“They tried to resuscitate him, but he… well, he died,” I say. There’s no way of saying it lightly, and no way for it not to be a bombshell, but I somehow don’t care: if shocking a stranger is part of the imprint my only nephew left on the world, so be it.

I’m outside, at a wedding. The marquee is off-white against the sky. The air has turned navy blue but right in the corner, near where the sun used to be, the sky is still a lit-up, washed out blue, as if the bleached daylight is determinedly clinging on to one last patch.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” the stranger at the wedding says. I shouldn’t have told her, but I mentioned my niece, and then I couldn’t not tell her. She is embarrassed, I can tell. It is taboo.

We can see the outline of the fairy lights just inside the marquee. They look Christmassy, incongruous against the summer sky. It’s freezing. It’s been a cold spring. All of the women have cardigans on, tightly drawn around their waists. Everything here has been set up for a warm weekend: the croquet on the lawn, unplayed. The wood-fired pizza oven. The cocktails served by hipsters next to a bike with a basket, in mason jars. But I quite like the unseasonal cold.

“Did you see him?” the stranger says to me.

“Sam? A photo,” I say. That’s when I feel the tears budding, ever-present. They have different textures: sometimes a tightness in my throat, sometimes an inexplicable wetness on my cheeks, sometimes a hollow crying that produces nothing at all. “He looks… Looked. Just like my sister,” I say. “My niece. They have these eyes – ” I pause, trying to describe them. “Slanted eyes. Pretty eyes. He had them.”

“Brought you a homemade Baileys,” MindReader says to me, appearing by my side and waving a small bottle with a brown paper tag on it. He’s evidently warm, has taken his jacket off.

“Thanks,” I say. The stranger gives me an embarrassed smile and retreats into the darkness, to the pizza hut with no queue.

“You alright?” MindReader says, but then gets distracted by the prospect of pizza, leaving me standing alone in the night. I look at the pale patch of sky, still light but ever darkening, and raise the miniature bottle, high to the sky, to miniature Sam. I stay standing there, alone, for a long time.

“Goodnight,” I say to him.

Just a long way of justifying buying the Sunday Riley £85 facial serum

I get to work and see a small, white envelope on my chair. My brain attempts to find the worst-case scenario, before I wrestle it under control and prevent it going down the road of P45s and notices of redundancy. I approach it, reaching out a hand earlier than I would normally, and pick the envelope up. It’s matte and smooth against my finger tips.

It is as if my happiness in 2012 followed by my sadness at my relapse/new illness in 2013 was too much for me. Somewhere buried deep in all of those events – those things I still have flashbacks to; the nosebleeds at my desk, feeling as though the road was moving when it wasn’t, taking painkillers every two hours in Paris just to cope with walking around – was the message: happiness is finite. And something in me – the part that likes rules and facts and figures – took that message on board and ran with it.

If my happiness was a tangible thing, it would be something finite. Maybe a crop I have to harvest every year. It could not possibly go on and on, my happiness, growing like weeds or grasses, unchecked, with no investments made in return. I spend my days refinancing properties, and I believe my happiness will be refinanced, too, soon: a downpayment of some sort must be made. I’ll go into my happiness overdraft, soon, and I will have to pay it back. Happiness doesn’t come for nothing, I seem to believe. In the meantime, I pay interest in worry. It’s a high rate.

I open the envelope in my office and see that it’s just my post, sorted carefully by my secretary. My secretary in my job which is now full-time, for the first time since glandular fever, and pays me twice the amount of money that I have ever earned in my entire life. Phew, I think, putting the post aside. I know exactly what to do with it, but still fail to believe I am a good lawyer. I do however work bloody hard. I would not deserve a P45. What a crazy thought that was.

My phone beeps later, at lunchtime, and I look at it, fearful. It could be the bank denying us a mortgage on the house we are buying. Or a friend, angry at me. Or any other host of worst-case scenarios which I run through as though reading an autocue. There is no way, my brain believes in this moment that I will go home tonight, on a Friday night, after a full-time week, order a takeaway and go to bed happy, having avoided disaster again. No way.

“Billygean,” a wise woman said to me a few months ago. “You’ve stored those memories somewhere traumatic. Those memories of illness mean something different to you than…”

“Than what?” I said.

“Than what they really are.”

I frowned, then, not understanding.

But now I see. I got ill and I got better again. Doctors may speak of remission and relapses, but I don’t have to. I wasn’t too happy and then punished. It didn’t happen because I didn’t worry enough. There is no overlord in my universe overseeing my happiness levels and deciding to roll the illness dice. And living a half life, in fear of phones and envelopes and sickness bugs and car crashes and all the other myriad disasters I can foresee won’t help anybody.

