Halfway through the writing of Popular, I realized that my mother and I were never going to see eye to eye about it when she casually suggested over lunch how lovely she thought it would be if everyone in it was nice to one another. That idea went in the ‘Maybe’ pile. Goodness only knows what she thinks of Meredith. But, despite these differences of opinion, Popular could not have been written without the support of both my parents, Ian and Heather, and for that I am very, very grateful. Sorry the girls weren’t as nice as you’d hoped, Mum. Maybe next time.
I was extremely lucky to have an absolutely fantastic editor at Puffin, the fabulous Lindsey Heaven, and a terrific agent, Stan, without whom none of this could have been possible – and that would be the definition of anti-beau. Equally, I must thank Dan Franklin for his much-appreciated encouragement and the amazing team at Puffin, London, for everything.
So many people have helped with Popular and thanking them all would sound too much like the worst kind of Oscar acceptance speech, but I would like to personally express my gratitude to: the ever-supportive Laura Bradley; Lydia Forte, for her help with the Italian translations (any remaining errors are my own); Mary Franklin and Matthew Osman; Theodore Harvey; my grandparents Richard and Iris Mahaffy; the delightful Kerry Rogan and Sarah Houghton, for the years of inspiration and hilarity; my sisters, Lynsey, Jenny and Ashleigh; Noah Smith, who was the first person to suggest I write this book; Beth Steer; Alexander Stewart; and also my very dear friend, Emerald Fennell, who has been Popular’s most consistent and delightful cheerleader from Day One.
Apart from that, I would just like to say thank you to all my wonderful friends from Belfast, Chicago, London, Oxford, Los Angeles and New York who went above and beyond the call of duty in offering support, laughter and Bourbon throughout this entire process. One supplied the unlikely, but fabulous, combination of fried chicken and champagne under the cover of darkness, but if I ever revealed her name she would almost certainly break off three of my fingers and beat me with them. Let’s just say that if you saw two people in enormous sunglasses dashing through an Oxford quad at two a.m. with a bucket wrapped under their coats and three bottles wedged under each arm, hissing, ‘If anyone sees us, just shoot them! Don’t ask any questions!’ it was no night phantasm. It was friendship, in its rawest form.
Finally, I must also thank one lady in particular who did not wish to be named, but whose help has been both constant and invaluable.