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lostinfic · 7 years

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The Girlfriend Experience | Part 2

Trope: Sharing a bed Author: Lostinfic Word Count: ~4000 Rating: Mature Summary: Hardy asks Hannah to show him the Girlfriend Experience in preparation for a blind date.

Beta: @fadewithfury <3 Part 1 | Masterpost | AO3 | 12 Tropes AO3 Collection

For the blind date, Hardy’s sister had given him nothing but an instruction to look out for a woman with a yellow carnation, and an address.

He assumed it was the address of a restaurant.

He should have known better than to assume his sister would do the normal thing.

It was a train. Not a normal train either, but a “romantic railway adventure”.

His stomach twisted in a knot at the mere thought of getting stuck in there for hours with a complete stranger. But backing out didn’t sit well with him. Standing up someone was cruel. Anyway, as Hannah had said, his sister wanted what was best for him. Whoever Helen had set him up with would, at the very least, be a decent person.

He sighed thinking of Hannah. Considering how she’d encouraged him to go on this bloody blind date-- even after he all but confessed his feelings for her during their fake date-- it was clear it was never going to happen with her. He had better move on and start looking for someone else.

Easier said than done.

As much as the memory of their fake date made him cringe because she’d rejected his advances, it also came with a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. Her laughter, the teasing hint of bra, standing close in the bookshop as they flipped through novels. Paper and cherry blossoms. And feeling all right.

For years, he hadn’t questioned his friendship with his younger sister’s flatmate. Even when Hannah became an escort and moved out, they stayed in touch. When they hang out, times flies, and that was enough for him. Nothing more.

Not until recently.

With the divorce and her visits, he noticed how much they had in common now after years of all-consuming careers, heartbreaks and successes. She had grown and so had he. And once he began seeing her as the strong woman she had become, he couldn’t go back to thinking of her as just a friend. But he had to.

Enough about Hannah.

Hardy straightened his tie and jacket. From the platform, a sign indicated the Bar & Lounge coach, and he headed there.

The train company had hired Helen as their art director— it’s how she’d obtained a pair of tickets-- and she came up with the idea of a 1930s theme. The staff wore stiff burgundy and gold uniforms. Inside the wagons, varnished wood gleamed in the halo of fake oil lamps. Patrons sat in plush leather seats around art deco furniture.

Hardy made his way through the couples gathered inside. Many had embraced the vintage theme, others had dressed more casually. Thankfully for him, a suit worked for all occasions and eras.

The train stirred and swayed forward. He had yet to find his date. Every time he met a woman’s eyes, the twist in his stomach tightened.

Someone tapped his shoulder.

“Hey you.”

He recognized that voice. His heart skipped a beat. He turned, and his jaw dropped. Hannah stood there, wearing something vintage and silky, like she’d just stepped out of a black and white movie. Ruby red lips framed a beaming smile.

“What are you doing here?” he stammered.

“I have a date.”

“My sister set you up too?”

“No, another one of our friends. Gemma, you met her I think at the garden party.”

“Yeah.”

“So yours is tonight too? They got a group deal on the train tickets or what?” She looked over his shoulder. “So where’s the lucky lady?”

“Haven’t found her yet. I don’t even know her name, Helen didn’t want me looking her up in the police database. Seen anyone with a yellow carnation?”

“Like this one?” She showed him the flower she was holding. “Looks like Gemma and Helen are in cahoots.”

Hardy gaped at the flower. Hannah was his blind date. She laughed, but he didn’t think it was funny. Not at all. What was his sister thinking? He’d never said a word to her about liking Hannah. Was he that obvious?

Regardless, now Hannah was stuck with him when she no doubt expected someone more charming and younger. Basically, not the kind of person who needs a practice date with a prostitute.

For the first time since they’d met, the prospect of spending an evening in her company filled him with dread. What if she thought he was behind all of it, not just his sister?

“Sorry, I didn’t know she would do that,” he groaned.

