Dinner Parties by Jane Spirit,hcianti, St-Emilion or champagne

Dinner parties

By Jane Spirit

 Anna sometimes wondered why she’d always treated Martin and Sarah with such deference. Whenever they’d invited her to one of their dinner-parties she’d always cancelled her plans to be there and paid for other people to look after her mother and for the journey to London. The events themselves had often seemed to be a bit of an anticlimax. She usually stayed in her school friend’s little flat at the end of the central line from which it was a long but convenient journey to Martin and Susan’s duplex apartment in Notting Hill. Afterwards, during the long tube ride back to Woodford, she always found herself going over the evening in her mind and worrying about the impression she had made on the other guests. They tended to be either wealthy entrepreneurs who were associates of Sarah, or artsy cinematographers who Martin knew through his work as a director. Of course, these people were polite to her, but she always felt that she bored them. Also, whilst she’d never actually lied during conversations over rustic Italian dishes served with a good chianti, Anna was conscious that she had let the others assume wrongly that she was a successful businesswoman.

 She didn’t in fact own the clothes shop where she worked. She would have loved to, but after university, where she’d met the charismatic Martin and the serious Sarah, she’d gone back home to live with her parents so that she could carry on with her textile art. After her father died suddenly and her mother began to act erratically, she’d managed to obtain a part-time role at a family friend’s dress shop, ‘Fine and Dandy’. From there she had segued almost seamlessly into being her mother’s carer. After university, Martin and Sarah had moved to London separately and built up their careers in finance and film - making quite independently, before meeting again, moving in together and eventually marrying. Perhaps it was a sentimental gesture on their part, but they seemed to like to keep in touch with Anna. She sometimes thought they regarded her as a kind of talisman, connecting them back to their younger days when Martin was still enthused by all things cinematic, and Sarah was determined to pursue her dream of financial independence. They never seemed that curious about how her life had turned out. She wondered sometimes whether they even remembered how brightly she had once dressed as an art student, or her eye for colour and design?

Sarah and Martin had never shown any interest in visiting the midlands town where Anna lived. She’d never invited them there either, of course. She did not want them poking around in the small world she had created for herself and passing judgement on its inadequacies. This meant that she was puzzled as well as surprised when Sarah messaged her to say that they would be coming to Fernham and would love to see her whilst they were in town. Deconstructing the message, Anne was acutely aware that Sarah had not suggested she came to dinner with them at their hotel. She felt obliged to invite them to her flat for a meal and Sarah accepted with alacrity.

For several weeks before their visit, Anna mulled over what kind of food to cook before deciding to play it safe with a French style casserole and crème brulé. Then she chewed over the question of who else, if anyone, to invite. Her table only had comfortable seating space for four people. Inevitably, her thoughts turned towards the new man in her life, Nigel. She had met him first when he came to talk about funeral planning at the care home where her mother had spent her last few months. Their paths had crossed again at the wedding of a mutual friend, and then he had turned up at her choir and she had been struck again by his youthful physique and by his kind eyes. They had been going out with some of the other singers for a meal or a drink after rehearsals for the last few months. Yes, he would be a good choice as a foil to Sarah and Martin: a businessman, though artistic in his love of baroque music. He was also gentle and stoic, perhaps partly because of his work. If she was completely honest, she was curious to see how her old friends might react when they asked him what he did for a living and he told them that he was an undertaker.

Nigel had seemed pleased to be invited. He was already there and chatting to Anna at the kitchen counter when Sarah and Martin arrived with champagne to go with the desert. Despite her slight nervousness, Anna enjoyed giving them a brief tour of her flat. It might have been small, but she knew that its vibrancy reflected her love of colour. She had hand made the soft furnishings to incorporate motifs that reflected her personality. Embroidered musical notes played their way across the curved patches of ruby red and emerald- green felts she’d sewn on to creamy textiles. She felt relaxed and, in her element, now, wearing the charity shop green beaded necklace and bulbous red earrings which she remembered Martin admiring so much in their university days. Sarah seemed genuinely appreciative, if a little distracted, whilst Martin did not seem to notice her jewellery. He quickly insisted on popping out to the local shop to buy an extra bottle of wine to complement the beef they would be eating. Nigel, affable as ever, agreed to go with him to show him the way.

