Extravagant Life to Extravagant Love

By Angela Williams

"I was about to enter a very different world from the one I had known all my life, and I would be lying if I said that I was feeling comfortable and confident about it. Yet my feet kept pushing me forward because I knew there was a purpose for me being here. I couldn't imagine a world where pure love does not exist, where love is merely tran

• Language: English
• Publisher: Starlabel Artistry - Publishing
• Release date: Oct 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645228755

Book preview

Prologue

Err…are you certain this is the address you’re going to?" asked the taxi driver, looking perplexed by the piece of paper we had given him. The notorious red-light area of Manchester city was certainly not a place that we’d ever been to before. The closest I had come to knowing about this lifestyle was watching the movie Pretty Woman featuring the glamorous Julia Roberts. But the cautioned voice of the taxi-driver suggested it was not a place where three well-dressed ladies in designer labels should ever venture.

Yes, we assured him, that’s the address we’ve been given.

Well, okay then, he replied, obviously troubled as he hesitantly began to drive.

As we clocked up the miles, the driver kept looking at us in the rear-view mirror with an expression that seemed to ask why on earth we would ever want to travel to this part of town—as if he knew something we didn’t. Was he wondering if this was going to be a one-way fare?

Further to his obvious summation, something wasn’t quite right. We clearly weren’t from around this area with our boring midland’s accents, in staunch contrast to the renowned broad Mancunian accent from this part of town.

As we drove, we chatted innocently yet excitedly amongst ourselves, while staring out the windows and taking in the sites. We couldn’t help but notice the buildings becoming less occupied with an air of dereliction about them and tell-tale signs of boarded up windows and doors. The further we drove, the quieter we became. The reality of where we were heading was now becoming clearer, better explaining the taxi-driver’s hesitant mood.

We eventually came to a train station where the driver slowed down and headed for a secluded underpass. The tall eerie industrial buildings that blacked out the sky were completely deserted. Abruptly, the taxi driver stopped dead in the centre of the road. We were in the middle of nowhere with nobody and nothing around except a long foreboding tunnel that stretched off to the left of us and ran underneath a railway line. Above ground, the station was a busy hub of activity, while below ground told a very different story, perfectly describing why it was called ‘the underworld’.

This is as far as I’m going, he blurted out suddenly. I won’t take you any further. Where you need to be is right through there. He pointed to the other side of the railway line. Our only way to reach our destination was via the long, dark tunnel. We paid him, jumped out of the taxi and he took off as quickly as his foot could reach the pedal, screeching the tyres as he left.

We had just been chatting so unaware about the adventures that awaited us this night and what it meant to finally be doing something outside our ordinary world and living life on the edge. However, with the smell of burning rubber still prickling our noses, we suddenly became very aware of the dangers. Standing there, completely alone in the darkness of the night, we looked down that long, dimly lit, and foreboding tunnel. None of us knew for certain what awaited us at the other end. We all fell silent for a moment with the enormity of what we were about to do finally dawning on us. We were about to enter a world where you fear for your safety, and all I knew to do—was to take a deep breath and pray.

Dear Lord, be with us now, give us the courage to do this without fear, and the strength to witness all that we are about to see. Give me boldness Lord I pray. In Jesus name, Amen. We began to walk.

As my feet nervously pounded the concrete, thoughts of home flashed before me. I thought of my three-year-old son being tucked up in bed by his daddy, asking him where Mummy was tonight. I thought of my life growing up where I was loved and safe in my parent’s home, never having experienced the type of fear and uncertainty that was engulfing me now. I thought of the wonderful life I’d been privileged to live.

I was still young, naïve and had never known life in a world where dangers lurked on every corner, and where darkness embraced you like a heavy coat. A daunting world where you trust no one and no one trusts you. Despite the uncertainty of this unimaginable hell, there was an element of intrigue and adventure that crept beneath the surface of my skin that night. I was finally doing something outrageous, living life on the edge, taking risks, and knowing what it meant to be really alive.

Until tonight, I had only ever known a very different world, one surrounded by luxury and privilege. As a daughter of a lord, and one of the wealthiest men in Britain, I am no alien to high class society. I have lived in large homes, travelled to exotic locations, flown in private jets, floated on the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea, and driven the latest sport cars. I know how to present myself to the top brass, the rich and famous, and the country’s leaders. I had grown up in this world—it was home to me. I had been taught my p’s and q’s eloquently in private school. The ironic thing about this night was, I’d usually be the one standing above ground waiting for the train with excitement for a fun night out, not the one hiding in a dark underground tunnel fearing for her life.

