The Forgotten Girl

Chapter 8

‘I’m not staying,’ Jen said, sliding into the seat opposite me. She looked tired and her hair was scraped back into a tiny bun.

I nodded. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

‘Drink?’

Jen shook her head.

‘I’m not staying,’ she said again. I poured myself a glass of wine, took a huge mouthful and grimaced at the acidic taste. We were in an old-fashioned pub down a side street near my office – I’d wanted to be sure no one from work would see me meeting Jen and as the only other customer was an older man in a creased grey suit with beer stains on the sleeves, I was fairly sure no one would.

‘Just say what you’ve got to say,’ Jen said. She fixed me with her unflinching gaze and I wilted a bit.

‘Firstly,’ I said, taking another swig of horrible wine. ‘I want to apologise. I should have told you about the offer from Mode as soon as they rang me. I was stupid and inconsiderate.’

‘And selfish,’ Jen said.

‘That too.’

There was a pause. Jen carried on staring at me.

‘I still want to launch The Hive,’ I said. ‘And I think this job is going to help with contacts and giving us an edge when we approach writers and financial backers.’

Jen shrugged.

‘Perhaps,’ she said.

I took a breath.

‘Being editor of Mode is my dream job,’ I said. ‘When I was a teenager, it was what I dreamed of. I couldn’t turn it down, Jen. I couldn’t.’

Jen looked at me for a moment longer.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know. I get it. I was just so hurt.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s what you do, Fearne,’ Jen said, a bitter edge to her voice. ‘It’s what you do. You pretend you need people, that you’re there for people, but when push comes to shove, all you really care about is your career.’

‘That’s not true,’ I said, even though it was a bit. ‘I care about you. I do. We’re a team, Jen, in work and out.’

A tiny, humourless smile worked its way onto Jen’s lips.

‘You’re never not working,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I’m sorry I ran out on you and our plans.’

Jen sighed.

‘All that work we’d put in …’

‘It still counts,’ I said. ‘We can still do it. In a year or so, maybe.’

I gulped the wine again. It was beginning to taste a bit nicer.

‘But for now I want to save Mode,’ I said. ‘And I want you to help me.’

Jen blinked at me.

‘Save it?’

I nodded.

‘You know I said it was my dream job?’

Jen picked up the wine bottle and poured some into her empty glass. I was pleased. Maybe she was staying after all.

‘Yes.’

‘Well it’s actually more of a nightmare.’

Jen had been perched on her chair, looking as though she might flee at any moment. Now she shrugged off her jacket and sat back. I almost wept with relief.

‘Spill,’ she said.

So I told her all about Mode and how it was haemorrhaging sales to Grace. How I had barely any staff, a shoestring budget and a defiant features editor. How I was trying to theme the issues and give ourselves an edge.

‘So we’re kind of forcing this issue into Back to Basics,’ I explained. ‘Next we’re doing body confidence, and then I’m thinking about feminism or something like that.’

‘Sounds pretty meh,’ Jen said. ‘It’s hardly groundbreaking.’

I stared at her.

‘That’s exactly my worry,’ I said with relief – she was already beginning to engage with the project. I pulled my notes out of my bag and thrust them at her. ‘Look, this is what I’m planning. It’s all okay but I’m not sure it’s going to be enough.’

She smiled for the first time since she’d sat down.

‘You need something big,’ she said. She picked up the notes and leafed through them – I could almost see her brain working, churning out ideas as she read, and my stomach squirmed in excitement.

‘Jen,’ I said. ‘Come and work with me.’

She looked at me over the top of my scribbles.

‘What?’

‘I need a deputy. And I need someone who’ll tell me the truth, tell me when my ideas are hopeless and when they’re working. I need you.’

Jen lowered the notes slowly.

‘Thought you had no budget,’ she said.

‘All my staff have left,’ I said. ‘I’ll move some stuff around.’

She bit her lip and I sensed she was weakening.