As she turned from the door after seeing them off, Anna noticed that Sarah was crying. Shocked, she found herself instinctively putting an arm round the friend she had always found rather prickly and private and asking her to tell her what the matter was. Sarah confided that Martin, for all his apparent bonhomie, had begun to treat her unkindly. Nowadays, he watched Sarah’s every move and was constantly critical of her behaviour. He was particularly resentful of the long hours she spent working to ensure their comfortable lifestyle. That was why Sarah had suggested a trip to see Anna and to get them away from the pressures of their London life for a weekend. Aware that Martin and Nigel would soon be back, Anna reassured Sarah as much as she could. The two women were standing together at the work surface, chopping herbs and arranging olives in a bowl when the men returned carrying a classy St-Emilion.

Things began calmly with the meal. The food was delicious, and they stayed on sure ground with the conversation, reminiscing to Nigel about bands they had been to see at university. Anna even allowed herself a moment of quiet pride about how well the evening was going, despite Sarah’s concerns about Martin. It was just at that moment that Martin’s mood seemed to pivot. He leaned forward to top up his wine and told Anna in a quiet voice that the necklace and earrings still looked great, but that she didn’t. After all, hadn’t she wasted her life in this shitty little no man’s land of a town?

It took Anna a moment to react to what he had said. She did not feel embarrassed, only angry. She too spoke in a quiet voice. How dare he pass judgement on her? Who was he to tell her she was a failure when she, at least, was still content with her life? She heard Sarah agreeing with her whilst Nigel, still quiet, took her hand and squeezed it in support.

Now Martin was on his feet and laughing at all of them.

 ‘That’s so funny coming from you bunch of losers.’

 He was almost shouting now as he gesticulated.

 ‘Look at the three of you! Underachieving Anna the failed artist, my wife the obsessive, possessive work addict. Oo and then look at who has joined us. The clown, “Nice Nigel” the small-town undertaker … Oh yes Nigel and I have had quite a chat about that whilst we were out.’ Martin paused as if for dramatic effect. Then he turned, grabbed his jacket and left, slamming the door behind him.

In the silence that followed, Anna noticed that Nigel had placed his other hand on Sarah’s. Anna reached across the table to do the same. They sat there, companionably, for a few moments, Anna noting Nigel’s calm and Sarah’s vulnerability. Then they opened the champagne and toasted, ‘Friendship and the Future’. Even so they would have been surprised to know that in a year’s time all three of them would still be together in Middleham. Nigel and Anna would be living together; Anna and Sarah would be the joint owners of ‘Fine and Dandy’ where Anna worked and Sarah lived in some style above the shop. She’d quit her job in the city.

Martin, in the meantime had also moved on. He’d jettisoned the idea he’d been developing which had focussed on a group of forty something friends meeting up in a nondescript midlands’ town. It was rumoured that his new project would follow the fortunes of a middle-aged film director as he tried to create a homage to magical realism amongst the Mayan remains of Mexico. Word also had it that the results would not chime well with a younger audience. The film could never be the success he’d anticipated.

 about the author 

Jane Spirit lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK and has been inspired to write fiction by going along to her local creative writing class.

 

 

Father Francesco by Guy Pratt, a glass of Chianti

Father Francesco’s parish was up in the hills a cool, pleasant retreat from the heat of the distant city in the summertime. He was young and this was his first parish, but he was establishing himself well – he would frequently walk out to the outlying farms and minister to the frail and elderly who could no longer make it to the village. He would spend a morning at the village school telling the children stories and encourage them to draw pictures with their crayons to illustrate them. He was becoming popular with young and old and all in between and he loved the place and the people.

Although really only a village they had appointed Enzo as mayor; an affluent, educated man who owned a business in the city which he left in the capable hands of his manager, while he stayed in the village always trying to write novels that never got published. Once a quarter Enzo would leave his wife and go to the city for a week to briefly ensure all was well with his business.

In the centre of the village Antonio, who worked part time as the postman, and his wife Isabella kept what is best described as a coffee shop – come patisserie – come bistro. It was mainly patisserie by day with coffee for any of Isabella’s friends who wanted to drop in and gossip and meals were served in the evenings when the wine flowed freely.