As my thoughts raced, I couldn’t help but wonder—how did I get here?

I was about to enter a very different world from the one I had known all my life, and I would be lying if I said that I was feeling comfortable and confident about it. Yet my feet kept pushing me forward because I knew there was a purpose for me being here.

I couldn’t imagine a world where pure love does not exist, where love is defined merely by a transaction. I had to see this world for myself to understand a different reality to my own. With each step I took, and the closer I got to the other side, I had to keep reminding myself of why I was here in this tunnel, risking my life, my comfort and security, as a highly stigmatized world, far removed than the one I was from, came into view.

I had been so loved throughout my life by my parents and family, by my husband and son, and by the saviour of my heart, Jesus. I knew deep within my being that the purpose of my life was to show love to the rejected of society, the outcasts, and those deemed unworthy; those that I wouldn’t normally find myself amongst in the circles that I moved in. My purpose was to demonstrate a pure love that wanted nothing for itself yet, at this point, I still didn’t know where that calling would lead me—and I certainly hadn’t expected it to lead me here. All I knew was, if my mission was to show love, it would be in the only way I knew how—with extravagance.

To many, I have lived an extravagant life and been afforded many luxuries, living the life most only ever dream of, but designer labels are not the only labels that I’ve found myself wearing. I’ve been labelled many things throughout my lifetime, most of them revolving around ‘money’. It became the main thing I was defined by, being introduced as the daughter of a wealthy man. This was not something I despised, because I am very proud of who my father is, however I had no identity of my own outside that introduction. I could not be defined by his success because he owned that story, not me. It was the desire to find my own story and the calling of my heart, to discover who I was outside the shadow of someone else, that led me to take some risks in order to experience a whole different world than I’d ever known before.

To show extravagant love means to give love generously, above what is expected, even to those that don’t deserve it. It sounds contrary to our nature, and can often be viewed as weak, but love is the greatest weapon we have against hate. There are, however, many roadblocks to extravagant love, and most are based around prejudice or unforgiveness. How we see others dramatically impacts how we love them, and this is equally true in how we see ourselves. We label people according to what we see on the exterior, but to love extravagantly we must look further in order to see who they are beyond our preconceived notions.

We are all judged by something, be it our size or shape, our race or social status, or our economic circumstance or intellectual prowess. Labels are a part of life, and I am the first to admit that I have placed them unfairly on others at times, too—it’s human nature and helps us to make sense of the world around us. But, walking the path that I have, which began when I discovered the world on the other side of this tunnel, has made me more conscious than ever about the labels that exist, how misrepresentative they often are, and how much damage they can do to a person’s true identity and value.

It was for this reason I kept walking through the tunnel that night and found the courage to enter a whole new and dangerous world—a world full of opportunities to show extravagant love.

I have since seen life from both ends of society’s stereotypes: from living in the biggest house in the village, owning luxury cars, going to swanky events and staying in the world’s finest hotels, the kind of wealth most only see in magazines; to walking beside those who have nothing but the liquid they pump through their veins, nowhere to live, no means of support, and no one in the world who knows, or even cares, where they are. I have counted those the world has rejected and disregarded as some of my closest and most loved friends.

I have lived with feet standing in two completely opposite worlds at the same time. I have sat at the House of Lords observing the nation’s leaders, and then walked the streets of the red-light area feeding and clothing women with no hope of a normal life—all in the same week. I have been amongst those who decide upon the nation’s legal systems, and sat with those that fell through the cracks of that very same system, and there is one truth I have discovered in all of these experiences: whether we live like a prince or a pauper, we all desire to be seen and loved for who we really are, beneath the precepts and assumptions, beyond the labels that try to define us.

My aim in these pages is not to address the issues of discrimination, gender, current political concerns, global racism, or to begin a debate about equality. I simply want to show that true riches are not found in how extravagantly we live, but in how extravagantly we love. The world weighs success through fame, popularity, influence, and materialism, and we are all judged or labelled according to those measures. When we set the benchmark of our lives on things that are constantly moveable, we will never settle or feel fulfilled as it only feeds the drive to obtain more. The only thing we can be certain to control in this life is not how well we live, but how well we love.

Each chapter of this book references the different labels I’ve worn in my life; some that I’ve been given by others, but many that I’ve given myself. I have struggled with the same insecurities of being unqualified, inexperienced, and not good enough. Wealth doesn’t shelter you from real feelings and emotions, and it certainly wasn’t doing anything to help me stay at ease this night. These labels have tried to hold me back and prevent me from belonging, and becoming who I really am. Strangely, I am also grateful for these labels, because, in overcoming them, I’ve become a better human, more compassionate to the needs of others, more willing to accept faults, and more available to love extravagantly—even to those who have hurt me or who believe they’re unlovable.