‘Unless you want to stay at Happy,’ I said. ‘Must be nice being the boss at last …’

‘I hate it there,’ Jen said. ‘I’m slogging my guts out as editor, and no one’s said thank you, or told me I’m doing a good job. And they’re still recruiting to replace me.’

She paused.

‘And, I suppose I miss you.’

I grinned.

‘So are you in?’

‘This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.’

‘Of course not.’

Jen waved the notes at me.

‘This has got something already and I can make it better,’ she said. ‘But you need to promise me you’ll listen to my ideas, and not shout me down or pull rank?’

‘I promise,’ I said, so grateful she was listening to me that I’d have promised anything at all.

‘Then I’m in.’

I squealed in delight and reached across the table to hug her. She drew back and gave me a fierce look.

‘No hugging,’ she said. ‘We’re not at the hugging stage yet.’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘Who else do you have?’ Jen said. She found a notebook and pen in her bag and started making notes. ‘Who’s your team? You’ve got Riley Dean, right?’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘And Milly Thompson?’

I shook my head.

‘Gone,’ I said. ‘I’ve basically got Riley, an intern called Emily who’s enthusiastic and potentially brilliant but very green, a good beauty editor called Pritti, and a sulky features ed called Vanessa.’

Jen made a face.

‘Vanessa Bennett?’ she said. ‘I remember her from years ago. She’s not really an ideas person.’

I chuckled.

‘That’s a nice way of putting it,’ I said. ‘I’d have said boring and uninspired.’

‘Ouch,’ said Jen. She made a note in her book. ‘Who’s on your art desk?’

I shrugged.

‘Designers work across a few mags, so that’s fine,’ I said. ‘But Milly was my art editor and she’s left now so I need a replacement. A really good one.’

‘Any ideas?’ Jen said, frowning as she thought. ‘What about Danielle Watson?’

‘She’s gone to Hot,’ I said. ‘She’d never come to us now.’

I paused.

‘I did have one idea,’ I said. ‘But it might be crazy.’

Jen looked at me.

‘Who?’

‘Damian Anderson,’ I said quickly. ‘I thought I might ask him.’

Jen looked at me, not understanding.

‘Damian …?’ she said, frowning slightly as she tried to work out how she knew the name. Then realisation dawned.

‘Damo?’ she said in astonishment. ‘You want to ask Damo to be your art editor?’

I stared into the bottom of my wine glass.

‘He’s really good,’ I muttered.

‘I know he’s good,’ she said. ‘But he’s not good for you. And anyway, isn’t he in Sydney?’

‘He’s working on Homme,’ I said. ‘He’s in my office.’

‘Shiiiiiit.’

I nodded.

‘And you’ve seen him?’

I nodded again.

‘And you didn’t ring me?’

I gave her a fierce look.

‘You wouldn’t have answered,’ I said.

She shrugged.

‘Fair point,’ she said, with a grin. ‘Seriously, though, Fearne – is this a good idea?

I shook my head.

‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘But I’m desperate, Jennifer. The magazine’s dying, my team is uninspired and uninspiring, and I really want to make this work.’

She looked at me for a moment, then she drained her glass.

‘So ask him,’ she said. ‘But keep it professional.’

Chapter 9
1966

‘You think my flat is perfect?’ Suze sounded surprised. ‘It’s not perfect at all.’

‘It’s all yours,’ I said. ‘It’s just me and my dad at home, but he’s … well, we stay out of each other’s way most of the time.’

‘Fair enough,’ Suze said, with a nod that suggested she knew what I was talking about. She sat down on the floor next to the bed.

Not wanting to discuss my father, I changed the subject.

‘So, I’m guessing you’re not supposed to live here,’ I said, sitting down next to Suze. The carpet was rough under my thighs, so I lifted them up and rested my arms on my knees.

Suze opened the tiny bag she wore and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. She offered one to me and I shook my head.

‘I knew some guys who lived here,’ she said with the cig clasped in her lips as she hunted in her bag for matches.

‘What sort of guys?’ I asked, though I knew what kind of men lived in squats in Soho. ‘Druggie guys?’

Suze lit her cigarette and smiled a vague smile at me.