On Sunday mornings when more of the women than the men attended Mass, the men tended to gather in the shop and drink coffee and yarn. It was at Isabella’s suggestion, with Father Francesco’s enthusiastic agreement and the rather reluctant agreement of Antonio, that a speaker was installed in the coffee shop and on Sunday morning’s Father Francesco’s sermons were relayed to the men in the coffee shop. The sermons were usually short and to the point and the menfolk still went to coffee shop Sunday mornings without complaint.

Father Francesco had engaged a cleaner who cleaned the church and did odd domestic jobs for him. Unfortunately Bianca, his cleaner, was becoming overweight, a little lazy and prone to taking short cuts. For example when Father Francesco felt in need of an espresso coffee and a croissant mid-morning and would ask her to walk down to the coffee shop and fetch them; she would instead go into the church, pick up the radio microphone, switch it on and say, ”Isabella, the usual for Father Francesco please”. Isabella would receive the message over the speaker in the coffee shop and shortly appear bearing coffee and croissant.

On Wednesday mornings Father Francesco would make himself available to hear mid-week confessions. This week the first to appear was Lucia, a very sad faced, but attractive smartly dressed young woman. She lived with her husband, a much, much older man, wealthy and long retired in an opulent villa at the end of the village. A tear trickled down her cheek as she seated herself in the confessional “I love my husband, but now he is old and frail and all I can be is a nurse to tend him,” she whispered ”And Leonardo, our chauffer is so young and kind and handsome and virile. I encouraged him; it was my suggestion – I know we shouldn’t have ………” We must move on.

Next to enter the confessional was Matteo, who owned the delicatessen. Matteo had a reasonably profitable business, but also a very demanding wife who always wanted a new dress or new curtains or a kitchen makeover. He delighted in her charms but sometimes it was difficult to please her and make ends meet. Matteo had recalibrated the scales in his shop, and not in the customers favour and now his conscience was catching up with him.

When Matteo departed Enzo appeared. He had just returned from his quarterly visit to the city to ensure his business was still running smoothly. Father Francesco knew exactly what was coming from Enzo – his quarterly dalliance with a lady of dubious reputation in the city, which Enzo vowed every quarter he would never repeat. Such is the frailty of human nature.

It had been a long day and Father Francesco looked forward to the evening when Antonio had invited him to eat at the bistro, as the coffee shop became at dusk. He sat that evening with Antonio and friends, the food was good and the wine and the company were pleasant too. As more wine was drunk tongues loosened, all sorts of tales were told and they finished up singing songs that were not in the hymnal and when Father Francesco woke next morning he was still in his socks and underwear not his pyjamas.

Not many days passed before something wrong became apparent in the village. When Lucia appeared anywhere in the village people turned aside and whispered and sniggered. Regular customers stopped going to Matteo’s shop. It was rumoured that Enzo’s wife was threatening to leave and divorce him. Then one day in Matteo’s shop Lucia expressed some doubts about Father Francesco and Matteo said he shared them and overhearing them, Enzo said “Me too.” And so they decided Enzo should write to the Bishop.

The Bishop arrived in the village the very next weekend. Father Francesco was suspended from all duties. He buried his head in his hands in abject sorrow thinking “Oh no! surely not, surely I didn’t say what I should not that Wednesday night in the Bistro”. If ever a man was filled with grief and pain and remorse he was then. The thought of having to leaving the place and the people he’d grown to love was awful.

The Bishop announced that he would conduct Mass on the Sunday morning, and before Mass he would hear confessions. The first two people to arrive at the confessional were Isabella from the coffee shop and Bianca the cleaner and in spite of the Bishop’s protests “Ladies one at time please.” They insisted on squeezing into the confessional together and started speaking very tearfully at the same time, until finally Bianca spoke alone. “It was my fault on that Wednesday morning,” she lamented. “I had the microphone in my apron pocket switched on ready to call for Father Francesco’s coffee and it must have dropped out when I was cleaning the confessional and I could not retrieve it until later.” Then Isabella interrupted “I was alone in the coffee shop and when I heard the voices, and I soon guessed what had happened and should have switched the speaker off, but curiosity got the better of me. After all I heard I just had to tell Giovanna and Arianna on strict condition that they told no one else, but they were like me and it just kept getting repeated.”

