Louise O'Neill shares an extract from her brand-new novel

Lead character, Samantha Miller, is a hugely successful wellness guru forced to examine the veracity of her own memories of a teenage sexual encounter in O'Neill's latest novel

Louise O'Neill's latest novel is out now

I have one sister, and we are close in age; there is only a year and nine months between us. And yet often when we talk about our childhood, it is as if we were raised in separate families.

We argue all the time — no, that doll was mine, not yours. Dylan was my baby-name, not yours. I was the one who went to McDonalds for my birthday, not you.

It’s strange, I think, how the same life can be remembered in such different ways. In the years since 2016, as we’ve tried to make sense of a ‘post-truth’ world and ‘alternative facts’, that duality of experience has never felt more relevant. It was with that in mind that I began writing my sixth novel. Idol is about Samantha Miller, a hugely successful wellness guru. She has created an empire: a lifestyle brand; millions of followers on social media; invitations to speak all over the world. Her new book, Chaste, has gone to the top of the charts. Determined to speak her truth, she writes an essay about a sexual experience she had as a teenager, with her then best friend, Lisa.

The essay goes viral but then Lisa gets back in contact, saying that she doesn’t remember it the same way. Her memory of that night is far darker. It’s Sam’s word against Lisa’s — so who gets to tell the story? Who do we choose to believe? Whose ‘truth’ is really a lie? I cannot wait for readers to meet Samantha Miller and decide for themselves…

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Samantha watched the girls as they filed into the event hall, tilting their heads back to stare at the ornate vaulted ceiling with its oversized chandeliers dripping silver and blue crystals. They elbowed one another in the ribs, mouths open, as if to say — Look at that! Can you believe it? Her publisher hadn’t wanted to hire this space for her book launch. They said it was a waste of money, money that could be used more ‘efficiently’ for marketing, subway posters, targeted ads on Instagram, and she had simply waited until they’d stopped arguing, waving their Excel sheets and projected budgets like white flags, pitching other, cheaper venues, and when they had worn themselves out, she’d smiled sweetly and said, “It has to be the Ballroom, I’m afraid. My girls deserve the best.”

And look at them now, she thought, staring at the monitor screen backstage as they unbuttoned coats and shook out hair flattened by the cheap berets they hoped would make them look sophisticated, even French, perhaps, tucking their New Yorker tote bags under the red, velvet seats. They were young, in their early to mid-20s, and pretty with their winged eyeliner and red lipstick. They wore heeled booties from Forever 21 and ribbed dresses from Zara and they were mostly white, but that wasn’t her fault; as her manager always reminded her, it was just the demographic for this sort of event. Really, it had nothing to do with Sam; she’d always fostered an inclusive atmosphere in her workshops, insisting that everyone was welcome regardless of race, sexuality, or gender identification. But in the end, it was these girls who had come to her — these nice, white girls — and Sam knew it was her responsibility to help them the way she wished someone had helped her when she was their age. It was over 20 years since she’d limped off that cramped, overnight flight from Utah with nothing but the memories of all she had lost to sustain her, yet despite everything she’d been through, she had refused to become a victim. She’d been determined to bring this city to its knees and make it hers. And look at her now. Look at how far she had come.

Louise O'Neill shares an extract from her brand-new novel, Idol

“We’re about to hit a million views,” Jane, her manager, whispered in her ear. “You are a goddamn genius.” Samantha reached one hand up to cover Jane’s and she smiled in relief. She had been right to trust her instincts then, to argue that a little controversy never did the first week of sales any harm, no matter what her gun-shy editor had thought. It was like she always told her girls; if you follow your heart’s truth, you’ll never be led astray.

