Data scientist Laura prefers the company of her books to the real world – let alone that cesspit online. But when her best friend Emily becomes the victim of horrific cyberbullying, she makes it her all-engulfing mission to track down the worst culprits.
Petite corporate financier Suki is about to outshine the stupid boys at her firm: she's leading the acquisition of Edinburgh's most exciting start-up. If only she could get its brilliant, but distracted, co-founder Laura to engage.
Event planner Claire is left to salvage the start-up's annual conference after her colleague Emily fails to return to work. She's determined to get a promotion out of it, but her boss isn't playing ball.
As the women's paths intertwine, the insidious discrimination they each face comes to light. Emboldened by Emily's tragic experience, they join forces to plot the downfall of all those who've wronged them.
But with emotions running high, will the punishments fit the crimes?
A pacy suspense fiction novel with its feet firmly in the #MeToo era. 9 to 5 meets Suits with a dash of Black Mirror.
Stay Mad Sweetheart by Heleen Kist was published by Red Dog Press on 13 November 2019.
I'm delighted to host a slot on the Blog Tour today and am honoured to share extract from the book with you all.
AN EXTRACT FROM STAY MAD SWEETHEART
JUST ME,
LAURA
A tear fell
onto the page of my book in a star-shaped splotch. I wiped it with my thumb.
The stationery cupboard’s dry, inky air tickled my throat as I sighed.
Those poor people.
The photocopier vibrated against my
back, mirroring the movement of the novel’s train carriage, its heat evocative
of the bodies pressed together, its persistent humming an echo of the stoic
prayers uttered by the captives being transported to their final destination.
I hated to leave them, but my time
was up. I waved the still damp page side to side and blew the coldest air that
I could onto it. The translucent spot rippled the paper. I closed the book and
held it to my chest, stroking its edges. It wasn’t the first one I’d ruined
this way.
I heard giggling. The door clicked
open. I froze. Restless rustling of fabric, the smacking wetness of lips, and
baritone groans filled the tiny space.
Crap.
‘Hurry up,’ said a woman.
The man whispered, ‘Let me help.’
It may only have been seconds, but
the intensifying moans suggested they were being well spent. I shrunk into my
slot between the photocopier and the side wall, forced to listen to the
unmistakable swoosh of skirt-lining
against tights, the metal tear of a zipper, and the thud and tinkle of a belt
buckle hitting the floor.
The room’s flimsy rear partition
shook against my shoulder. Through a small gap I saw snippets of skin: her
braceleted arms outstretched above their heads, the tips of his fingers digging
into her wrist.
I looked away. Beside me, rattled
pens rolled towards the edge of a metal shelf. I willed them to stay put.
Her voice again, breathless: ‘I have
a better idea.’ She cooed, ‘Help me up.’
I stiffened. Up?
The man grunted. The photocopier
creaked and a cascade of red curls fell over the side of the machine onto my
head. Definitely Sally. But who was he?
I winced. I preferred not to know.
But what if they saw me? They’d think I was some kind of pervert. Steeling
myself for intense awkwardness, I cleared my throat. Twice.
‘What the...?’ said the guy.
The mass of hair bounced out of view.
My knees complained as I rose.
‘Sorry. I was reading.’
‘Oh my God, Laura, if I’d known...’
Sally hopped off the machine, clutching the panels of her blouse. She swooped
down to pick up her skirt, not realising that swift move exposed me to a
full-frontal of the newest data science recruit, his stunned face up top and
trousers bunched around his ankles below.
My blush felt incandescent. I covered
my eyes to let the interrupted love birds regain their modesty, the three of us
developing an unspoken understanding that this
never happened.
As the door closed behind them, I
caught his worried murmur, ‘Do you think she saw it?’ and her replying with a
chuckle, ‘If she did, it will have been her first.’
Though it was true, it was
unnecessary. I crouched to retrieve the book from my rudely invaded personal
haven. The guy’s head popped back in. I jumped, hitting my shoulder against the
shelf.
‘Forgot to tell you.’ He smiled
meekly. ‘Justin is looking for you.’
THE
FILTERED-WATER dispenser in the corridor provided me with much-needed cooling
down. The heat receded from my cheeks but immediately fired up again as I saw
the clock overhead and stress took hold: I was late.
How did I let time slip away? I
grabbed my phone for my regular check-in with Emily, my best friend. The line
rang out. I let out a high-pitched whine, torn between wanting to wait to try
again and rushing to Justin’s supposedly mission critical meeting.
I walked on.
Five colleagues huddled ahead of me,
deep in discussion, drawing flow charts with black marker pens on a long length
of wall coated with a special, wipeable paint. One of them spotted me
approaching; he nudged another. Their semicircle fell silent and broke open,
revealing their work. Hopeful faces sought my contribution, my approval. I
passed them with a brisk pace and my most courteous smile.
I dialled Emily again as I strode
past rows of desks, their occupants tip-tapping away at their keyboards, their
screens faded by the rays of a rare Scottish sun. This time, her line was
engaged.
Please God, let them not have found
her mobile number, too.
In the lobby, the multicoloured logo
of Empisoft stretched across the surface behind the reception desk. Underneath,
a shelf showcased our many technology awards, oversized engraved dust-gatherers
bearing testament to our team’s hard work. Next to them, an embarrassingly
large photo of Justin and me holding yet another trophy, my thin smile doing
its best, my eyes missing the lens by a mile.
Liv stood watering the plant next to
the visitors’ TV tuned to the non-stop horrors of the outside world. She dried
her hands on her cardigan and flashed a motherly smile. ‘There you are. A dose
of book time again?’
I nodded, ready to speed on, but my
eyeline flicked to the sixty-inch screen. Adam Mooney, the Hollywood star, was
exiting Edinburgh’s Festival Theatre and making his way down its stone steps.
Saliva flooded my mouth in revulsion.
A sea of outstretched arms shoved
microphones towards his angular jaw as reporters pelted him with questions. ‘How do you respond to calls for your arrest
for sexual assault?’ I spotted errors in the closed caption transcription. Too many voices. But it perfectly
captured his response: ‘No Comment.’
Liv stood at my side. ‘That’s a real
tearjerker, isn’t it?’
‘What? You feel sorry for him?’ I
asked.
‘No, your book. The concentration
camps.’
‘Oh.’ I looked down at the
blue-and-white-striped cover. ‘Yes.’
‘I do feel a bit sorry for him,
though.’ Liv gazed back at the screen. ‘It’s so easy for this kind of thing to
destroy a career. I’m not convinced he deserves to suffer like that.’
I spun towards the boardroom. ‘I
don’t think he can suffer enough.’
Heleen Kist has been fondled, patronised and
ordered to smile by random men. So she wrote ‘Stay Mad, Sweetheart’, a feminist
tale of revenge. Whilst her professional knowledge of technology start-ups fed
the novel’s setting, its theme of harassment and workplace discrimination
required no research: it is familiar to all women.
Heleen was chosen as an up and coming new author at
Bloody Scotland 2018. Her first novel, ‘In Servitude’ won the silver medal for
Best European Fiction at the Independent Publishers Book Awards in the USA and
was shortlisted for The Selfies awarded at London Book Fair.
A Dutch strategy consultant living in Glasgow and
married to a Scotsman, she’s raising their son to be a good man and their
daughter to kick ass.
Nayrouz Qarmout is a Palestinian writer and activist. 
