30 Things I Love About Myself - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Radhika Sanghani is an award-winning journalist and author based in London. She writes features for publications like the Daily Mail, Daily Telegraph, The Guardian and Grazia. Her two previous novels, Virgin and Not That Easy were published in 13 countries worldwide, with Virgin made into an online TV series. Radhika is also a body positive campaigner, and founded the #sideprofileselfie movement to celebrate big noses. 30 Things I Love About Myself is her third novel.

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Chapter 1

Taurus season

TAURUS

Season: April 20—May 20

Element: Earth

Themes: Self-care. Sensuality. Pleasure.

Best time to: Set goals to make your dreams come true.

Nina did not want to spend her thirtieth birthday in a prison cell. But unfortunately, it looked like that was exactly what was about to happen.

"Here we are." The fiftysomething police officer who'd been in charge of Nina ever since she'd been led into Leicester police station with handcuffs around her wrists and mascara down her cheeks stopped abruptly outside a heavy metal door. "Not quite the Ritz, but at least you'll be alone."

"Alone?" Nina looked up at him in alarm. "No, no, I don't need to be alone. I'll be fine in one of those group cells with the bars."

The police officer laughed at Nina's lack of knowledge. "Those only exist in America. In Her Majesty's police stations, you get your own cell."

"But I thought that being in isolation was a punishment?" asked Nina. She was trying not to panic, and up until now, she'd been fine. She'd barely made any drug smuggling jokes when the female police officer had seen her washing out her menstrual cup in the toilet, she'd handed over her shoelaces without pointing out just how difficult it would be to hang herself with them, and she'd only made one reference to the last time she'd worn handcuffs. But that had been before Nina realized she'd actually have to spend the night in a cell. Alone.

"It's normal procedure when someone has been arrested at night," said the police officer, struggling with the key to the cell.

"Not on Orange Is the New Black," muttered Nina.

"This isn't TV," he replied, pushing the door open. "It's Leicester."

"Please," said Nina, in one last futile attempt to avoid her fate. She looked at the name on his shirt. "Look, DC Spencer, you know I'm innocent. I didn't do anything wrong. Is it really necessary for me to stay the night? Can't I just come in tomorrow morning for the interview?"

DC Spencer sighed impatiently. "You're under arrest," he said. "Which means you're going to have to spend the night in this cell. So get in there."

He moved aside and jabbed his thumb toward the tiny room behind him. The whole thing was made of concrete and painted to look like faux marble. It hadn't worked. There was a ledge built into the wall with what looked—and smelled—like a blue plastic gym mattress placed on top of it, as well as a much smaller blue plastic lump that Nina presumed was the pillow. There was no bed linen.

"That's the toilet," said DC Spencer, pointing to a hole in a smaller faux-marble ledge. "But also where the water comes out to wash your hands."

"Oh good," said Nina faintly, trying not to inhale the musty odor. "An eco-friendly ensuite."

"If you like. At least you're dressed for it." He looked at her oversized jumper, checkered pajama bottoms, and large puffer coat.

"I only popped out of the house to get a falafel," she said, crossing her arms. "I didn't expect to get arrested."

They both looked down at a series of white stains on her pajama bottoms.

"Hummus," explained Nina. "It's not easy to eat a falafel wrap when you've got handcuffs on."

"Oh good, so you won't be wanting dinner," he said. "Right, well, that's it, then."

"Wait," cried Nina. "Is there anything I can do? I'm guessing there's no TV. But do you have any magazines? Books? A guidance leaflet? I'll read anything."

"God, I don't remember the last time anyone asked for books," said DC Spencer.

"Do you . . . think you'd be able to find something?" asked Nina. "Honestly, I don't mind what it is. I just know I won't sleep, so anything to keep me distracted would be great."

"I think all the books got ruined by a stag do."

Nina opened her mouth to speak, but DC Spencer shook his head. "Don't ask," he said, as he walked out of the cell.

"Hang on, before you go, would it be possible to get a hot drink or something?" she asked.

"Will tea do?"

"Oh, an Earl Grey would be amazing," said Nina gratefully. "Or a chamomile actually. I guess it's a bit late for caffeine."

DC Spencer barked with laughter. "Chamomile! The tea comes from a machine. It's powdered." At the sight of Nina's horrified face, his voice softened. "They have a hot chocolate that isn't so bad."

"My mum keeps saying I should eat less refined sugar," said Nina. "Apparently it's why my life is so bad."

DC Spencer raised his eyes to the concrete ceiling. "You're about to spend your birthday under arrest. You can have a hot chocolate."

"Oh all right," said Nina. "I'll take two."

#

Nina sat in the cell and cried. Ever since she'd broken up with the man who'd been planning her not-so-surprise thirtieth, she'd lost all hopes of celebrating her birthday in style. But it had never occurred to her that she'd turn thirty alone in a cold cell with watery hot chocolate and not even a bedsheet for company. Nina wasn't big on symbolism, but she couldn't ignore the fact that this was not a very good sign. Her twenty-ninth year had not gone as planned, so she'd been desperately hoping—no, she'd needed—for her thirtieth to be an improvement. Only, so far, it looked like it was going to be her worst year yet.

She really had just popped out for some emotional comfort food when she'd been arrested. It had been her last evening in the flat that she'd shared with Nikhil until a month ago, and she'd felt depressed being there with her stacked-up boxes piled high against all the IKEA furniture he'd painstakingly built—and thus claimed as his own. She'd felt so lonely. Lonelier than she had in years, and it hurt. She'd tried to fill up the empty pit inside of her, eating everything she could find in the flat, even Nikhil's tasteless protein bars. But it wasn't enough to plug the gaping, raw pain. So she'd done what any sane woman in the final hours of her twenties would have done: stuck a coat on over her pajamas to go and buy a takeaway falafel wrap with a side of cheesy chips.

The drama had started when she came across the activists on her way home, a group of loud, jovial women walking with flasks and placards. Nina had been staring enviously because she'd never been to a protest before, even though she'd seen Billy Elliot four times (even once in the West End), and she'd always felt it was something she needed to tick off her bucket list. So when one of the women had asked her to hold her placard for a minute, assuming Nina was also marching against the council's unfair closure of a local center to help refugee women, Nina had decided this was her miners' moment. The cause was perfect-as a brown woman, supporting refugees was basically in her blood—and the demonstration was conveniently going past her flat. It was time for her to make a stand.

Within minutes, Nina was sharing tea from their flasks and agreeing heartily that the council had their priorities wrong. She was so inspired by the convivial atmosphere that she'd even started up a "Save our center" chant, barely taking in the fact that a bunch of angry-looking men had joined their march. For the first time in a month, surrounded by her new friends, with a bag of cheesy chips in her hand, Nina had forgotten how miserable she...