-shirt, you don’t get any more rock and roll than that. You can buy copies of the T-shirt here: Hannah Pratt Clothing

Lessson for 2020: Look at me on a T-shirt!

 

And so this is where I leave you. So much more has happened, and I could go on and on, but those were the things that have been at the forefront of my mind. Has 2019 been as ‘interesting’ for you as it has for me? Are there things you’ve learned in 2019 that will help empower you in 2020? Drop me a line let me know if there are.

 

Thanks for reading and if I’m not in touch with you before, Happy New Year and see you in 2020.