“Yeah, no, me neither.”

She laughed, and it was too high-pitched for genuine amusement but he reciprocated with his own nervous titter. He tugged at the knot of his tie.

“I don’t know what made her think I’d want to— that we were a match.”

“Right.” She crossed her arms, rubbing her shoulder. “Look at his this way: you won’t have to worry about small talk.”

They ordered drinks and sat at the bar. An uneasy silence stretched between them as they pretended to listen to the piano player.

He rang his sister to berate her, but she wouldn’t answer her phone-- on purpose, he was sure. Hannah looked at him with a tight-lipped smile.

“If you’d prefer to, ah, mingle...” He indicated the other passengers, but they were clearly all paired up already.

Hannah shrugged, seemingly coming to the same conclusion as him.

The maître d’ announced supper, and passengers moved to the restaurant cart.

A waiter assigned them a banquette. Tea candles decorated the table, their flames made the crystalware sparkle.

“This is nice,” Hannah commented, smoothing the white tablecloth.

He nodded absentmindedly, pretending to peruse the menu when in fact he was observing her. Hard to tell how she felt about being stuck with him for the evening. Granted, she’d enjoyed herself last time but it had been work for her, to help him. He glanced at her over his menu, their eyes met, and both quickly looked away.

A waiter took their orders, leaving them with nothing to do. Hannah swirled the wine in her glass.

“I’ve been thinking,” she began, “I know this escort, a man, he’s real awful, don’t know how he’s still in business.”

Where was this going?

“Anyway, we should set your sister up with him, you know, to get back at her.”

Hannah grinned mischievously and Hardy chuckled. They talked about all the unpleasant people they knew and made up devious plans to deceive Helen. They laughed so much, patrons at nearby tables glared at them for disrupting the quiet romantic atmosphere. Of course, the irony didn’t escape Hardy: they had such fun thinking of revenge plans that it proved Helen had been right to play this trick on them to begin with.

After supper, Hardy reclined in his chair, rubbing his full stomach. He hadn’t had such a good meal in a long time. He was usually prone to motion sickness, but this train moved slowly. It crawled across the rail, allowing passengers to admire the pastoral landscape. He couldn’t tell their location or destination; fields, forests and suburbs looked the same across England as far as he was concerned. Perhaps, if he’d paid closer attention a sign would have given him a clue, but all his attention was diverted towards Hannah.

A waiter filled their cups with tea, and announced the train would stop soon for “entertainment”. They disembarked at a disused train station turned into a theater. An old-fashioned marquee announced the show’s title: “On the road to love.” On stage, two rubbish actors pretended to fall in love to the tune of 1930s jazz songs. Throughout the first act, Hannah and Hardy exchanged eyerolls and stifled laughter. When the actors began tap dancing, they barely kept it together.

At last, the intermission came, they were the first out the door. They bypassed the bar and headed straight outside.

The brisk night air was welcome after a heavy meal and a stuffed theater. Hands in pockets, Hardy leaned against the wall and stared at the silhouette of a town beyond the rails and bushes. Hannah imitated his position, close enough that their shoulders touched.

“We could get out,” he said. “Walk over there. Find a ride. End it here.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Do you?”

She shrugged and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Hardy smiled to himself. She didn’t seem to hate being stuck with him tonight after all. And so far neither of them had brought up what happened at the end of their fake date; there was hope their friendship would survive.

“I suppose it’s not so bad,” he said.

“Yeah, not bad. Tell you what though, we can stay at the bar during the second act.”

A few other couples had the same idea. Show tunes could still be heard through the wall. The bar design recreated a prohibition-era speakeasy.

For a moment, Hardy entertained the idea of personifying a character. Someone cool, a la Humphrey Bogart. He wished he had a cigarette. As they stood at the bar to order drinks, he gave Hannah the old once-over from her black heels to her smokey eyes. But as soon as she caught him looking, he lost whatever cool he’d mustered. She bumped him with her shoulder, lips curling in a playful smile. He didn’t stand a chance.

