England's Best Export

Book summary

Sapphire Carmichael becomes Melissa after fleeing a harrowing online ordeal in London for a tranquil village. In her new life, she's drawn to the enigmatic Kai Tudor, whose allure comes with hidden darkness. Balancing village relationships and escalating threats, Melissa confronts difficult choices about trust, love, and self-preservation.

Excerpt from England's Best Export

I woke up in the unfamiliar spare room of my friends’ house and took a moment to realise where I was. I remembered, and cold nausea hit me. I was now fully awake and back in the nightmare that had been going on for several weeks. The nightmare which had forced me out of my London home and would today force me to travel further afield, to the village of Godlarton in North Somerset. I would leave the sanctuary in Essex, provided by family friends, to live with, and later near, my aunt and uncle.

It’s just a quick drive to the station, twenty minutes to allow for rush hour traffic, a train to Liverpool Street, a tube to Paddington, and then a longer train journey to Bristol Temple Meads. My aunt will pick me up and take me straight to their house. We’ll leave here at nine, and I’ll be in Godlarton by two.

Being back in London is what scares me the most, but I will be disguised. I will wear a headscarf and a face mask with a loose top and trousers. Not everyone correctly guesses that I am half black and half white. Some people think I look Middle Eastern or South Asian. With that outfit, I will be well disguised. Even though there are now so many photos of me online.

I got up before I could fully remember why there were so many photos online of an unremarkable, twenty-four-year-old Londoner, who once worked in a hair salon and later in pest control. Mild-mannered, friendly Sapphire Carmichael had gone from being only noticeable due to her unusual first name to an online figure of hate in a matter of weeks.

I quickly showered and dressed in the unfamiliar clothes which the Khan family had kindly given me. I pinned a length of fabric around my head, careful to make it look like I had long, thick hair that I had covered with a scarf for religious reasons.

The mirror told me that I looked nothing like any of the Khans, but more importantly, nothing like I usually did. Hassan and Farah were originally from Afghanistan, and they both worked as interpreters some twenty years ago before settling in Essex. Their daughters Aisha and Malika, now nineteen and seventeen, only had memories of life in England. Their religion was Islam, and their culture was decidedly English. None of the women covered their hair or dressed especially modestly.

They took some trouble to get me this outfit, and they took a great risk in sheltering me whilst my family made preparations. I will always be grateful to them.

I met three of the family for breakfast. Hassan now had his own business, and today was a Saturday when he needed to leave early for work. Farah, now a civil servant, and her daughters could afford to sit over their meal. Nineteen-year-old Aisha was at home from university, where she was studying to become a teacher. Her younger sister was a trainee hairdresser and would leave for work that afternoon.

Chin up, Sapphire, I thought as I sat down and accepted a cup of coffee. No, Melissa. Chin up, Melissa. You must use your middle name from now on, there are more Melissas than Sapphires out there. Farah and Hassan live a completely different life to the one they were brought up to live. Indeed, they lived under a brutal regime until well into their twenties. They were brave and began new lives in a foreign country. You must also be brave. Besides, the West Country is not a foreign country with a totally different language, alphabet and culture.

The coffee was a mistake. I could barely drink more than a sip. My heart was already pounding too quickly. Malika saw my eyes and shaking hands and smiled sympathetically.

“Would you like a peppermint tea instead?” she asked. Her voice was different to the rest of her family’s because she was born almost completely deaf. She mainly communicated through lip reading, but she could also sign. I was only fluent in British Sign Language thanks to my family’s long friendship with hers.

“Yes, please.”

Farah looked at me kindly.

“It will be over soon, love. You will soon be safe and starting a new life. Believe me.”

“Yeah, and it won’t be for ever,” Aisha added. “They will let up eventually and take offence at what someone else posts. You don’t look anything like you usually do. People will think you are a cousin visiting from Afghanistan.”

“What flight are you and Malika getting on Monday?” I changed the subject, eager to think about anything other than my own problems.

Aisha told me they would get a flight that left just before 2pm which would take them to Dubai. She described how she and her sister intended to get from Dubai to Kabul, where they had grandparents. They intended to visit for three weeks and see their wider family, all of whom still lived in or near the city.

I could not concentrate. The sisters might have been planning a visit to the moon for all I took in. Farah glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall.

“We’ll need to go in fifteen minutes. Have you packed, Sa—Melissa?”

“Yes. I’ll go and check I’ve left nothing behind.”

I scoured the Khans’ spare room, its en suite and their living room, anxiety compelling me to check everything. I had left nothing behind. A small suitcase on wheels and a nondescript rucksack contained a few possessions, namely clothes, a mobile phone with a new number and some toiletries. My family had agreed to sell what they could of my old wardrobe on eBay and transfer what money they raised to my account, my new account which was under the name Ms S M Carmichael and no longer Miss Sapphire Carmichael.

I can take no chances. Everything that I can change about myself must change. The police advised this. Oh God, will my parents be safe selling my stuff online? Will someone notice and make trouble for them? We agreed to say that I have gone to visit relatives in Jamaica. Will selling my clothes support or destroy that lie?