I read the text. A friend wants to meet up next week, for lunch. That’s all. I text them back immediately.

I stare to my right, out of the window in the high-rise building I now work in. Plenty of people have careers they enjoy, boyfriends they love, literary agents who represent them, hobbies they like, enough money to buy frivolous face serums, friends who make them laugh and console them when they cry, houses they are about to buy, cats they are obsessed with, without quite this level of angst, this self-sabotage. And the thing is, when people say to you things like you’re a lawyer with a literary agent and you write novels how do you have time for it all you must be knackered! and you see yourself as a resounding failure, just qualified at 30 years old, with a chequered history of illness, a switch in your brain is flicked because of the dichotomy. It doesn’t seem to make any sense, but I know, I’ll pay it back in disaster. I don’t mean to say I’ve achieved my life ambitions and look! but more: I am so happy it sometimes physically hurts. But maybe I can unflick it. Maybe I’m somewhere in the middle.

“Can I have a quick word?” someone says, approaching my desk.

I feel the thought tap turn on, but I stop it. Enough now. Enough.

“Sure,” I say.


“Billygean, you remember Chris, don’t you?” MadFather says to me. He picks a can of coke up off the kitchen counter and hands it to me. I’m home for a Christmas party. I’ve already crept up to visit my childhood bedroom; the dust which covers my old books and the single bed I used to text boys in.

“Hi,” I say. Chris is a few years younger than me, but time has raced on and he has become six-feet-something, with sandy hair and tanned arms.

“Tell him about your book,” MadFather says, disappearing into the throng of people.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I say, wishing so much that I hadn’t told everybody absolutely everything so early on. “I just got an agent… Trying to get a publisher, next.”

“Wow,” Chris says.

“And what about you – still tennis?” I say.

“No – those who can’t… coach,” he says.

I wait, and he speaks again. Somebody squeezes past us, jostling me, and begins spooning trifle out onto a paper plate which bends worryingly.

“I believe I got to a world rank of one thousand,” he says.

“You were one thousandth in the world?”

“Yep – and it was far from enough.” He tells me the prize for winning a grand slam has almost doubled, yet a match he won that got him ranked at one thousand landed him with a cheque for £420.

“But… how many people can say they were the thousandth best person in the world at anything?” I say.

“True. But I’m a perfectionist,” he says.

“Ah. Perfectionism is not the way to happiness.”

“No,” he says. He raises his beer to me, and I wonder if he wasn’t allowed to drink it, before, staying in hotels all over the world, waiting alone for matches to commence. “To failure,” he says, clinking his glass against my can.

I laugh. “I can toast to that,” I say.

“It’s almost better not to try, I found,” he says. “People are embarrassed by failure. I am worse than somebody who hasn’t bothered.”

“You’re not,” I say quietly. “I bet you’re totally mentally sound, too. They always say tennis is a mental game.”

“Yes,” he says, looking into the middle distance. “You play a bad shot, but you move on. To the next one, to the next.”

Sometimes, it’s not the journey but the destination, actually.

I lock my car and walk through the business district. My hair licks my face in the winter breeze. I have the characteristic wine hangover: shaking hands, a bad head, and I bow my head as it begins to rain.

My boss appears outside her new building. “Let’s go to Bar Opus,” she says breezily. I nod, following along, wondering what to do with it: this moment.

“Just get in, get trained, and get out,” MadFather said to me over three years ago of my training contract with a corporate law firm, accepted before my body broke. I drew my mug of tea to my lips, the day before I began my training contract, and wondered what lay in store for me. I nodded, grateful for my father’s reassurance when he, surely, didn’t know if I’d complete it: nobody did.

I started two and a half days a week, when my body still held the memories of whatever had happened between glandular fever and I two years previously; when odd bouts of fatigue would still blow in sometimes like vicious sandstorms and floor me while I waited, eyes closed, for them to go. When I would still freak out if asked to walk anywhere at all and would make up insane reasons to get taxis rather than say it was because I was disabled. Because I was, I can face that now.