Once sat at a corner table, they sipped a dram of whiskey and reminisced. She ran her fingertip along the rim of her glass, eyes focused on the circular motion. After a moment of silence, she said: “You know, I used to fancy you, when I lived with Helen.”

She said it with a giggle, looking at him through her eyelashes. He remembered a time when she would ceaselessly flirt with him. With her, he could never tell genuine feelings from teasing. Except a few times, lingering hugs and gazing in each other’s eyes. But he’d had to ignore that because back then he’d recently married so he wasn’t interested. Ironic, that the roles were now reversed: he fancied her-- more than fancy-- and she wasn’t interested. Bad timing.

“I knew you did,” he said.

“You did! How?”

“You weren’t subtle. I was scared every time my sister left the room.”

“Scared you’d give in to temptation?” she joked.

“No, it wasn’t like that.”

“No, I know. You’re one of the good guys. Too good.”

“Too good for what?”

“For girls who are outrageous flirts.” She winked.

Hannah dropped her shoe and slipped her toes under the hem of his trousers. He’d seen women do that in films, but had never experienced it for himself. Although, he couldn’t explain why, he enjoyed it. His cheeks heated up, and his pulse quickened. He forgot what they were talking about. She’d always loved to make him fluster.

The show ended, and the spectators loudly walked out, disrupting the moment.

Back on board the train, a staff member approached them: “If you would follow me, I will show you to you sleeper car now.”

Hardy and Hannah exchanged a surprised look, neither of them knew this lasted overnight. His only experience with sleeper cars involved bunk beds. But of course, a “romantic railway adventure” didn’t have bunks. The man opened the door on a cozy compartment with a double bed taking up most of the room. Hannah asked if they have another room available, but all compartments were occupied tonight.

At least, the train company had the foresight of selling overnight essentials such as toothbrushes. But no pyjamas, of course.

“Lend me your shirt,” Hannah demanded. “I can’t sleep in this dress.” She tugged at the material over her ribs, wincing in discomfort.

“What about me?”

“You can’t sleep in this dress either.”

“And what am I supposed to sleep in?”

“Your pants. Unless you’re going commando.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“I’m not— ugh. Alright.”

He hooked his tie and jacket behind the door, and removed his shirt with his back to her.

“You’re such a prude. I’ve seen you in a much worse state than this.”

“When?”

“At Helen’s, after your divorce.”

“Yeah, I looked worse, but I’m sure I was fully dressed.”

“Well, you’d better get undressed while you look good.”

Was she joking or flirting?

When he turned to hand her his t-shirt, her eyes lingered on his chest, and she bit her bottom lip.

She put the shirt over her clothes and shimmed the dress down her body to pull it off. More wiggling and she extracted her bra through the top.

“Tadaa!” she said like a magician.

It was his turn to linger. His shirt was just long enough to cover her bum, showing off her legs. He always liked her legs.

She looked expectantly at his trousers. There was no point in putting it off. As soon as he popped the first button, Hannah wolf-whistled. Without thinking, Hardy rotated his hips, and she bust out laughing.

“I can be funny too,” he mumbled.

“I know.” She smiled at him then cocked her head. “I thought you’d be skinnier.”

“I am.”

“Yeah, but there’s, you know, meat too.”

What was that supposed to mean? He crossed his arms to cover his chest, but it left his crotch uncovered, so he crossed his leg.

“Oh, just get in the bloody bed.”

Hannah smirked, but charitably held back another quip.

In the silence, he noticed it was raining, its pitter-patter on the metal roof echoed through the compartment. Hannah turned off the main light, leaving just the flame of an electric candle by the bed.

They looked at each other, then at the bed, then at each other again.

He hadn’t shared a bed with anyone since Tess. The last few years of celibacy and loneliness caught up to him all at once. He yearned for it, physically ached for it, to lie in bed with Hannah, hold her in his arms until morning.