Clothes. Not only do I no longer wear my old clothes, but my style has had to completely change. I even wear a new wig. Goodbye long, spiral curls. Goodbye feminine outfits. No more pastel colours, crystal-studded jewellery and glittery nail varnish. Hello to a style I can only call dull and unisex. It is a million miles from my own inclinations, and it is therefore what I must change into in a toilet once I am on the train to Bristol.

Farah called me, startling me out of my thoughts. I called back to confirm I was ready to go, put on a disposable facemask and a pair of open-toed sandals that my father had recently bought a charity shop. I grabbed my bags and hugged Malika and Aisha. I would miss them.

“Don’t contact us unless you can do it safely,” Malika begged.

“My aunt will send a carefully-worded text to my mum once she has collected me. She will thank her for the flowers which she sent. My mum will then text your mum to ask when you go to Kabul. After that, we will have to see how the situation goes. I came off all social media, deleted my accounts, and I changed my email address and my mobile number. We are following the police’s advice to the letter. That’s why you only know that I am getting on a train to London, and then I am travelling to somewhere else in the South-West. I will not endanger you by giving you the exact area, let alone a specific address.”

Malika’s hazel eyes widened and Aisha, naturally the fairest in her family, suddenly looked wan.

“It’s that serious?” Aisha stammered.

“Yes. The last police officer I spoke to said that he did not think my family’s devices had been hacked, but he could not rule it out.”

“They are that determined?”

“Yes. I have not only received death threats, but my family and some friends have received threats too. Not death threats but threats none the less.”

“Then go and be safe,” Aisha said. “You must do whatever you need to do in order to stay safe.”

Thus, I left their house, put my case in the back of their car and jumped in the passenger seat, tempted to slouch so that the rucksack hid the parts of my face not covered by the face mask and headscarf.

Farah and I drove the short distance to the train station in silence. There was nothing to say. I felt nervous as we approached the station because it was in the town centre, so there were naturally more people around than there had been in the street where they lived, which was on the outskirts of Old Caston. I peered at the crowds. What did they know about me? What had they read online? However, I was also beginning to feel some relief because I was on the first stage of my journey to relative safety and a new life.

She parked, and we both got out of the car. She opened the boot, I took out my suitcase and we said our goodbyes. She spoke with her usual accent, somewhere between Received Pronunciation and the Estuary English of her neighbours. I spoke with the accent I had been practising since I arrived in her house, hers. All my life I had spoken something between Multicultural London English and Standard English and had never thought twice about my pronunciation or vocabulary. Naturally, that had to change too.

She deliberately did not use any name for me as we parted, nor did I use any for her. I left her before I could break down, the enormity of what I was doing had suddenly hit me, and I did not turn back to wave as I would have done in normal circumstances.

Normal. When will I ever experience anything normal again? Will having a new identity become my new normal, just like wearing a face mask has?

Nobody approached me during my journey to Liverpool Street. The train was packed with people heading into London, but none of them paid me any attention. My heartbeat began to slow to a healthier rate.

Liverpool Street was just as busy, and I started to feel sick with nerves. I was now back in London and had to get on the tube. However, no one noticed me any more than they noticed any other person on the underground train that sped like a bullet, rattling away as we flew past platforms and posters. Within minutes we reached Paddington, and I got off the tube to get on the overground train which would take me to Bristol.

Once I was on my third and final train, I felt myself actually relaxing. My carriage was empty, and the woman who checked my ticket did nothing to trigger my anxiety. My voice and outfit were unremarkable in her eyes. As soon as we had passed Reading, I gathered my belongings and went to the toilet, where I quickly changed into trainers, baggy grey jeans, an olive green T-shirt and a short wig which looked like natural hair that had been undercut.

I fastened a cheap man’s watch around my wrist before quickly adding thick eyeliner around my eyes and lots of mascara to my lashes. I had already made my eyebrows look much heavier that morning than nature had ever intended, so I did nothing to them. I shoved my sandals, scarf, top and trousers into the bin. The lid shut with a satisfying click. Finally, I sprayed myself with a citrus scent that was advertised as unisex. I had given up my favourite perfume, which smelled of roses and violets and was what I once wore daily, when I left London for Essex.

My carriage was still empty, so I returned to it but to a different seat. The same woman came round after we had stopped at Bath Spa and asked to see my ticket again.

She made no comment when she saw her stamp on it. She only apologised for disturbing me again. She must have forgotten that she checked it earlier.

I smiled and felt lighter.

The rest of my journey went smoothly, and we pulled into Temple Meads station on time. Once I had made my way to the short stay car park, I looked for my aunt Ruby. A familiar figure with a pointed chin, relaxed greying hair and sunglasses stared past me, scanning the people leaving the building, until I waved at her. Her jaw then dropped.

We embraced. My heart was racing with relief. I even felt light headed.

“It’s so good to be here, so good to see you,” I whispered.

“I am pleased to see you again, safe and well, Melissa,” she smiled.