There was a reason I walked the tunnel that night and it’s the same reason that I have written this book. It is for the woman on the street selling her body late at night confused about love and looking for hope, hope that she might one day be loved for nothing in return. I have written this book for the onlookers who think I’m just another rich chick with the world at her feet and sports cars in the garage, playing the ‘good girl trying to save the world’. I have written this book because I know that, regardless of your background, who you are, what you believe, or what you’ve endured or overcome, that you too, long to be seen—really seen—for who you are and not who you’re perceived to be—just like me.

But, most of all, I have written this book because I know an extravagant love that can change your life and change the world. My hope for you as you read my story is that you’ll come to know the same extravagant love that found me on the other side of that tunnel. So, I invite you to walk beside me as we continue to journey through my life and discover how I, the most unlikely, inexperienced, unqualified, and unrelatable person possible, came to be there amongst the deserted and despised, on this, the night that changed my life.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Daddy’s Little Girl

"The emotional, sexual and psychological stereotyping of

females begins when the doctor says, ‘it’s a girl.’"

Shirley Chisholm¹.

The moment we enter the world we are the purest form of ourselves we will ever be. Every child enters the world the very same way no matter where, or to whom, they are born. We are a blank canvas on which the tapestry of our life is formed, and are yet to be conformed to the opinions, beliefs, and indoctrinations of others, and of the environment we live in. We haven’t yet opened our eyes to recognise the things that make us all different. All we know at this stage in our lives is the sound of our parents’ voices and our need to be loved and cared for. I also believe that, right at our moment of birth, we are the closest to our Creator than any living being can be. Life is breathed into us, and from that moment on we begin to form our values, experiences, and opinions, each adding pieces to the tapestry of who we are to become.

I was born in the early hours of a cold winter’s day in January 1975 in Walsgrave Hospital, Coventry, England, to my father Robert Norman Edmiston and my mother Patricia Ann Edmiston. I was neither early nor late, I came exactly when expected. My delivery, however, was the only thing that was as expected about my arrival into the world.

The news of a pregnancy had come as a big shock to my parents, who had decided they were content with the two children they already had. My mum, especially, took some time to adjust to the realisation that a new baby would soon be in her arms, having thought the seasons of sleepless nights and dirty nappies were long behind her. My brother, Andrew, was almost six years old and my sister, Debbie, was four when I decided to make my grand entrance into the world. Life was comfortable for my parents with their little family of four, with both children now in school. The thought of going back to all that hard work and sacrifice wasn’t part of the plan.

Mum has always said that, once she finally got over the shock, she was quite looking forward to my arrival day and knew that I had been added to this family for a reason. It was customary in those days not to know the sex of the child prior to delivery, but there was a secret desire inside my mother that asked God to bless her with a baby girl. At 5.30am I arrived with ease to those sought after and welcomed words: It’s a girl! Having had two large babies prior to me, my mother found it was quite a smooth delivery for the 10lb bundle making its passage to life. I think this nature has proven consistent throughout my life; I have never really caused her too much pain or trouble.

To say I was a daddy’s girl is an understatement. There is a strong bond that can form between a father and his daughter, and we were no exception. My father was my hero and could do no wrong in my eyes, and from the moment I was born a real love for each other emerged. I especially loved it when he called me his ‘Little Bunty Jane’, the first nickname ever given to me. It was fun and cute with an element of mischief, and I loved it. The feelings of love were reciprocated when I would run up to my dad and ask for a hug. He always loved my affection, and our relationship gave us both great fulfilment.

For my parents and I, it was love at first sight. The moment my mother and father saw me they knew their lives were changed for the better. But ‘Little Bunty Jane’ was about to switch up the dynamics of the whole family with four becoming five. My sister Debbie, in particular, realised she was no longer the youngest in the family, and that all the privileges that came with being the youngest had now been reassigned to me. Up to this point, she had received my parents’ undivided attention and had understandably loved it, but now she was going to have to share it. I don’t think little ‘Debtails’ was too happy about that.