‘Just guys,’ she said. ‘They moved on and I stayed. I got a friend to put the lock on the door.’

‘In case they came back?’

She shook her head.

‘I’m not like them any more,’ she said. ‘I just want to write.’

She took a huge drag on her cigarette and threw her head back so she could blow the smoke up at the ceiling.

‘What about you?’ she said.

‘What about me?’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘Write,’ I said.

‘And?’

I shrugged. Where to begin? It was easier to say what I didn’t want. I didn’t want to marry Billy and work in my dad’s shop.

‘I want to live on my own, in a flat, with a massive wardrobe full of gorgeous clothes, and a tiny kitchen,’ I said. ‘And I want a handsome boyfriend. George Harrison, perhaps.’

Suze fake shuddered.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Mick Jagger.’

‘Fine,’ I said, giggling. ‘We wouldn’t want to share.’

‘What else?’

‘I want to edit a magazine for young women like us,’ I said.

‘Oh wouldn’t that be peachy,’ said Suze. She knelt up to stub out her cigarette and smiled at me.

‘We could invent our own magazine,’ she said. ‘All about the things that interest us and girls like us.’

‘Fashion,’ I said. ‘And music.’

‘And careers,’ Suze said. ‘And books.’

‘Travel,’ I said, imagining getting on a plane to anywhere far, far away.

‘Men,’ said Suze. ‘Sex.’

I giggled again, quite shocked despite myself. Billy and I had only ever kissed – though he’d been eager to take things further. I’d told him I didn’t want to do it until we were married, but the truth was, I felt nothing when he kissed me and I really couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.

‘Do you write about sex for Home & Hearth?’ Suze asked, a cheeky glint in her eye.

‘Oh shit,’ I said, suddenly remembering Home & Hearth. ‘I have to go back to work.’

I looked at my watch. I was only a little bit late – hopefully Rosemary wouldn’t realise how long I’d been gone.

‘Do you want to meet up tomorrow?’ Suze said. She looked at me from under her eyelashes and I thought she was much less worldly-wise than she wanted me to believe.

Yes, all right,’ I said, surprised to realise I had enjoyed spending time with her. ‘Lunchtime?’

‘I’ll meet you outside the office,’ she said. ‘Thanks for today.’

I grinned at her as I stood up and brushed fluff from the carpet off my tights.

‘Pleasure,’ I said.

I thought about Suze a lot that afternoon. She wasn’t like anyone I’d met before. Some of my friends from school had a wild side, and even though I didn’t really like to drink too much – my dad had put me off booze for life – I enjoyed watching their show-offy, smoking-behind-the-bike-sheds antics. But they all came from nice families. Families with a mum and a dad and siblings, and tea on the table at six o’clock, and church at Christmas. Somehow I sensed that Suze came from a very different place.

The truth was, my own family was anything but nice. And when Mum died, things got worse. On the surface, we may have looked perfect – respectable, community-minded mum and dad, working hard running their own business and making it a success, clever older brother, quiet younger sister. But I knew the reality was very different.

Like I said, Dad had always liked a drink, and he’d always had a temper, but he really loved my mum. And when she got ill and then died, he struggled to hold it together. He put so much energy into seeming fine, that it was like there was none left for me. Mum’s friends queued up to bring us food, and to cover shifts in the shop, and everyone talked admiringly about how well Dad was coping. Dennis went off to university less than a year after Mum passed away, and I missed him like a lost limb. When it was just me and Dad at home, he mostly ignored me and spent his evenings drinking. Occasionally, he’d snap and shout at me. Increasingly – if I caught him at the wrong time or I’d done something he thought was wrong – he’d lash out. I’d become pretty good at hiding bruises with make-up and I had a routine now where I made sure the house was clean and Dad’s dinner was on a plate keeping warm in the oven when he got home. I’d say hello, then disappear to my room.

I planned to follow Dennis to university but Dad wouldn’t let me go. That was about the time Billy asked me to marry him – or at least when he started talking about when we’d get married as though it was a done deal – and I thought it might be the only way I could escape. And I’d also stepped up my efforts to get a job – and eventually had landed an interview at Home & Hearth.