“Well, I--”

“There’s something…” he began.

“Hm?”

“Something you said I should do at the end of the date.”

He gulped, hoping she understood what he meant.

“Kiss me goodnight?”

“Yeah.”

This time, he wouldn’t chicken out. She stepped forward and his mouth went dry. She caught him by surprise, pecking his lips. It happened too quickly. By the time he opened his eyes, she had slipped in the bed.

Well, there was only one thing to do now. Nothing left to delay the inevitable. He had to get in bed. With Hannah. She patted the space beside her, and he prayed she couldn’t hear his hammering heart.

Lying in bed, neither of them spoke. Every muscle in his body was stiff. The train’s wheels clattered on the tracks and raindrops splashed on the roof. And just when he thought he couldn’t take more of this tension, Hannah giggled.

She turned on her side towards him. Some light filtered through the curtains, just enough to illuminate the outline of her face.

“This is a bit weird,” she whispered.

His whole body relaxed, and he turned to face her too.

“I can think of worse,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Imagine if it’d been a real blind date, with another woman, and I’d be stuck with her.”

“Maybe you would’ve liked her.”

“I don’t think so.”

How could he possibly like another woman when he had such feelings for Hannah? And right now, this moment was everything to him. He scooted closer, just a smidge. She folded her legs and their knees touched.

“So what, you’ll stay single forever? Tess really did a number on you.”

“I’m waiting for the right person.”

She searched his face, and he wondered how obvious he was, surely she must see the affection in his eyes. She blinked and looked down. A strand of hair caught in her eyelashes, and he gently swiped it behind her ear.

“What you said about after my divorce.” He continued to whisper although there was no reason for it. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for that. For checking up on me.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Her toes tickled his ankle and quite naturally, as though they’d been doing it for years, her leg slid between his.

“You know, I wanted to check up on you when you were in Broadchurch too.”

I would have loved that, he thought.

“I worked a lot,” he said.

There must have been more to say, things to explain and confess and profess, but not now, not when the moment was just right.

When he lost Tess, it wasn’ther betrayal that hurt the most, but losing that one person who knew him better than anyone else. It seemed impossible to build this level of intimacy and familiarity with another person in his lifetime. But maybe he didn’t have to start from the ground up, he and Hannah already had a foundation. All he had to do was add bricks and hope it didn’t crumble down.

“Han?”

“Yeah?” she mumbled sleepily.

“I-- I would’ve liked that, you visiting in Broadchurch…” He took a deep breath. Why was this so hard? “I thought about you.”

“Good.”

He chuckled at that. He kissed her forehead, and her eyes drifted shut with a smile.

They slept, a deep slumber despite the noisy train and unfamiliar surroundings.

Hardy woke up with one side of the body decidedly warmer than the other. Not just warmer-- heavier. And as the last fog of sleep cleared from his mind, he realized two things: Hannah had hogged all the blankets and she’d snuggled up to him. An arm around his waist, a leg across his thighs, and her head on his chest. And it appeared he’d reciprocated the snuggling. A hand rested on her ribs. High up on her ribs. A confused debate of semantics and physiology took place in his mind, and he came to the conclusion that the area his hand rested on was more breast than side; he’d tried to cop a feel in his sleep.

Hardy cracked opened an eye. As far as he could tell, Hannah was still sleeping. But if he moved his hand now, he risked waking her up and appearing more guilty than he was. He also became aware of another embarrassing situation: she had twisted in her sleep and buttons of the shirt had come undone, revealing the swell of her breasts. Of its own accord, his thumb moved, stroking the curve of her flesh, right along the underside. Before he could make himself stop, her nipple visibly pebbled under the cotton on the shirt-- his shirt.

