The Re-Write

Chapter 1

1

Eleven weeks later … August

My heart can ’ t take another rejection.

This thought keeps coming to mind as I wait in a quiet restaurant in Covent Garden. My agent emailed me to catch up over lunch, so I’m assuming she has news for me – whether it’s good or bad, I don’t know.

‘Water?’

A smiley waiter fills the two glasses on the table. The aroma of freshly made buttery waffles, which under normal circumstances would make me hungry, is now making me sick to my stomach.

And then a lump the size of a cough sweet lodges itself in my throat.

Directly ahead of me on the widescreen TV is my ex-boyfriend, Wale. A rerun episode of The Villa: The Reunion is on.

My lips quiver but I manage to hold it together.

Six months down the drain. Just like that.

The producers play a reel of Wale’s highlights from the five weeks he was on the show before being voted off by the public – not that I was keeping track. They’ve set it to the tune of Mariah Carey’s ‘Heartbreaker’, which couldn’t be more fitting.

They show his entrance:

‘What’s happening, people! My name is Wale and I’m from south London!’

His first connection with a Geordie lass called Sally:

‘Yeah, you’re a sweet one, still.’

They show how he breaks her heart, before swiftly coupling up with Taleesha and doing the exact same thing. This happens quite a few times. Going from one girl to the other. Going from piping hot to ice-cube cold, until he is paired up with Kelechi – a stunning British Nigerian model with rich chocolate skin and big eyes. When they hit it off, I’d switched off. I could no longer watch as the love of my life fell into the arms of somebody else. But, despite avoiding the show, it was almost impossible to dodge Black Twitter. Every day, Wale and Kelechi, or ‘Walechi’ as they were called, inundated my news feed. They were #couplegoals #BlackLove #YorubaAndIgboKingAndQueen. Until, one day, a different hashtag was trending: #GetWaleOut #FBoy #WaleIsTrashBinHim.

It seemed as though Mr Pretty Boy had broken Kelechi’s heart too.

The reel comes to an end. Wale is met with a few lone boos from the audience. Kelechi gives him an earful; his attempt to defend himself is drowned out.

A pang of sympathy fills my empty stomach. No, Temi, he deserves this . See this as your gift . Now the world can see Wale for who he really is.

Shaking my head, I continue to watch. Wale is fumbling; they sound like excuses.

‘Oh, please. Give it a rest,’ I say to myself.

And right into my agent’s face.

I was so busy watching the reunion, I didn’t even see her walk in.

Mayee looks over at the screen, then at me. ‘You’re a fan?’ she says, hanging the chain of her diamond-quilted Chanel bag over the back of her chair.

I scrunch up my nose.

‘Urgh, no.’ (I’ve watched nearly all six seasons of The Villa and could most likely win Trivia on it.)

‘Well, good thing I’m sitting with my back towards the TV, then,’ she says. ‘Don’t judge. Guilty pleasure.’

My brows quirk. Oh, we could have bonded over that.

If there’s any literary agent who is known by one name alone, it’s Mayee. She’s the Madonna of publishing. With nearly two decades of experience under her belt, she represents all of the biggest award-winning, best-selling romance authors. I’m lucky to be on her books, let alone sharing the same oxygen; I got rejected by twelve agents before she signed me. I cannot. F. This. Up.

Remembering that we’re now on hugging terms, I clamber to my feet and wrap my arms around her. Mayee’s tall frame makes me feel even shorter than I already am.

‘You look well,’ she says as I ruefully give my tank top a quick yoink .

Shakira must be doing a fabulous job concealing my eye bags because I barely slept a wink last night, worried stiff about this meeting. Shakira is one of my many beautiful pairs of prescription glasses – nude polygonal frames with silver rhinestones along the side temples. Hey, some people name their cars. I name my eyewear.

‘Thanks for meeting with me,’ Mayee says after we slide into our seats. She’s wearing one of those chic, military-style blazers, and on a less terrifying day, I’d be asking where it’s from. ‘It’s been a while since we’ve last met in person, hasn’t it?’

‘It has.’

Over the last few months, Mayee has broken bad news over the phone and via email. This is why today could be different.

While she studies the menu, I study her body language – honestly, the woman is impossible to read. The waiter comes over and takes our order.

‘So,’ Mayee says. The TV behind cuts to an ad break. ‘I’ve got some news.’

Under the table, my thighs start to sweat. I can hear myself breathing through my nose.

Mayee places her interlocked hands on the table, her stiletto-shaped nails crimson red. ‘As you know, for the past, what, eight, nine months now, I’ve been submitting your manuscript to editors at a number of publishing houses. And I’ve recently heard back from Paxton.’

Despite her attempts to maintain a neutral tone, I can tell that the news is bad. A familiar, dull ache spreads under my ribs.

Rejected. Again.

Mayee gives me a moment to absorb the news before she resumes. ‘I know this is not what you want to hear,’ she carries on, her voice softening, ‘but the feedback from Paxton was the same. The editor loved your writing. Loved the Black, plus-size representation. But, sadly, she didn’t think the concept would appeal to the market. So, we need to make a decision.’

My lungs contract. There’s a finality in her tone.

‘I’m so sorry, Temi, but we’re going to have to draw a line under Wildest Dreams .’