I lied about where I worked, and I lied about my actual job, and I lied about how much I was paid. I cut my actual salary by a fair amount when I told Dad what I’d be bringing in, and offered to hand over nearly all of it each month as payment for my room and board. And the rest – the money Dad didn’t know about – I saved. I’d been at the magazine for a year now, and my savings account was beginning to look pretty good. I told myself I was saving for when Billy and I got married, but I knew that wasn’t true. It was my running away money. My independence money. It was my safety net.

So when it came to families, I knew how bad things could be. How frightening it was to know that when push came to shove, you had no one you could rely on. And I had stayed. I’d stayed with grieving, grumpy, volatile, violent Dad because it was better than going. I had no idea just how bad things had to have been for Suze to make her go. Because living with ‘some guys’ in a squat in Soho, stealing electricity and eating sympathy fruit from the market wasn’t easy. And for that to be better than the alternative, the alternative had to be really, really bad.

But despite all that, I knew the reason I was looking forward to seeing her again tomorrow wasn’t that I felt sorry for her. It was because I liked her.

Chapter 10

My journey home was the reverse of my journey to work. As soon as I got on the train, I headed into the small toilet and pulled off my knitted mini dress and boots. I stuffed them into my bag and put on the beige suit and blouse I’d left the house in.

I brushed my hair over and over until all the lacquer was gone and it was back to hanging limply round my face. Then I pulled it into a sensible ponytail and grimaced at my reflection in the mottled mirror.

Finally, I scrubbed the make-up off my face and watched as the water swirled away down the plug – a murky mixture of pan stick, black eyeliner and rouge. Then I powdered my nose, put on the tiniest slick of mascara, pushed my engagement ring back onto my finger, and emerged from the loo with time to spare. I slumped in a seat, breathing slightly heavily. It was exhausting leading this double life and I envied Suze for the ease of her solo life.

As the train pulled into my station, I spotted Billy waiting for me on the platform. I groaned. I was planning to drop my dress into the launderette on the way home, and now it would have to wait. But as I got off the train with a bundle of other commuters, I couldn’t help smiling. Billy looked so pleased to see me and his grin was infectious.

‘Thought I’d walk you home,’ he said, taking my bag.

I looped my arm through his and he hoisted my bag on to his shoulder.

‘Blimey, what have you got in here, Nance?’ he said.

I waved my hand in the air vaguely.

‘Oh just work stuff,’ I said, hoping he wouldn’t want to look. ‘And wedding stuff.’

‘Wedding stuff,’ Billy said, kissing my cheek. ‘I’d better not peek, then.’

Oh bless him. He was so predictable. And traditional, I thought, with a trace of venom. Boring.

But he was nice; that was the trouble. I liked Billy. He made me laugh. He looked after me. He listened when I talked – far, far more than I listened when he talked. I could see myself marrying him. That was what scared me. I’d marry Billy, we’d buy a house round the corner from his parents’ place and I’d probably be pregnant within a year. Then I’d have to leave work and that would be it. The closest I’d ever get to Home & Hearth magazine would be leafing through it for Sunday lunch ideas and remembering that one day, I’d typed those recipes and dreamed of something more.

Billy squeezed my arm.

‘Are you okay, Nance?’ he said. ‘You’re miles away.’

‘Tired,’ I said. ‘It’s been a long day, and we were up late last night, weren’t we?’

‘It was a good party, wasn’t it?’ Billy said.

I nodded. It was a good party – we had a lot of friends and family who were delighted that we’d got engaged. We had piles of cards and presents to open. It was all lovely. And I hated even thinking about it.

I sighed. Other girls would be thrilled to be in my position. To be engaged to a lovely bloke like Billy who was handsome and funny and had a good job and great prospects. And there was ungrateful me, wishing I was living in a smelly squat like a girl I’d only just met, who was possibly on drugs and definitely starving.

Billy laughed.