A small noise, suspiciously close to a moan, escaped Hannah’s lips. She snuggled closer, and the hand on his stomach drifted lower. Hardy drew in a sharp breath. His arousal became more prominent. Embarrassing flashbacks from his teenage days made him cringe. He could put it all down to a physiological response, but he knew damn well it was Hannah’s proximity that caused the blood flow to his groin.

His groan made Hannah giggle.

“You’re awake,” he accused.

“Barely… sorry.”

She tried to roll off him, but he automatically tightened the arm around her. She looked up at him, eyes full of questions.

Stay. Don’t go. But his mouth wouldn’t form the words.

“I can’t tell what you want,” she said.

“Can’t you? Don’t you know?”

It was all so serious suddenly, so real and raw in the morning light. No place to hide.

“I asked you to kiss me, and you kissed my cheek,” she said, eyebrows knitted in a frown. “I turn out to be your blind date and you’re unhappy about it. I flirt with you all night and you-- I don’t know.”

Possibly, he hadn’t been as transparent as he thought.

“Sorry. I wasn’t sure. When you flirt, I just assume you’re taking the piss, so...”

“Sometimes it’s easier to joke than, I don’t know, open up.”

She picked at the bed sheet. He rarely got to see her so vulnerable,and it made his heart capsize. He would protect her from the world if she let him.

“But you’re so-- and I’m…” He sighed. “You can do better.”

“It’s not for you to say.”

“I suppose not.”

He relaxed his arm around her, and she propped herself up on an elbow, keeping her other hand on his chest.

“I like you, Alec.”

“You used to, it’s what you said.”

“I still do. A lot. But I’m…” She let out a shaky breath. “Our friendship is really important to me.”

“Right. So… you only want to be friends?”

“I’m just saying I don’t have the best track record with relationships.”

“Me neither.”

“You were married for almost 20 years.”

“Exactly!”

She chuckled, and that sound made his heart soar. He covered her hand with his.

“As I’ve said: I can wait for the right person.”

“You meant me?”

“Of course.” He caressed her cheek. “Looks like there are a few things I need to clarify. Beginning with this...”

His fingers drifted to her hair and, as he raised his head, he brought her mouth to his. He wasn’t content with a peck this time. He moved his lips against hers, slowly, savouring the kiss.

“That alright?” he asked in a breath.

She nodded and pressed forward. She deepened the kiss as he reclined. They kissed to their heart’s content. Whenever they broke for air, and she smiled at him with heavy-lidded eyes, he had to remind himself it wasn’t a dream. He couldn’t wait to hold her and kiss her again tomorrow and the day after and all the ones after that for as long as she would let him.

Hannah straddled his legs. Her long hair tickled his chest. It took all his willpower not to grab her hips and tug her down on his erection.

“Anything else you want to clarify?” she asked

“I think I’m in love with you, Hannah.”

Judging by her widening eyes, she hadn’t expected such a serious answer. He hadn’t expected to say it either. Momentarily, he feared he’d ruined the moment and scared her, but her features softened in a warm smile.

“Me too.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so incredibly happy. So light. And it occurred to him he wasn’t falling in love so much as he was rising in love. He guffawed at his own silly thought.

“A smile looks good on you,” she said.

“You look good on me.”

She shook her head fondly and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around her, thoroughly snogging her.

He slipped a hand under the shirt, fingers splayed over the dip in her lower back. A groan of surprise escaped his lips when she pressed her hips to his. Even through two layers of underwear, he could feel her heat.

“It’s been a while,” he said in a hoarse voice. “For me too.” He quirked an eyebrow and she added, “I mean for real, with someone I care about.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to wait?”

“No.”

“Oh, thank god.”

Hardy rolled over her and peppered kisses down her throat and collarbone. Fumbling with the shirt, he finally accessed her breasts. He licked a line up her sternum and took each nipple between his lips. Hannah squirmed under him, fingers raking through his hair.

