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‘Kiki already has a sprawling fanbase, and her appeal is in her specificity,’ she said.

‘Definitely, definitely,’ Verity purred, now tapping her fingers against her oversized pastel pink water bottle nervously. ‘It’s just how can we move within that power, you know? So we were thinking how about we widen that magical specificity, to include other artists who are more central to cultural attention in this moment–I was at an afterparty in Annabel’s–’ my lips quirked slightly at the location drop– ‘and I bumped into Kitty St James. You came up–she just adores you. You know, her sex and dating column at theJournalis really gaining traction, and she was thinking you two could join forces–wouldn’t that be cute? Kind of cross-cultural dating examination. You know her, right?’

I couldn’t help the choke of laughter that escaped me. Katherine ‘Kitty’ St James,TatlerIt Girl, the daughter of former Minister of State Agnes St James (who increased the use of stop-and-search in her tenure) and writer of the impressively named ‘Look What the Kat Dragged In’. It was a dating column described as ‘edgy, irreverent and brimming with girl power’, which of course meant she swore a lot in it and her author photo was of her wearing a pink crop top that read ‘Big Clit Energy’ to display said edginess. She recently wrote an article about how racism in ‘this day and age’ is a concept that can be ‘dick-constructed’. ‘The more people who fuck people who look different to them,’ she explained profoundly to us simpletons, ‘the more people will realise we’re all the same.’ She then concluded the piece with a triumphant: ‘Let us dream of a day where people are not judged by the colour of her skin, but the content of their coitus.’

Truly incredible, parts of the article whirring around my Black-girl media group chats with various iterations of ‘Is this bitch serious?’, ‘Excuse me, just got passed over for a job by my underqualified white colleague– lemme go find my Pearly King and fix this rn,’ and, ‘Séance at 8 guys? We gotta wake MLK up!!!’ plus, ‘He’s already awake sis, in the body of Kitty St James’.

She got dragged in the Black parishes of social media, but of course Verity must have missed that. Shortly after it was published, she hard-launched her boyfriend–a well-known Black actor– on Instagram with two ice-cream emojis, one vanilla, one chocolate.

I managed to subdue my laugh, clamping it between my jaws. ‘I mean,’ I said, ‘I could consider her as a guest.’ I absolutely would not, but I figured there was nothing wrong with pretending till the contract got signed.

Verity cleared her throat. ‘It would, uh, be with the view of making her a permanent co-host, but of course we would take care of you. With the renewal of your contract with us coming up, we wanted to revisit or expand the scope of what The Heartbeat could be. . .It’s actually contingent on this kind of growth. Imagine the North American tour with Kitty’s audience by your side! You would be. . .maximising your joint slay!’ She said the last part with a plop of pride, beaming, like she was on holiday and finally got a Duolingo phrase right.

A coldness roiled in my belly, and my palms started to prickle with dread. My breath shortened with my patience and willingness to keep it sweet. ‘My show isn’t a safari or a gap year to add some spice to someone’s resumé, and also it ismine.’

Verity reddened and her eyes widened. ‘No! We’re here to support Kiki Banjo.’

Why did she say my name like that? Like I wasn’t here, when I was, painfully, present, kombucha sloshing in me, feeling the inside of my stomach sweat, because I knew something was about to shift.

‘Interesting interpretation of support.’ Nina’s voice was crisp as a sip of ice water in Antarctica. ‘Basically holding my client at gunpoint and asking her to renew her show with someone else–changing the heart of it–or leaving.’

‘We love Kiki’s voice– it’s so bright,’ Tristram said, and I laughed again–manically, probably, judging by the look on their faces.

I nodded empathetically. ‘Yeah. Bright. It just needs a little more white to be bright enough.’

Verity went the colour of Mac’s Ruby Woo and I don’t actually remember the rest of what she said because my blood was pounding in my head so hard that it clouded coherency. All I could feel was rage, that they had the ability to take my dream and warp it whilst having the audacity to ask me to put my name on it. All I remember is that I interrupted Verity with a bark of laughter, and a ‘No.’

She blinked. ‘No to. . .’

I hadn’t realised I said it out loud till I saw the startled look on their faces, but when the ‘no’ reacted with the air it sounded better, had a bass to it. So I decided not to take it back, because, actually, fuck no, hell no,ra ra.

I smiled widely. ‘No. Nah,’ and as I said it, I felt a sort of peace come over me, the kind that comes with looking around a party and deciding that it’s time to leave, that you’ve had enough rum punch, you’ve shaken enough leg and bum with your girls, you’ve mingled, you’ve gisted, you’ve done all there is to do. You’re secure in the fact that you’re not missing out on shit. I didn’t need any other explanation. ‘No.’

When I told Bakari the next day, despite being nervous to, his jaw dropped and then he rubbed it silently for a few moments, frown deep, staring into his coffee, before venturing out carefully with, ‘Kiki. . .you sure that wasn’t impulsive? It’s not the worst idea to work with someone else to broaden your demographic.’

‘If it’s authentic, the audience will come. . .’

He sighed and nodded. ‘That’s the hope, but, realistically, it would have been a great opportunity for you, and you could have leveraged that to get so much money. . .’ and when he realised that my own jaw was locked tight and my eyes were shiny, he rubbed my arms and kissed the top of my head. ‘You know what? Maybe it’s for the best. How long were you going to do a podcast for anyway?’

I try to think of what I would have done differently and I come up short. It was impulsive, sure, but my impulse is always rooted in real. I don’t do impulsive unless pushed to do so by emotions that are screaming to be heard. When I kissed my ex, then a stranger, all those years ago, for the first time, in a sticky-floored student party, it was–on the surface–to escape a creep that referred to women as ‘females’, but also it was because I wanted to know his taste. There was real feeling there: thirst, a want to know–aneedto know. When I said ‘no’ in the Thought Womb, it’s because deep down I knew if I stayed in that place, watching my dream be dissected and manipulated, a part of me would die. There would be no point continuing with the podcast because its purpose would be defeated.

‘Kiki, come on,’ Bakari says now. ‘Are you really going to talk about “the top five albums to listen to when your man’s moving mad” forever? It’s fun, but you’re capable of so much more.’

My blood feels too hot for my body and my heart feels too cold. All my ambitions sound small in his mouth. That hasn’t ever happened before. He’s always said that it wasnecessary,that people need a place to feel and I help to give them that. The tannin from what I thought was celebratory wine clings to the roof of my mouth, adding to the bitter taste.

‘Yeah, I know exactly what I’m capable of, Bakari, which is why I quit. And I know I’m not saving the world, but I do think I’m savingsomething.Pockets of feeling. And, I mean, this job you’re offering– trackingBlack audiences–and selling that information to corporations sounds kind of Fed-like activity to me. I don’t want tomineour art for—’

‘Kiki, come on, man.Thisis how we serve the culture. By allowing ourselves to be understood’

‘Allowingourselves? What are you even saying to me right now? By who? People who say Bey for Beyoncé like “Bey” as in bay leaf? Who only know about Afrobeats through a Selena Gomez remix?’

‘What’s wrong with saying Bey like that?’

I feel my blood pressure spiking. ‘Are you kidding me, Bakari?’

‘OK. I feel like we’re straying off the point—’

I personally think that him thinking there’s nothing wrong with saying ‘Bey’ like a girl who wears yoga shirts proclaiming ‘Gangsta Rap & Coffee Get Shit Done’ is quite a grave issue, but I’m mature enough to let it go.