‘Early night for you, Nancy,’ he said, as he opened my garden gate. ‘You’re all over the place.’

‘We were going to open our presents,’ I said.

‘They’ll keep,’ Billy said. ‘I’ll come round tomorrow and we can tackle them together. See what delights my Auntie Marge has given us.’

I rolled my eyes.

‘You’d better write her thank you letter,’ I said, smiling despite myself. ‘Not sure I can be convincing if she’s given us that coffee pot your mum gave her for Christmas.’

Auntie Marge was famous in Billy’s family for passing on unwanted gifts. It had become a bit of a joke and I suspected some of his relatives chose Marge’s presents intending them to be given to someone else one day.

I liked Billy’s family, too. They were nice. Normal. His dad liked a drink, but he knew when to stop, and his mum was funny and warm. He had two younger sisters who thought I was the bee’s knees, and his granny – who lived with them – was sharp-tongued and an absolute hoot.

It wouldn’t be so bad to be part of that family, I thought to myself sternly. Maybe I just needed to get over myself and start appreciating what I had.

Billy and I walked up the path together and he put my bag on the doorstep. Then he gently tilted my chin up and kissed me.

‘Night Nancy,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

I watched him head off down the road, hands in pockets. Everything was perfect in his world. He had a good job, working with his uncle in his garage with an eye to taking it over one day. He was looking forward to getting married and liked nothing more than talking about the children we’d have one day. I knew he wanted us to have our own family and be just like his parents and I couldn’t see anything wrong with that. I just knew it wasn’t what I wanted. At least, not yet. I was twenty-one years old and I lived just ten miles from central London. I wanted to be part of it. But as far as my dad, and Billy, were concerned, it was a whole world away.

Billy reached the corner, looked back to see me watching and waved. I waved back.

‘I’m going to break your heart,’ I said out loud. Then I pulled out my key and went inside.

I stuck some chops under the grill for dinner, chopped some carrots and peeled potatoes for mash. Then I sat at the kitchen table and wolfed my portion down as fast as I could so I’d be finished before my father came home. I’d wait to hear him come in, give him his meal and later, as Dad settled down in front of whatever sitcom he was watching that week, I’d go up to my room to read or listen to music.

That night, I had some sorting out to do.

I kept most of my clothes at work – my good clothes. Our fashion editor, who’d been sympathetic when I lied that my dad didn’t really like the latest trends, had cleared a rail in her cupboard for me and I used it as my wardrobe. But I still had to make sure I had an outfit at home every day and keep them laundered. Like a lot of girls my age, I made most of my own clothes. I even often whipped up an outfit during the day on a Saturday to wear out with Billy in the evening. I wasn’t a brilliant seamstress, but I could make the shift dresses that everyone was wearing.

Now I pulled everything out of my bag and checked what I had. The dress I’d worn today was fine, I’d take that back to the office tomorrow and hang it up. But I had a couple of mini-skirts that needed washing, and two polo neck sweaters that could do with a clean, too. I shoved them under my bed – I’d take them to the launderette at the weekend.

For tomorrow I had a denim pinafore dress with buttons right up the front. It was one of my favourite outfits. I wore it with a bright, rainbow striped t-shirt underneath, and some white boots – which were also in my bag.

I put everything for the next day in my hold-all, neatly packed in plastic bags in case it rained. Checked my make-up was all fine – it was – and felt in the side pocket to make sure my Post Office book was still in there. I had two Post Office accounts – one was a joint account with Billy. We were saving for the wedding and a house and our life together. The other was my escape fund.

‘Just going to post a letter,’ I called as I went downstairs. I could hear my dad laughing at something on the TV.

I went outside into the cold night air, stashed my hold-all in the shed where I could get it tomorrow, walked round the block and then went back home and went to bed. Billy was right, I was exhausted. But it was more the strain of my double life that was taking it out of me, not the engagement party.

As I snuggled down in bed, I looked over at the piles of unopened engagement cards and presents stacked on my chest of drawers. But the last thing I thought of before I fell asleep, was Suze.