He tentatively touched between her legs, inner thighs first, then grazing over her underwear. Her jerking hips and needy pants encouraged him. He removed her knickers throwing them over his shoulder, much to her amusement. He sat on his his heels, and with his forearms under her knees, he yanked her closer. He dropped butterfly kisses along her calves, making Hannah giggle.

“I need you,” she moaned, reaching into his pants.

Her hand on his cock made him curse. He thrusted into her fist until she guided him to where she needed him. As he pushed in her, he entwined their fingers above her head. And there was that carnal pleasure, but most of all there was closeness. Every nerve ending suffused with the smell and sight and touch of the other. And it was in a tight embrace, all clawing fingers, salty kisses and smacking skin, that they found bliss.

(They missed breakfast.)

#Hardy x Hannah #teninch fic #sharing a bed #sorry for the wait!#hope it's worth it #12tropeshxh #Lostinfic writes stuff

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trendingnewsb · 7 years

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MIA: This is a white country, you dont have to spell it out to me

Maya Arulpragasam is bringing dancehall, hip-hop and grime to this years Meltdown. Is the outspoken British Sri Lankan the best argument for positive cultural appropriation?

The Guardian said that you couldnt shag to my record. As conversational openers go, MIAs beats the banal niceties of, say, Hello, how are you doing?. Its no surprise that she charges straight into a chat about why her last album was considered too confrontational for the bedroom by this paper. Its an icebreaker moulded to MIAs very own design: abrasive, compelling, underpinned by sex. Yeah, she finally concedes with a grin when I suggest we move past it, you cant have it all, can you?

Its a theme she warms up to when we talk about her edition of Meltdown at the Southbank Centre, which were ostensibly here to discuss. Usually, I wouldnt do something like this, she says, slouched under an oversized khaki coat dress. [But the organisers] were like: Hey, you can do whatever you want. Still, putting on the South Banks annual festival, curated in previous years by the likes of David Bowie, David Byrne and Patti Smith, has turned out to be a fairly arduous affair for MIA who says she doesnt do computers at the moment.

They didnt tell me it was nine days long. I thought it was a weekend. And then all my lists were, like, Well, this person wont be in London and that person is doing Glastonbury. Organising festivals is actually really complicated, she stresses. It wasnt just about dreaming something and then it appeared. Programming literally means, like, programming.

For all that Maya Arulpragasam didnt quite know what she was letting herself in for, one suspects the Southbank Centre didnt either; logistics aside, the mornings photoshoot has already been met with some flapping from the press officer made nervous by MIA climbing on the roof without safety clearance. Still, her lineup dancehall, Brooklyn hip-hop, depressive Swedish rap and Nigerian grime is perhaps the most underground the festival has seen in its 24 years. How much is she expecting to shake up its comfortable concert halls, cafe bars and conference-room spaces?

youtube

Click here to watch the video for last years Go Off.

When I was a teenager in London, I would just get a Travelcard and go somewhere, explore the city and go to weird places, she says. I would never judge the place, like, This is middle class and white. This is a white country, you dont have to spell it out to me, but there wasnt ever a limit on where I could go or what I could do.

A long, elliptical digression on London then and now follows, which takes in the optimistic multiculturalism of the 90s, Tamil house parties, empire and British identity. Its the bento box of an MIA interview: individually contained ideas that dont obviously bleed into one another and yet, overall, make a collective sense if youre prepared to go with it. Thats the key thing about MIA: you have to be willing to go with her to properly get her. Given that she still looks and sounds like a beautiful, bratty, art-school upstart and is prone to labyrinthine tangents, its easy to portray her as inarticulate or unhinged. But MIAs intelligence is instinctive rather than intellectual, and fuelled by the political.