It is not possible to characterise those past three years, from two and a half days a week to four, from catching every bug going to dictating late at night in the office, wiping my nose with a tissue periodically. I worked 16 hour days, sometimes, turned up to every training in Nottingham, read around areas of law enthusiastically, made supervisors coffee, took my appraisals too personally. And, yes, then, illness, last year, the after-effects of which I still feel sometimes. But returning, which some people called ‘inspiring’, but really, all I did was go back to earning a living after having been sick. And onwards, since then, wearing a too-short skirt to court one memorable occasion, inching it down my thighs as I stood up to make my client’s submissions, running with a suitcase full of files across Birmingham countless times. And, lately, working, working, pushing things to deadlines, and going home and writing, writing: my two jobs, two loves. I did it full tilt, my training contract, and here I am, three years on, typing this as a solicitor: fully fledged. It’s a place I was so sure I wouldn’t get to that I deliberately, carefully, looked twice before crossing the road on my way into the office on my last day as a trainee, so convinced was I that something would come along to foil my plans, as something had since pretty much the day I accepted the position.

We walk into Bar Opus together and sit on bar stools and watch the chef. He tosses things being pan fried and moodily chops a carrot. His eyes are slightly different colours; one blueish, one more green.

And so here I am, the morning after the night before, and it wasn’t just a qualification do that got me hanging, but a leaving do, as well. I left my job, the previous day, and I probably said too many Prosecco-fuelled truths late in the night (I believe I said of one colleague, “he has two states: speaking, and waiting to speak,” which is, sadly, a trait many a lawyer has).

“We are finally here,” I say to my boss. She understands immediately, and raises her glass to me. Its sides are frosted with condensation.

“We made it,” she says. She clinks her wine against my full fat, hangover-curing coke, and smiles at me. For choosing the area of law was one thing, and impressing in that department was another thing, but what nobody could have predicted was what happened next.

I thought I would either impress and be retained, or not impress and be let go. Either way, I would be qualified, and would hopefully have my health in tact, though that’s not to say that being retained after my training didn’t keep me awake at night. But I did something I never really thought I would, had never done before or thought of doing.

My boss quit, and moved firms in October, and I followed her, there being a three-month period after she left and before I could.

And so next week, and rushing towards me, I start as a fully-fledged solicitor in an even bigger corporate firm. But there is no getting through it with my health in tact. It is not to be endured. It’s the next bit; the rest of my life.

“I can’t believe I’m finally here,” I say to my boss.

And it’s true. I haven’t really thought beyond today – beyond yesterday, in fact. Beyond qualifying, my leaving do, and my Christmas break. But the next bit is the most exciting bit.

And I have a killer wrap dress to wear for my first day.

All the world’s a stage

My doctor has always used the term remission, though he prefers ‘flare’ to ‘relapse’.

I have been here once before, in an August years ago. I waited for that day for months. I went to London on my own to celebrate, and I bought a ring in a shop selling vintage jewellery in Portobello. I chose a silver ring with a peridot stone and then I learnt that the peridot was the birth stone for August and it all seemed very fitting. I wore the ring every day, and every time I looked at it I remembered not how it felt to have glandular fever but how it felt to overcome a real and tangible obstacle, not to mention all the other things I’d achieved – working my first twelve-hour day since I was too sick to sit for even a tenth of that, walking for pleasure without pain, having problems with my glands that amounted to nothing.

And now I’m here again, a year in remission, with what is likely a different condition, though no one really knows. It almost passed me by, if I am honest, and I think it’s both healthier and unhealthier to ignore it. It means less to me because I no longer really identify as a sufferer or even a person who’s recovered, but I am also hesitant to celebrate because I can’t help but wonder if I will be here again. Or rather, that I won’t stay in remission forever.

It should be easy to move on or even be thankful. I kept my job. I am due to qualify in six weeks, and as I saw the red cups come in to Starbucks this morning Christmas no longer feels months away. I really do not think I would have a literary agent had I not got ill last summer. My first novel would still be languishing, and I wouldn’t have had all of the nice responses that drove me to write the second novel. I certainly would not be mid-way through a third. And that is a deal I would definitely consider taking – six months of illness to achieve a lifetime ambition? Probably, yes please.

And yet I can’t and won’t look at it in that way. I do not really like discussing what happened last summer, and I don’t really like to think that I am merely in remission now, as if there is a monster just off stage left, waiting to make its entrance. It must be that it is too raw; that I am, really, right back at the beginning again where colds still sometimes flatten me for more time than I would like considering my bloody Bradford Factor, and the memories of last summer and all its associated ulcers and nosebleeds and pain still loom large in my mind (so much so, actually, that only the other night I went to bed and cried, so fearful was I of the strange and varied menagerie of symptoms that occasionally rear their heads but that I am able to work through – remission it ain’t, sometimes).