Regardless of having unwillingly become the middle child, my sister has always been fun-loving, making everyone laugh. She is the only person I can regress back to being a child with and not feel stupid as she brings out the ridiculous and silly side of me. However, there is also a mischievous side to her that I was often on the receiving end of. She craftily used her humour and wit to make people laugh, distracting them from being upset at her, and that, somehow, got her off the hook. She was very skilled in the art of deflection, and I was equally as skilled in falling for it every time. For the most part, Debbie and I had a great friendship, we are close sisters, and we did a lot of things together growing up. Although...come to think of it, perhaps those feelings were one-sided as she did almost try to kill me with a few near misses in her car, but we always managed to laugh at her driving and keep smiling, even if they were a little bit too close for comfort.

One such occasion was while we were both still living at home, before I could drive, and Debbie offered to take me shopping. We were getting ready to leave the house and as we reached the front door I suddenly stopped and said, No, I don’t think I want to go now. I’ll come with Mum later. She wasn’t too happy with my rejection of her offer, and, in a huff, she carried on alone. About 20 minutes later, I left the house with Mum and headed in the same direction Debbie had been travelling just a few moments before. We began to see the traffic was building up along our country lane, which was very strange and unusual for this area. It was only as we got closer to a crossroads notorious for being a crash hotspot that we were able to see the flashing lights of an ambulance.

As we approached, my sister’s car suddenly came into view. It had been hauled up on the side of the road and the passenger side of the car had been completely caved in by an oncoming vehicle. Scared for my sister’s life, we immediately pulled over and were informed by the police that Debbie was fine but was on her way to the hospital with severe whiplash. We were so thankful that she was okay but sadly the car was a write-off. We were told that she was turning right at the crossroads when she saw a speeding car coming straight for her and she froze on the spot, causing the car to crash straight through the front passenger door and crushing that whole left side of the car. It was only when we reached the hospital that I suddenly realised that I was supposed to have been sitting in that seat. It was only a last-minute decision, for a reason I can’t even recall, that stopped me possibly losing my life that day. This was perhaps the first time in my life that I became aware of God’s protection over me and how He guides us in the little decisions we make, even when we are unaware of it.

Although this was quite clearly an accident, there were definitely times when Debbie would purposely get me into trouble for things that I did not do, like the day she was given a ‘Girlsworld’.

A Girlsworld was a life-size plastic female head you could practice putting makeup on and it even came with extendable hair for styling. In my opinion, it looked more like a prop from a horror movie, but was actually a toy designed for young, aspiring beauticians. Debbie was just experimenting when she extended the hair all the way to the maximum setting and then chopped the entire lot off with one quick snip. I don’t know what she was hoping to achieve with this ill-thought-out decision as the doll was now completely ruined. Streams of long blonde curls fell to the floor, and Debbie was so afraid of the consequences of ruining an expensive gift within the first day of having it that she decided to quickly shift the blame by crying out at the top of her voice, Mum, Angela cut all the hair off my Girlsworld! before erupting into a heap of crocodile tears.

I was horrified to hear those words echo down the stairs as I was not even anywhere near her bedroom at the time. Nevertheless, my parents took one look at the destruction, Debbie’s fake forlorn face, and the expression of horror on my face, and decided I was guilty and needed to be punished. I was sent off to bed without dinner while I heard my sister sniggering in the corridor. She definitely had a devious streak to her personality.

The irony of this story is my sister eventually did become a hairdresser and, in her training days, I became her guinea pig. It soon became apparent who the culprit of the Girlsworld debacle was when I returned home from my sister’s salon with a boy’s cut of short back and sides when I’d only gone for a trim. She eventually became a very good Vidal Sassoon trained hairdresser, after which my hair breathed a sigh of relief.

My brother Andrew, on the other hand, was delighted to have another sister join the family. He gladly took on the responsibilities of the eldest child, and was quite often protective of his younger sisters. There was an unspoken tradition in our family that the eldest son takes on the family business when he comes of age, a tradition that most likely stems from the Catholic heritage of my father’s mother. Andrew had grown up knowing this was his future, and not one that was just chosen for him, but the one he wanted for himself. His future plans gave Andrew that much more superiority over his annoying younger sisters.

Another tradition in our family was the paternal grandmother was given the honour of choosing nicknames for all her grandchildren. This, in itself, is funny since this same grandmother also insisted that we never abbreviate our names. Nan believed Andrew must never be abbreviated to Andy, Debbie should never be called Deb, and I must never be called Ange. It was a rule we always stuck to. There is no real reason why I was called ‘Bunty Jane’, it has absolutely no connection to anything about me other than it was cute. But it was a label which stuck whether I was acting in a cute manner or not and is, perhaps, the simplest example of how the labels we are often given have no real meaning about who we are at all. More recently, I looked up the meaning of the nickname ‘Bunty’ I held so much affection for, and I was horrified to discover it means short and stumpy. I am sure my parents didn’t realise that the cute little name they thought was so sweet and lovely was actually an insult. As a five-foot, ten inches woman who was always the tallest in my class, this is another great example of not living according to the label.