We might have been any family reunited after months of lockdowns and restrictions, the plump black woman in her fifties and the lighter-skinned, petite woman who looked about eighteen or nineteen. None of the many people passing by gave us a second glance.

It was only when we were safely in her car that we dared to speak frankly.

“You’ve done a great job of disguising yourself. I didn’t recognise you until you waved at me. I’ll text your mother as we agreed.” She picked up her phone.

I no longer have my mum’s number or her email address on any device of mine. Or my dad’s, my brother’s or any one of my friends’. I deleted the numbers I have for Aisha, Malika and Farah once I was on the train to Bristol. I only have phone numbers and email addresses for my aunt, my uncle Adam and cousin Alex, but nothing for anyone else from my old life.

I recalled that I also had a phone number and email address for Mared, Alex’s wife of almost two years, but I had not heard from her for a long time. She had also fallen silent on social media, and I was not completely sure why.

My family was not a large one. I had no aunts or uncles on my dad’s side, all my grandparents had died by my twenty-third birthday, and Ruby was my mum’s only sibling. Alex was her only child, so Mared was a real addition to the family.

Alex had introduced me to his girlfriend at his father’s sixtieth birthday party in the summer of 2017. He was then twenty-four to her twenty-two, and they had met through work. (They worked for the same firm, him in the legal team and her as a trainee accountant). She was not his first girlfriend, but she was the only one he had ever introduced to his wider family, so I was curious about this woman from a village in South Wales with whom my cousin was enamoured. It appeared there was nothing she could not do. She was incredibly clever, she was stunning to look at, and she was so sweet. Alex had never met a nicer girl. He could not believe his luck.

Mared was certainly beautiful. Alex had told us she had dabbled in modelling, and I could believe it. Her hair was auburn and fell in heavy waves far down her back, her almond-shaped eyes were almost amber in colour and her pale brown skin was flawless. She had a cute dusting of freckles across her button nose and naturally full lips. In addition to all of this, she was willowy and taller than my squat cousin, who had been compared to a bulldog with jaundice more than once.

His behaviour was more like that of a well-trained puppy than that of a bulldog. It was blatant how much he adored her, and not just for her looks. I already knew that she could teach herself foreign languages, she could sew her own clothes and she had graduated with a first-class degree in physics. Talking to her revealed a woman with excellent social skills, a charming nature and a quick wit.

However, my second meeting with her, a meal in a pub near Godlarton the following Christmas, revealed her less-than-charming side. I had gone to stay with my aunt, uncle and cousin along with my parents and my brother Alfie, and the eight of us had gone out for a meal. The pub was busy, and Mared attracted attention from a pair of men. The men looked at her approvingly. She must have noticed their stares because she smiled broadly, looking satisfied.

Perhaps Alex also noticed because he went to the bar with her and slung an arm around her waist. I was sitting nearest to the men, who were getting up to leave.

One of them spoke to the other in a whisper which was not quite quiet enough.

“What’s someone like her doing with someone like him?”

His friend shook his head as if to say it was beyond him, and they left the pub.

Only Alex, Mared and I overheard them.

Alex flushed, he had never been a confident man, particularly when it came to women. I felt my cheeks grow hot with indignation at the comment and hotter still when I saw Mared’s reaction. She looked even more satisfied, glanced at her boyfriend, then her expression could only be described as smug.

My abilities were never remarkable, apart from my ability to hide my feelings and to think on my feet. Nobody else at our table had noticed anything untoward, and I was able to stay composed and look like I was paying attention to what my mother was telling her brother-in-law and sister. Alex returned to the table in a subdued mood which did not lift. Mared remained as chatty and as cheerful as ever.

Although she had sunk considerably in my estimation, I never betrayed my change of heart towards my cousin’s girlfriend. I rarely saw either him or her due to the distance between my home in London and theirs in Bristol. Their wedding day, in September 2019, was a happy day for everyone. Alex still looked like a man who could not quite believe his luck and was eager to please his elegant, smiling bride. I accepted that my cousin was old enough to know his own mind and welcomed her into the family with the same enthusiasm which everyone else showed.

However, I understood that much had changed during the intervening twenty-two months. COVID and government-ordered restrictions had kept me away from that side of the family for nearly two years, but my aunt had communicated worrying news to my mother, who had told me in turn.

“How are you all?” I asked my aunt as she drove out of the car park. “Do you hear much from Alex and Mared these days?”

“Adam and I are fine, thanks. Work keeps us both busy. So many people want their gardens landscaped, he has a waiting list of over a year. As for me, cases built up over the three lockdowns, and we are dealing with the backlog. It was bad enough before last March, we were already overstretched.”

My aunt was a social worker. She paused before answering the rest of my question.

“Alex is still doing well at work. Did you know he was promoted in April?”

“Yes, I did. He is now quite senior in the legal team, I understand.”

“Yes. I can’t remember what his exact job title is, but he has been at Dendleswick and Hart since he gained his LLB, so it’s only natural that he is progressing. People speak so highly of him.”

“Does he believe them?”