The Bishop announced before his sermon that Father Francesco had been totally exonerated and reinstated and explained there had been a great misunderstanding. Father Francesco was relieved and joyful, though like many in the congregation he was unaware of what had earlier transpired. The Bishop said something about greenhouses and throwing stones and a woman taken in adultery whose accusers had slunk away. Then he preached from the Epistle of James on how difficult it was to tame the tongue, how a spark of gossip can set a community on fire. He spoke so powerfully it must have left all gossipers in fear of hellfire and eternal damnation.

A few years have passed now and life in the village continues. The Christmas after the Bishop’s visit Matteo gave all his customers a generous Christmas hamper. They have all come back to him now and the turnover of his business has increased. His wife has had a new dress and new curtains and this year work has started on revamping the kitchen.

The old man at the big villa died and Lucia married Leonardo the chauffer. Her face shines with happiness as she walks through the village taking her two small children to school.

Enzo’s wife recalled a minor indiscretion of her own from her youth and decided to forgive him. Enzo has sold his business in the city to the manager and no longer goes away. He has at last written a best- selling novel; maybe it was the lurid cover illustration or the salacious opening chapters that helped it sell. It was called Confessions of the Indiscretions of a Middle Aged Writer and a bold disclaimer at the front stated that the work was completely fictional and the main character bore no resemblance to anyone the author knew. In fact the book was a bit tamer than it appeared ending more as a morality tale, the central character becoming penitent and  retiring to the country with his forgiving spouse and both living happily ever after.

Bianca has done a slimming course and now she walks to the coffee shop each day to collect Father Francesco’s coffee and croissant as part of her fitness regime.

Isabella at the coffee shop has become a tight lipped soul of discretion, the trusted confidante of half the village. Sometimes one of the men who has sat in the coffee shop pretending not be listening to the sermon still relayed on the Sabbath morn will return to the shop when Isabella is there alone. They usually enter looking rather sad and the conversation will go something like this. “Isabella you go to church on Sundays morning?” and Isabella replies “Yes”. “Isabella can I ask you a purely hypothetical question?” and the hypothetical is stressed, and Isabella says “Yes, fire away.” Then the unhappy looking questioner will mention the breaking of a commandment or a grave misconduct and ask “Does God forgive things like that?” Isabella is not given to hypothetical replies, but answers simply “Well, he has forgiven me.” Then the man’s face will lighten up and a spring will return to his step as he walks out into the street as though a great burden has been lifted.

Father Francesco has not become a teetotaller but when he goes to the Bistro to eat with Antonio and his friends, he’s developed a great partiality for mineral water. I suppose according to the rules the Bishop may never have told him what Bianca and Isabella confessed that Sunday morning, but whenever Father Francesco is due to hear confession he first takes the microphone to his study and locks it securely in a safe to which only he knows the combination.

About the author  

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Oil’s Well that Ends Well by Dawn Knox, Chianti

 

“You’ve paid for what, Jack? An oil well?’

“Yes! It’s so exciting! The Goblin’s going to drill a well for us and take care of the extraction. We’ll make a fortune.”

“Goblin! You trusted that grasping, deceitful Goblin?”

“Don’t be like that, Ma! He’s done tests that show the oil’s under our lawn.”

“And how much have you paid him?”

“Only fifty pieces of gold.”

Jack’s mother’s knees buckled. She sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.

“Ma, trust me! I’ve got guarantees. The Goblin promises we’re going to produce the finest olive oil in the country.”

About the author

Dawn’s three previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’ and 'The Crispin Chronicles' published by Chapeltown Publishing.

You can follow her here on https://dawnknox.com
on Twitter: https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls
Amazon Author: http://mybook.to/DawnKnox

 

Suzanne

 by Sheila Kinsella

Chianti

I tidy the kitchen countertop just the way Rob likes it. Left to right, equidistant between the sink and the fridge - olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper. It’s half-past six, he’ll be home in fifteen minutes. The tantalising aroma of Beef Bourguignon escapes the oven. An uncorked bottle of Saint Émilion stands on the dining table, breathing.