The Mehrabian maxim that reckons that only 7% of communication is verbal is one that might best be proven by the transcript of a chat with MIA removed of all tone, attitude, context and body language. Take, for instance, her explanation of why only the future remains relevant:

As humans, we dont use our past and our history to work out the importance of what our role is in the present, she says. And if you cant use the past to define your present, then it should not be an element that holds back the future. Greece is a perfect example. More than Britain, they were brought to their knees, and not a single white country thought about saving them. And it was part of their heritage. Its where their mythology comes from or their concept of capitalism and democracy comes from. Nobody cared, everybody cared about the modern. Right?

Kim Kardashian is actually more powerful than Greece. She has more money than the whole of Greece, she continues. Therefore, thats where the power lies. If you then define it that way, then you kind of just have to live with that. And maybe whats happening in modern society: that if youre going to judge it by that, then other countries are gonna come in and define the future.

In print, its a statement that seems lacking in logic and coherence. In the moment, Im fairly sure Im able to follow her and we go on to consider how and where this future is being defined (for the record: You cant ignore the fact that China is going to be doing their thing in the next 50 years) and how Arulpragasam believes the immigration issue has become a red herring covering up a truth that can explain the American and British swing to conservative populism.

With Brexit, the idea was to get away from Europe and reinvent our identity, she says. And really, that identity was going to be American, but then they gave us Trump! So, everyone now is like, Oh shit, what is Britain? Are we going to rewind back to the 1800s? We cant. Its too late for that. So, going forward, we need a charismatic leader who then va va vooms the British identity. And we dont have that either.

People thinking that Im a bitch is totally unwarranted … MIA. Photograph: Stephanie Sian Smith/The Guide

The prime minister has called a snap election on the day we meet. Does MIA have any faith in our political system? Or in the left?

Everyone keeps going, Corbyn cant do this, but its, like, well, who else is there? she says. If people just left him alone to actually do the job and actually gave him some support, maybe hed be different. Treating him with so much contempt fighting that takes all his energy. How the fuck do you expect him to do interesting things? In any case insists the estranged daughter of a Tamil revolutionary, politicians are people who couldnt get jobs somewhere else.

MIAs politics, unwieldy and unslick though they may be, have often made her an easy target for tedious sneering in the press; the most insistent narrative is that, like Banksy, shes big on arch, subversive statement but lacks substance. Or that she is a hypocrite for making herself the poster girl for the worlds most marginalised people. And yet, shes one of the best pop stars Britain has ever produced. For all the ear-clanging experimentation of her five albums, MIA has always kept a sleeve full of pop bangers Bucky Done Gun, Paper Planes, Bad Girls, Finally that have sounded like little that came before or since her. Even if she didnt have the tunes, here is an art-school refugee Sri Lankan single mother with a visual aesthetic co-opted by everyone from Vetements to Versace who was born into political rebellion and revels in controversy. Gleefully gauche and carefree, MIA is the best argument for when cultural appropriation works. Bland singer-songstress beloved of Radio 2 playlists she isnt. So how much has the criticism bothered her?

People thinking that Im a bitch is totally unwarranted because Im not, she ays. I just had to fight for shit, and I still do. I just dont care any more. I dont know. She stops and starts. What I deal with as an artist, the media, the public persona, its a walk in the fucking park, compared to how confusing the universe really fucking is. Theres so much beauty in it and theres so much mystery, theres so much confusing shit in it. That is way more interesting to think about than why, like, Patricia hates me. You know what I mean? I laugh. Its like, Who the fuck is Patricia? and How can Patricia say this shit about me?. It just does not matter to me at all.As it is, she says shes most preoccupied with how to be a functioning grown up, an adult and a mother to an eight-year-old son (whose father Benjamin Bronfman is son to the billionaire heir of the Seagram fortune) born into immense privilege.

When the war came to an end in Sri Lanka in 2009, it actually did affect me, she explains. Everyone was, like, What the fuck does she know? Shes, like, a pop star, but that was my life. It was 50% of who I was, it was my identity. I didnt know what to do with myself. So I had a kid. Its the year the cause died, but the year my personal cause my son was born. And then, OK, I have to figure out what to do in very small parameters: I have a son, how is he going to see his grandma, am I going to make it there on Saturday? Can I make sure that I dont mess up his head by being depressed about certain things?