I’m not wearing the ring again, but not really due to any of the above. I’ve become allergic to it, actually (since last summer, if irony were ever more fitting), and I feel too differently to wear it. I am not recovered. I am not a sufferer. Some good things happened as a result of my second illness, but there were losses, too. Mainly my peace of mind.

I might buy a new ring, when I qualify, or if I sell a book. I might not need a ring. I might just be me, with bare hands.

Good luck book

“This doesn’t exactly look like an event is happening,” MindReader said. We parked the car in the deserted car park and got out, the slam of the doors sounding intrusive in the night.

“…No,” I said. “It definitely said the common.”

“It’s big,” MindReader said. “Maybe it’s the other side of it.”

A firework went off at the other side of the common, so we started walking. We walked for ten minutes, the grass turning from the hard-packed earth of a school playing field to the wild, spongy, springy grass of a deserted common. We crossed over a ridge of slightly raised ground, me balancing with one hand on a tree trunk as I slipped on a clod of earth.

“Are you sure?” MindReader said to me five minutes later.

“This is a very Billygean evening,” I said to him; a long-term joke between us said whenever we end up at random open-mic nights or at an African heritage centre or at the launch of a shop selling total crap (all of which have happened). I pulled my phone out of my pocket and double-checked the address.

I read it, then stopped dead. MindReader kept walking, disappearing into the gloom, and I startled him with my laugh. “It’s not here!” I said. “It’s not here.”

He turned around with barely an eye-roll and we walked back to the car. “It’s this common,” I said, indicating on my map. “We can still make it.”

We drove a mile up the road and stopped. “This looks more like it,” MindReader said mildly. There were police everywhere, and men selling glowing necklaces, and candyfloss vans.

We parked by the side of the road and walked quickly around the edge of the common. “Are you ready?” a voice came over the loudspeaker. “Ten, nine, eight.”

“Perfect timing,” I said. MindReader, who likes to be early and not rush, said nothing.

We arrived as Ellie Goulding’s Anything could happen was playing, and, as I looked into the sky so big and dark it made my eyeballs ache, and watched the explosions of light and colour, I thought of my novel, as I always do, like a lover I am pining for.

I turned in my final edits last week. It is soon to go out to publishers, out into the world. I know it’s ready, but I feel nervous for it. Not because of what it means to me, anymore, but because of what the book itself deserves. It is a kind of madness, and I don’t expect non-writers to understand.

I watched some silent fireworks swirl above us, their white explosions understated, then watched a rocket launch and end with a bang and a heart shape. “Good luck book,” I thought to myself as I watched the sky.


We went for brunch in town. “The Boston Tea Party is good,” MindReader sad that morning to me as he brought me a cup of coffee in bed and lounged next to me while Benny washed himself furiously at the bottom of the bed. “I went there when I was on a course. You’ll like it.”

I did like it. “It’s too cool,” I said. I showed MindReader a photo I took on my phone of the bathroom. “I don’t know if it’s a very cool cafe or a prison.”


We sat by a window. I ordered a full English and a latte. They arrived quickly, steamy and fragrant. “Is that the Magistrates’ Court?” I said, staring at the building out of the window.


My book is partially set in Birmingham Magistrates’ Court. It looked different to when I went to look at it in the name of research. I had misremembered. Nothing needs changing, but I couldn’t stop looking. I spooned some scrambled eggs into my mouth and kept looking. There were the steps my heroine, Sara, climbs. There was the dingy cafe next door where she takes her client.

Good luck, book.



The blank page

Being a writer got me a sun tan.

The break I took from writing after I finished my novel in Mexico. The meeting with my agent in the sun. This past weekend editing my manuscript in the garden during the heatwave. Law has always made me pasty, but being a writer got me a tan.

Being a writer has taken on a different form these past few weeks. The high of polishing a manuscript segued into the fun that was querying (I really did find it fun, but then, I have always enjoyed obsessively checking my email…), then leapfrogged into exciting emails and phone calls and meetings. And it’s just got better since then, really. My Twitter’s gone mental. I’ve been talked about on a podcast. Influential writers’ blogs have written about me, and I’ve done an interview (coming soon). I sat outside late on Saturday night amongst the fireflies and watched a friend’s cigarette, the tip a glowing orb in the night, and thought happy thoughts about my writing career.

The thing is, though, that’s not being a writer. And it’s very easy to get over involved in all that. The lack of terrifying hours staring at the blank page, the dopamine hits positive tweets and emails bring. It’s addictive. But it’s not writing.

And so here I am, about to start the first draft of my next novel. My emails are closed. My Twitter notifications are turned off. The Word document is blank, unblinking. My tan is fading, but this is what it’s all about. Just words on a page.