            I watch dusk fall. A bat darts in and out of the flickering streetlights. Its jerky robotic movements mesmerize me. I remember bats are a symbol of rebirth. The momentum is broken by the sound of a door slamming shut. I open the door to the stairwell, but it’s only the upstairs neighbour.  

The V-necked black dress I’m wearing is Rob’s favourite.  The pearl drop necklace he gave me for my thirtieth nestles between my breasts. Matching pearl drop earrings dangle either side of my face. Blusher highlights my high cheekbones.  My strawberry blonde hair is tied up in a chignon. I spray perfume on my neck and wrists. Perfect.

            Seven-forty-five comes and goes, I put the dinner on a low setting. I call Rob’s mobile. No reply. The evening news is on TV, the presenter talks about a terrorist attack. I feel sorry for the victims, but it’s not on Rob’s route home; I switch channels and watch a mind-numbing soap.

            Another hour passes. I chew my nails.

            At eleven-thirty I see him staggering across the square outside. Not again. I sit on the sofa pretending to read a book.

            The key scrapes against the door as he tries to slot it into the lock. First port of call is the loo. The sound of him peeing is like a horse urinating. No flush.

            ‘Still up?’ Rob flings his overcoat towards the armchair; the combination of its weight and a half-hearted throw ensure it slides off the leather into a heap on the floor.

            I go to the kitchen to faff with the dinner, opening and closing drawers. Tidying the fridge.

            I feel a sudden vice-like grip on my arms.

            ‘I’m talking to you!’ Rob squeezes my flesh.

            ‘Want some dinner?’ It sounds pathetic but it’s what I say.

It happens fast. He lets go of my arms and lashes out. I duck, but a drunken punch meets my guts. In the scuffle my necklace snaps and pearls tinkle across the tiled floor. Winded, I clutch my belly, drop to the floor and bury my head in my knees. Through the small gap between them, I see the reflection of the kitchen spotlights on his shiny black leather shoes. He stumbles backwards, grabbing the table to stop his fall.

Silence.

He lets out a groan and starts to sob.

I open my fingers wider. Rob sits on the chair, head in hands. I dare not move.

            ‘I’m sorry,’ Rob sniffs and gulps, snot dribbles from his nose. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

            He lets out an enormous belch. ‘You know I don’t mean it,’ he reaches his hand out. ‘I’m sorry.’

            I flinch when he tries to touch me. I take a deep breath, rush to the bathroom and lock the door.

            I put the loo seat down, flush, and sit. 

            There’s a gentle tapping on the door.

            ‘Suzanne, please forgive me.’

            I run the taps to drown out his voice.

            ‘It won’t happen again. I promise.’

            It’s past midnight. My stomach aches and I’m tired. So tired.

 

            Later, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Rob snores next to me, his body in the foetal position. I go to the toilet; grateful my period has arrived. Tomorrow is another day.

            I awake to a pencil ray of white light streaming in through the chink in the curtains.

            ‘Morning,’ Rob carries a tray laden with croissants and a tiny vase containing a single red rose. 

            ‘Oh,’ I manage. ‘Lovely.’ I sit up and rest my back against the soft bedhead.

            He kisses my forehead.

            It’s Saturday. We get through the day doing mundane tasks. I do the laundry. Rob washes the car. We do the weekly shop in the local supermarket.

            ‘Oh,’ I squeeze Rob’s hand. ‘I’m meeting Rachel tonight, she’s off to New York for six months.’

            Rob lets my hand go.

            ‘You’re okay with that aren’t you?’ I smile.

            ‘Well, if you prefer meeting your girlfriends to snuggling up on the sofa with me.’ His face is deadpan.

            Is he kidding or serious? ‘I told you last week.’

            ‘No, you didn’t. It’s OK.  I’ll find a way to amuse myself,’ Rob looks away.

            ‘I could say I’m sick,’ I offer.

            ‘It’s too late now,’ Rob reaches up to the top shelf for a packet of cereals.

            ‘Oh look! Your favourite biscuits are back in stock.’ I take the packet off the shelf to show him.

            ‘They’re not my favourite.’ He sulks.

            At home, I look for the Belgian chocolates I bought Rachel. Four pralines have been bitten into and replaced inside the box. The tiny handwritten card is missing. I find it in the bin. I’ll get her flowers on the way.