My sister, aka Debtails, at least had a moniker which sounded like her name. Unfortunately for Andrew, he was given ‘Little Andypops’, a nickname which really didn’t seem to cut it by the time he reached his teens. Unhappy as he was with this less than masculine call card, it’s a name that stuck, and even now in his 50’s it still pops out occasionally, but now greeted with a more nostalgic grin.

Andrew was supposedly the more sensible one out of all the three children and, as the eldest, came the assumption of responsibility. His demeanour would come across as rather calm, reserved, and unphased by most things, and it takes a lot to ruffle his feathers, but he had a very mischievous nature too which is proving to be a family trait. If ever there was food thrown around the family table, it usually came from his direction. Andrew would do mischievous things to people to get a reaction. His bad attempts to hold back a smile, however, always gave him away.

The odd Girlsworld incident, and bit of thrown food aside, I had a model childhood. My parents were successful in business, and I never wanted for anything or felt deprived of love or attention, as can often be the case for children of entrepreneurs. I was secure, well cared for, and had a good balance between fun and learning to be responsible. I was free to just be a kid and enjoy my childhood. It was the days before technology became an everyday part of life, so most of my childhood was spent on my bike or exploring the gardens, and even taking to the skies in my parent’s small single propellor plane which both my parents could pilot. It was a truly idyllic childhood full of happy memories, and there was rarely any animosity or discord. My parents never really argued, or at least I never knew if they did, and us siblings all seemed to get along well. We had our moments, of course, and I recall times where we would have a ‘kids meeting’ to decide if we should all leave home, as our parents were ‘mean’ not to give us everything we wanted. I don’t think we ever got past the front gate. In essence, we were blessed to be a close family who held good Christian values and, with that, came a lot of respect in our community.

The first house I ever lived in was in Finham Coventry, 113 St Martins Road. It stood proudly on the corner of the street with a giant willow tree in the front garden and was a simple four-bedroom home fit for any average sized family. I shared a room with Debbie, Andrew had a room of his own, and our fourth bedroom was reserved for guests. There was one bathroom to share between all of us and a standard kitchen, dining room and lounge room. It was not to the elaborate standards I grew to know later in life, yet it was comfortable and spacious for our family in what was considered a more prestigious area of the city.

Of those blissful years, one of my favourite memories was, in actual fact, a morning ritual. I would wake in the morning and stay silent in my bed until I heard the familiar sounds of the creaking floorboards of my mother routinely leaving the bedroom every morning to go downstairs to make breakfast in bed for her and Dad. The moment I heard her footsteps disappear down the stairs I would make my escape, running along the corridor and charging through my parents’ bedroom door shouting Surprise! as I launched myself through the air, legs and arms flailing everywhere, jumping onto the bed for a cuddle with my dad. Every morning he would act surprised and say, You surprised me again Bunty Jane, and I would reply, I love you, Dad. It was as if my day couldn’t begin without first having my time alone with Dad. My mother would always pretend to be surprised when she returned, with the tea in one hand and the toast in the other, to find me in her bed.

Like most daddy’s girls, I loved being the apple of his eye; it gave me so much security and made me feel like I was indestructible, like I could conquer the world. My parents gave me my first experience of extravagant love and it meant more to me than anything else in my life.

Not only was my father making a big success of his life, he was also a wonderful father and I suspect this positive relationship really helped me on my journey of accepting God as a personal Father to me, too. It made that transition in my heart so much easier. I had a great relationship with God from a very young age, I always knew He was there with me. I dedicated my life to the Lord when I was alone in my room at just four years old. I had the inner instinct that just knew that He loved me and cared about the choices I made, and I have carried this inner knowing throughout my life.

In our formative years, we are mostly influenced by our parents, our teachers, our friends, and other family members. Those that have any form of influence upon us add pieces to the tapestry of our lives and who we become. Most of our beliefs are formed before we are even conscious enough to make our own decisions and, by the time we are ready to leave home, we have affirmed the beliefs we will continue to carry with us through the remainder of our lives—unless we have cause to change them. Those first four years of my life were perhaps the most ‘normal’ I would ever know.

I would love to have one of those childhood stories that has you biting your fingernails and cringing with disbelief at my amazing life transforming experience, but I’m thankful that I don’t. I can say from experience that stable homes and good upbringings