The stage was in darkness except for the screen against the back wall, emblazoned with the word CHASTE in giant neon letters. “Is it a bit much?” she’d asked Jane earlier, when she saw the set for the first time. She was always like that before a big event, antsy, restless, wanting to make sure everything was perfect. “If it’s good enough for Beyoncé ...” her manager had shrugged. “And the girls will love it, it’s very ’grammable.” A spotlight switched on now, particles of dust dancing in its heat, and there was a ripple of energy moving through the audience, like a wave crashing on the stage and lapping at her toes. Sam pressed her fingertips over her ears to block out the excited muttering, the half-stifled laughs, the rustling of skirts being adjusted and seats settled into, until all she could hear was a faint echo of her own breath. She slowed it down, visualizing a bolt of lightning running through her, turning her to sacred flames. She would set this place on fire and burn every person here alive; they would be born anew once she was finished with them. “Happy New Year! Welcome to the Ballroom for this very special event!” A male voice, deep and loud, reverberated in her bones. “Samantha Miller,” he said over the loudspeaker, waiting for the applause to die down before he continued. “Samantha Miller is a New York Times bestselling author who travels all over the world as a motivational speaker. Her first memoir, Willing Silence, was released by Glass House Publishing in 2011. After Oprah called it her book of the year, it went on to sell over 10m copies in the US alone,” the man said. “She set up Shakti, a lifestyle brand with a spiritual focus, in 2013, and the website’s podcast regularly tops the iTunes charts. Her four-part documentary series, Shakti Salvation, premiered on Netflix last year. We are thrilled to have her here tonight to celebrate the launch of her fourth book, Chaste.”

He could barely be heard over the roaring crowd now, the chants of Sam! Sam! Sam! growing louder and louder. She would never grow tired of that — her girls, calling her name. It was all Sam would ever need to be happy.

“Here’s Samantha Miller!” The cheers were deafening as she walked on to the stage, the cream silk jumpsuit clinging to her five-foot-nothing frame, her butter-blonde hair curled to fall over one eye. It had taken the best make-up artist and hairstylist in the city two hours to put this together — “I want to look pure,” she’d instructed them, “it needs to be on brand for the new book” — but now that she was here, Samantha forgot all of that; the styling choices, the mood boards, the look books. She cared only about her girls. She held her arms out to the side, embracing everything they threw at her — their appreciation, their love, even their desperation. She would take it all and offer it up to the Universe in their names.

“Welcome, my loves,” she said, gesturing at the crowd to sit down. They did so immediately, staring at her in rapt attention. “Thank you for coming out on such a cold evening,” she said, looking at each girl as if she had been waiting there just for them to arrive. “I’m glad you are here tonight, each and every one of you. You are exactly where you are supposed to be because as we know, the Universe does not deal in ‘accidents’. This was meant to be. I want you to surrender to that knowing. Feel the peace which that surrender brings you. Allow it to fill your soul.” Samantha put a hand on her heart, asking the crowd to do the same. “I breathe in love,” she said, and the girls repeated it as one. “I breathe out fear,” she said, smiling when they chorused it back to her. “That’s right,” she said. “That’s right. I can feel the release of energy in this room and goodness, it’s amazing. Can you feel it, my loves? Can you feel your own power?” The girls nodded their heads, murmuring yes, yes, I can. There was an easing of sorts, their shoulders falling, the knot that had been caught in their chests uncoiling. Such was the power of Samantha Miller. She would save them from their pain, their trauma, their difficult childhoods. The strained relationships with their parents — the fathers who ignored them because they’d wanted sons, not daughters, and the mothers who asked if they were “sure” they wanted that second helping of mashed potatoes — “carbs are so fattening, honey” — the men who fucked them and never texted again, the friends who talked shit out of the side of their mouths, and the other friends who gleefully repeated it back to them. This was a saturated market — so many broken girls with money to spend – and there were a lot of beautiful white women out there, selling wellness and crystal-encrusted yoga mats and $50 meditation candles, but none of them could do what Samantha Miller could. Authenticity was an overused word these days but the truth was, Sam had it. She’d been there; she had touched the bottom they all feared. She understood their despair but more importantly, she understood the fury hiding beneath their smiles. She knew there was nothing more powerful than a woman finally given permission to scream.

• Idol by Louise O’Neill is published by Transworld. Louise will read from Idol, at the West Cork Literary Festival on Sunday, July 10. The West Cork Literary Festival takes place in and around the town of Bantry from July 8 to 15. See westcorkliteraryfestival.ie.