Prologue
The man’s hand reaches out and takes Anika’s elbow, and the proprietary gesture ignites a hot flame of memory – of that first night she refused to let her fate be dictated by another.
A feeling she’s only just reclaimed.
The motion of yanking her arm away sends him stumbling. She calms into a shrug, retreating lightly on her toes. She half expects to feel shame for showing even a hint of her boiling insides. But things are different now.
A split second later, a different man is before her. His beautiful face moves closer to her and cracks open into a wicked, delicious grin. He arches an eyebrow inquisitively, but Anika just reaches out and grabs his hand, pulling him away quickly. Together they rush towards the exit. She’s won, just like she said she would.
They’re panting as they burst out into the night. They are hidden from the rest of the world and her companion is closer, closer, very close. His energy, his heat, backs her gently against the brick wall behind her. She grabs the lapels of his jacket and feels the material tense and relax slightly as his chest heaves. His next exhalation brushes against her mouth and then his lips are pressing over hers. Her entire soul sparks to life and she smiles against him.
‘Things are different now, aren’t they?’ she murmurs.
The smooth darkness of his brow warps into a confused frown even as his lips curve in bemusement. ‘Yeah.’ He nuzzles his nose against hers. ‘You …’ he whispers. ‘Are …’ Another brush of his lips. ‘Wild.’
Wild. Unconstrained. She’s new. She wants this. She wants more.
‘I’m beginning to think I just might be.’
Chapter One
Monday 2nd July
Anika Lapo squints against the morning sun, watching as a fair-haired woman clings on to the railing of the stairs down to the opposite train platform, stretching up to pull one of the little apples off the tree that hangs over it. She brushes it off on her top and munches. Anika screws up her face involuntarily, but it smooths out again as she observes the woman’s pleased expression.
It would never occur to her that she’d have permission to do such a thing.
She pushes her sunglasses up her nose from where they’ve slid down over her sweat, and ties back the waist-length Senegalese twists installed last week as part of her plan to finally grow out her relaxer. She never expected for them to be quite this long, which is making her self-conscious. The onset of thirty-degree heat wasn’t anticipated for a start and this is attention-seeking hair, especially on her.
Wendy’s vivid blue eyes had widened when they met up for cocktails last weekend at their old local in Kentish Town – their first meet-up since moving out of the Vale Road maisonette a fortnight ago, after years of cohabitation as flatmates. Wendy’s high-pitched enthusiasm at Anika’s new look seemed suspicious, like she wasn’t sure it was still her friend under all that hair. Like Anika was a migrant to a new cultural space. Anika lived there all the time of course, but within that particular friendship it wasnever really discussed, not even back in their university days.
It’s only just 8.30 a.m. and the city heat that soaked into the ground from the day before is already rising to mingle with the growing warmth in the air. The weekend zipped by in a nauseating blur and Sunday night is still weighing on her. It was embarrassing really – she and Len were only together for a few weeks. She’s far more upset about the fact that he borrowed one of her albums and lost it. How do youlosea whole vinyl record? And as if some bullshit reissue could in any way replicate the importance of the original record. Anika had stood there staring at it – the photo of Al Green sitting in his white suit in that white wicker chair withI’m Still in Love With Youwritten above his head – and marvelled at the irony of the title.
What a waste of time. The two hours of her life spent in that ‘women’s health’ clinic on Saturday that she’ll never get back. The three weeks of deluding herself that she was starting a ‘relationship’. The four-and-a-half hours getting her braids done.
The almost thirtyyearsof her life she’s spent treading water.
Last night, Anika told her best mates, Shameeka and Tina, about it all. Both called Len a wasteman in their group chat.I know, Anika replied, even though she obviously didn’tknow. Shameeka typed,You just need someone who can draw you out of your shell, get to know the real you. As if Anika’s some kind of military fortress of a person. Maybe she was right, though – Anika hasn’t exactly been inundated with relationship options. And settling into her own place these last couple of weeks, it’s been tempting to go full hermit.Being alone is cool, but also … be careful what you wish for.
Anika is grateful when her train finally pulls in, drawing her attention away from her thoughts. She steps aboard and spots a rare vacant seat. A tall, white man with sweat patches blooming under the arms of his blue shirt shoots her a contemptuous lookand mutters something she can’t hear when she beats him to it, but she just sits down and adjusts her earbuds, trying to ignore the hostile clench of his jaw.
‘Bruv, bruv, bruv, do you hear yourself, though?’ says the resonant voice in her ears over the bed of a familiar hip-hop instrumental – the one her favourite breakfast radio presenter, Cam Asiedu, always uses: J Dilla’s ‘One for Ghost’. A classic, stuttering, soul-sampling hip-hop beat that she also loves and if she had to guess, she’d say it’s the broadcaster’s personal choice. Just an instinct, obviously – she wouldn’t know for certain. She’d love to, though.
Anika glances down at her lap for a moment, imagining being face to face with Cam. An odd flush comes over her as she rolls his name around in her mind. Her thirstiness for the DJ isn’t some awkward secret, but she still feels the urge to keep it to herself.
Anika’s ears are drawn back to Cam’s voice. ‘How can you say that’s not misogynistic? Do you even know what that—? You know what? Never mind.’ There’s some aggravated, incoherent muttering from the other mic in the studio and Cam retorts lightly, ‘Hah hah! Bruv, I’m playing, I’m playing.’ Anika can tell he’s not. ‘But still … Look, you know what? I reckon we just head straight into the next track, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
She smirks at the monosyllabic response.
‘OK,’ Cam says on a sigh. ‘This next one is called “BloodFire”; the new album isYou Will Know. King Grease is live with me in the studio, so, uh, let’s run this one …’
The SpinRadio ident plays, then a generic dancehall beat begins and Anika adjusts the volume on her phone and opens her text messages. They’re the only place safe from Shameeka’s check-ins, which are peppered all over her other messaging app. Her friend means well, but Anika doesn’t need the reminder of hersad state of affairs – where her life is now versus where she wants it to be. And, in fact, the weight of her bag on her lap reminds her that she’s still carting around her bulky old five-year diary from when she was a kid, which she unearthed during her flat move.
On the first page, at twelve years old, Anika had written:
January 1st 2005
