Today I have a very exciting extract to share with you. Martinis and Memories came out in the UK on August 13th and you can order your copy here. Don't forget to check out the other blogs on the tour for more exclusive content. I have a wonderful extract to share with you so you can get a taste of this novel, here's what it's all about:
Bel Hailstone has spent the past decade
building her dream - Soho’s best burlesque club - from the ground up. But now
The Martini Club is under threat and it will take everything in Bel’s power to
resist encroaching developers and save her pride and joy.
Amidst the chaos Bel’s past comes knocking
with the unexpected arrivals of her still-not-quite-ex-husband, her estranged
mother and Brodie Porter - the boy who got away all those years ago.
To
keep her beloved club afloat – not to mention her sanity - Bel will have to
accept help for the first time in a long time, put the past to rest and claim
the happy ever after she once thought was lost for good.
And here's that extract for you. Scroll down for more information about this author as well as social media links!
I picked up my gym bag and walked out
onto the landing, closing the door behind me.
‘I know you’re there,’ I said, and
Sam poked his head over, coffee in hand.
‘Hello again.’
‘You spying on me?’
He appraised me knowingly. ‘I was
sitting having a cup of coffee in my stairwell; I’m entitled.’
‘You are, but you have a perfectly
lovely flat up there and your knees cramp up sitting on those steps.’
He held up a hand. ‘Okay, okay, I was
listening out for yelling. Slamming doors, anything else that might mean a big
old American landlord needs to stick his oversized nose somewhere. But it seems
you’ve got it covered. How long’s she staying?’
‘I have no fucking idea. I need to go
dance it out or I’ll explode.’
He nodded gravely. ‘Smart move.’
‘Do me a favour? She wants to come
and see the club, could you drop her by this evening? Just walk her over?’
Sam raised an eyebrow at me, whiskery
and unimpressed. ‘And does your mother often look at menfolk like they won’t
make it out alive?’
I laughed. ‘No, but they don’t make
it out all the same. You’re strong, though, I believe in you.’
Sam paused, as if he wasn’t sure
which words to choose. ‘Sweetheart, you’re not trying… this isn’t some sort of
set up, is it? Because I am quite happy the way I am.’
I pressed my lips together and tried
not to laugh again. ‘Sam, I love you. You are one of my dearest friends. I
would not do that to you. I just need to make sure she doesn’t come over early
and cause problems.’
He saluted lazily. ‘Okay, you can
count on me, poppet. I’ll bring her over. Can’t be held responsible for what
happens when she’s there.’
For the hundredth time this month, I
thanked my lucky stars for Sam, who was sometimes the only person who made me
feel sane.
I jogged down the stairs, weaving in
between the Sunday morning tourists and workers, the people enjoying the
sunshine, looking in shop windows and restaurants. Every step I took away from
my mother, I felt a little better, a little more clear-headed. I tapped into
the building on the corner, running up the stairs before walking straight into
the studio. I spared a smile for the other women in the corner, almost always
the same ones on Sundays. I sat down on the floor to swap my shoes, stretching
out my legs and leaning into it, feeling the tension start to melt away. The
other women were always perfect and spritely, long-limbed and perfect-bunned,
just like when I used to go to ballet class as a kid. There were the cygnets,
and then there was me, the chicken. Now, it was almost the opposite. The
perfectly coiffed ladies would smile and say hello to me, but they never
attempted to talk, and neither did I. I wasn’t the green juices and bran
muffins after class type, and they knew that. It was easier to come in three
minutes before the class started and focus on stretching out.
I was better than they were. I wasn’t
good enough to be professional and I had hated dancing through my childhood,
the way my mother forced me to practise for hours, took me to auditions. The
bloody toes and constant aches as I tried to study on so few hours’ sleep. ‘You
can do better, Bel, you know you can do better. You don’t want to embarrass me,
do you?’ I had wanted to be better in school. My class tutor, Miss McKay, had
gone head to head with Mum numerous times. I was exhausted, I was falling
asleep, I was limping at school. How could I be expected to study and do well
if I was dancing all the time? Did she know I was a smart girl? I could go to
university if I applied myself.
I loved Miss McKay. She was the only
person I’d met who ever seemed to think I could do anything. Mum thought I
could dance, but never as well as her.
Everyone else I met seemed to think
I’d just grow up and take over running the dance studio, or I’d be working at
the chippy forever. Having one person, one young, hopeful teacher tell me I was
smart enough to do something other than live my small life in Eastbourne, that
was enough to plant a seed of doubt. I could do something else, but it would
have to be carefully planned. I would never be able to live the life I wanted
around Mum. She would never quit, not unless I was so badly injured I couldn’t
dance any more, and I couldn’t quite bear to do that. I got close, some nights,
when I was so exhausted, when she was
shouting at me about not getting picked at audition, when she made me stand on
the scales every morning and sighed, before handing me an apple. I was a
constant disappointment.
The weird thing was, after all that,
after all those horrible memories and the stress and the way she made me hate
my body… I still loved to dance. I loved to go up on my tiptoes and feel the
tension in my legs. I loved to stretch and move and sway, and know that I could
do what others couldn’t, that my body was a powerhouse. When I’d moved to the
city, when I’d first considered leaving Euan, I found burlesque, and that was
something else altogether. It was an act, a performance in confidence and
sensuality. Ballet was about strength, beauty, control. They were two halves of
me.
The teacher led us through some basic
moves and I let everything melt away, feeling the tension in my neck release.
Every thought about the club, my mother, Euan, money worries and that creeping,
ever-present feeling that I was lonely and couldn’t work that away. It sat in
my muscles and slipped from them as I stretched.
An hour later, I pulled on my
trainers, nodded at the other women and headed out, feeling lighter. I wouldn’t
tell Mum, no matter what. If she knew I still danced, it would be a thing. I didn’t know if she’d explode
with irritation, that I had run out on it all those years ago, but still
danced, or if she would get maudlin and full of regret. My mother’s emotions
were like the weather.
When I got back to the flat,
thankfully she was out. I saw the spare keys were gone, and her suitcase was
open in the living room, clothes strewn everywhere, so she’d obviously taken my
suggestion. Music played from Sam’s flat upstairs, and I got ready for work
more quickly than usual.
Normally, putting on my game face was
an art, like preparing for war. I started as Annabelle Stone, nobody, and I
left as Arabella Hailstone, owner of the Martini Club. The make-up was glitter
and darkness, plumping my lips until they looked like dark sugar plums. My eyes
were lined in liquid black, and some days, if I’d put a before and after next
to each other, I was sure I was almost unrecognisable. With my war paint on, I
became who I was meant to be.
It’s not that unexpected to see a
tall Valkyrie in a sparkling black corset and heels walking through Soho on a
Sunday afternoon, but people still stare. They probably wonder if I’m someone
famous, or if I’m a dominatrix, a local performer. The things I’ve seen in
Greek Street over the years, I barely qualify as interesting. And yet I enjoy
it, striding down the street, turning heads, as if it’s my own personal show. I
play music on my walk into the office, something upbeat and powerful, so that I
walk with a wiggle, keep my head held high. Every moment before entering the
club is about becoming more myself, putting on the Wonder Woman outfit and
making shit happen.
A. L.
Michael is the author of 13
novels. Almost all of them are snarky love stories where difficult women learn
to embrace vulnerability. Andi works as a content writer, so no matter what
she’s doing, she’s all about the words. She has a BA in English Literature, an
MA in Creative Business and an MSc in Creative Writing. She is represented by
Hayley Steed at Madeleine Milburn.
Social Media Links
Twitter: @almichael_
Website: www.almichael.com