            When I leave, Rob is working on his computer. He doesn’t stop when I kiss him goodbye.

            Rachel waits at the table in the restaurant. The beads she wears around her neck jangle against the glass bottle of mineral water as she gets up to greet me. She flicks her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

            ‘Suzanne!’

            She gives the warmest of hugs. ‘Oh Rachel.’ I fall into her embrace and weep.

            ‘What’s wrong?’  Rachel asks.

            ‘I’m OK,’ I sniff.

            ‘Come on, we go way back,’ she holds my hand in hers.

            I roll the left sleeve of my cardigan down for her to see the bruises. She gasps.

            ‘Rob?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘First time?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘You’ve got to leave him,’ she says.

            ‘Easier said than done,’ I reply.

            ‘Seriously?’ Rachel’s blue eyes pop open. ‘It’s a no-brainer.’

            ‘He won’t let me go.’ I chew my nails. ‘I know.’

            The waiter hovers around the table before handing us the menu and telling us about the specials. 

            We order a bottle of Chianti and two vegetarian pastas.

            ‘Look.’ Rachel lets out a sigh. ‘You’re a shadow of your former self. He’s worn you down.’

            Tears trickle down my face. ‘But we’ve been together for so long. I might not find anyone else.’

            ‘Better alone than with someone who treats you badly.’ Rachel thumps the table with her fist. ‘Right. I’m leaving in two weeks.’ She rummages in her designer handbag and pulls out a set of keys. ‘Move in.’

            ‘What? Just like that?’ I take the keys.

            ‘Yes,’ Rachel smirks. ‘Call in sick on Monday. Pretend you’re going to work as usual. When he’s gone, pack your suitcases and take a taxi to my place.’

            ‘It’s too soon. I’m not ready.’ I fiddle with the cutlery.

            ‘Don’t wait until it’s too late.’

            ‘It’s my fault, I make him do it,’ I mutter.

            ‘Stop being a victim,’ Rachel places her hand over mine. ‘Get out while you can.’

            The waiter arrives with plates of steaming pasta and makes a big show of placing them in front of us, offering us grated Parmesan and olive oil.

            I didn’t mean to blub to Rachel, but I feel overwhelmed and conflicted.  I love Rob.

‘Maybe he can get anger management therapy?’ I twiddle pasta around my fork.

            ‘Stop making excuses for him.’ Rachel points her fork at me.

            ‘Enough about me. Are you excited about your move?’ I attempt a smile.

            ‘Don’t change the subject,’ Rachel replies.

            ‘I’ll think about it/’ I gulp my wine.

            ‘You’d better!’

            But I’m already thinking about what I can do to make Rob happy. Cook his favourite meal. Book a weekend away together. I can change him. For sure.

            My phone beeps.

            ‘Don’t answer that.’ Rachel grabs the phone off me and reads the message: ‘When will you be home?’

            We exchange looks. She pours more Chianti.

            ‘Here’s to New York!’ I raise my glass to chink Rachel’s.

            ‘You must visit.,’ Rachel smiles.

The phone beeps again. She casts me a stern glance before reading the texts:

‘Answer me now!’ ‘I’m warning you.’ ‘Last chance.’

‘Seriously Suzanne. Leave him,’ Rachel says.

My eyes well up again. ‘Sorry.’ I take a tissue from my bag.

We talk about her new job and her eyes light up with excitement. When we part, she tries to persuade me to come with her, but I insist on going back, even though I feel anxious.

As I turn the corner into our street, bats flash in and out of the light. I stand frozen to the spot. Renewal, out with the old and in with the new. Yes, I can do this. I call Rachel to say I’m on my way, before heading back to the tube station. But after a few steps, I feel a sudden blow to my head, and everything turns black.  

About the author

Sheila Kinsella’s short stories draw inspiration from her Irish upbringing. Blessed with abundant natural curiosity, Sheila lures the reader into a shrewdly observed world via imagery and comedy. Sheila graduated with an MA in Creative Writing (Distance Learning) from Lancaster University in the United Kingdom in 2017. 

Twitter: sheila_kinsella@she_kinsella 

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19660897.Sheila_Kinsella