She struggles to reconcile her upbringing poor and living in Sri Lanka for her childhood to poor and living on a council estate in Mitcham, south London, in her adolescence with her sons. Im not very straightforward as an immigrant. That whole My kids would never see the pain that I saw; Im not like that. Im totally up for reintroducing him to the pain. I dont have any qualms about that. Her problems havent changed, she says, because of money or better circumstances. Whether Im in a mansion or a council flat, I would feel the same anxiety waking up going: I need to write this thing in a scrapbook, wheres my notepad? I would still have all those problems. I might still overcook the fish fingers. Those things are not going to magically transform because your house has changed. At the beginning I thought that money couldve saved my family. Very quickly I realised that money is not the thing.

Her conflict in wanting to being huge and commercial versus credible and ahead of the curve has been a persistent tension threaded through MIAs career. When I got into the music game, it was never an option to shut up and make lots of money. she says. To be a huge pop star, I would have to be, like, Yes, I think bombing Afghanistan was a great idea, I love our democracy and what it has achieved. I love the American flag and Im going to make a jumpsuit out of it. I just think it was important to have all of those Arab Springs, and its great and lets drink Coca-Cola. I had to do that, and do it all in a thong. Could I have done that if it meant that my mum had the nicest house in Chiswick by the river?

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Click here to se the video for MIAs Bad Girls.

Does she worry about money now? If youre preaching living within your means, you have to, to some extent. But I also know that if youre someone in society that speaks out about injustice or political issues, one of the things that happens is that you get economically punished, 100%. I take that hit all the time.

The most recent, obvious example was MIA being forced to quit her headline slot at Afropunk last year, following a contentious quote in which she asked in an interview why Beyonc and Kendrick Lamar might not discuss why Muslim lives matter or Syrian lives matter. I dont regret [raising the issue], she says, with triumphant chutzpah. You saw how bad it was. And the Muslim ban didnt happen just with Trump, it was already happening under Obama. But you couldnt say that about him, you couldnt say that he introduced the Muslim ban, or banned seven different countries, or was already monitoring people, or dropped more bombs than Trump has. In truth, Obamas administration did identify the seven countries on Trumps list for additional screening measures, but it didnt bar their nationals. Shes already skipped ahead. The quantity of damage cant be quantified right now, she insists. Well have to wait the four years. After eight years of Obama, we kind of knew [his failings], but we just werent allowed to say them because he was so great. He was better than any person in Hollywood that I wouldve watched. He was really likable and just had loads of swag. That doesnt mean that you have to deny the truth, though.

This (and much more) comes moments after she tells me she has no time for opinions these days. She claims she doesnt read the news any more and that her primary sources for information are customers at the local kebab shop, taxi drivers and then sort of figuring it out. What about the state of the world? MIAs moment as an agitprop pop activist has never seemed more potent. Politics? I have no time for these things because Im so stuck in the zone. Ive become a hermit. [Meltdown] is actually giving me the chance to actually go out and meet people again. Ive gone for weeks without talking to a person, I do that happily. I tell her I dont believe her, as I suspect it would be a recipe for her to go fully barmy.

Im actually quite an extreme person, so I dont see that as madness. I see that as, like, solitude, doing a phase of solitude is not that bad. After declaring her fifth album AIM to be her final one, shes also trying to find new ways to channel her creativity. Im trying to write a film. I havent stepped into it yet because I want it to be good. Once you hit the start button you cant really stop it. She has, she tells me, the added complication of ADD to contend with. When was that diagnosed? I just have it. Dont even need diagnosis, its a waste of time, its a waste of the NHS. In truly blithe MIA style, she adds: Its just when you have too many ideas and not enough ways to get them out.

MIAs Meltdown is at the Southbank Centre, SE1, 9-18 June