The Forgotten Girl
The Forgotten Girl
Kerry Barrett
‘A fantastic and engaging read. Kerry Barrett truly is a very talented author.’ - Babs (Goodreads)Two women. Two decades. One story.Fearne has landed her dream job to run Mode. Except the dream isn’t quite so rosy in reality, the print magazine is struggling and Fearne is determined to save it!In 1966, desperate to escape her life, Nancy moves to London with her brilliantly unpredictable friend Suze to achieve their dream of writing for Mode magazine together.For Mode to survive Fearne needs to recreate the magic of the early issues and she is on track to find Suze – Mode’s longest-serving editor. Unbeknownst to Fearne, what she uncovers might be the biggest story of her career…Loved The Forgotten Girl then don’t miss out on A Step in Time the emotional novel from Kerry Barrett - out now!What reviewers are saying about A Step in Time‘It’s all set against the backdrop of Strictly Stars Dancing, adding an extra element of glitz and glamour to the proceedings. This is a great book that I devoured in two sittings and it’s absolutely perfect for summer holidays or wintry days snuggled on the sofa.’ – Bab’s Bookshelf‘This was a really enjoyable, funny read… I recommend this book to fans of Strictly, and also to anyone who wants a feel good story with so much more depth to it than some I have read.’ – Fiona’s Book Reviews‘Sparkly, fun, witty and deeper than expected… There aren't enough stars for this fun, deeper than expected witty and relaxing read. Highly recommended.’ – Michelle (Goodreads)
Fearne has landed her dream job to run Mode. Except the dream isn’t quite so rosy in reality – the print magazine is struggling and Fearne is determined to save it!
In 1966, desperate to escape her life, Nancy moves to London where she and her brilliantly unpredictable friend Suze try to achieve their dream of writing for Mode magazine together.
For Mode to survive, Fearne needs to recreate the magic of the early issues and she is on track to find Suze – Mode’s longest-serving editor. Unbeknownst to Fearne, what she uncovers might be the biggest story of her career…
Praise for KERRY BARRETT (#ulink_3fd21f1f-8b6d-5d8c-aa50-5c1be87e6a5e)
‘A Step in Time was a fabulous, glitzy story, that was a lot of fun to read, and thanks to Cora, had more depth than I was expecting, but very glad that it did.’ – Rachel’s Random Reads
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‘The best book she has written to date’ – Babs’ Bookshelf on A Step in Time
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‘I was hooked from the first page and couldn’t put it down. This is a book about living life to the full, following your dreams and being true to yourself whilst empathising with others.’ – Shellyback Books on A Step in Time
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‘Kerry [Barrett] has yet again written likeable, funny, relatable characters. But this time there’s the added emotion which towards the end of the story had me sobbing into my cup of tea.’ – Aimee Horton on A Step in Time*
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*Amazon reader reviews
Also available by Kerry Barrett (#ulink_40f1e8d5-cc20-57cf-aa77-889087d2be5a)
A Step in Time
Could It Be Magic series:
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered
I Put a Spell on You
Baby It’s Cold Outside
I’ll Be There for You
A Spoonful of Sugar
The Forgotten Girl
Kerry Barrett
Copyright (#ulink_1c7157f6-b334-5720-9b5f-c665fd62d804)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016
Copyright © Kerry Barrett 2016
Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2016 ISBN: 9780008216047
Version date: 2018-09-19
KERRY BARRETT
was a bookworm from a very early age, devouring Enid Blyton and Noel Streatfeild, before moving on to Sweet Valley High and 1980s bonkbusters. She did a degree in English Literature, then trained as a journalist, writing about everything from pub grub to EastEnders. Her first novel, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, took six years to finish and was mostly written in longhand on her commute to work, giving her a very good reason to buy beautiful notebooks. Kerry lives in London with her husband and two sons, and Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes is still her favourite novel.
Contents
Cover (#uab456241-be8e-5eba-9557-9e5d398f3aa7)
Blurb (#u9d6d2ea5-f596-5cee-b2d8-e085ae18d4e2)
Praise (#ulink_7f623c04-1c44-50ea-90c0-119a202d7362)
Book List (#ulink_e449781b-2677-533b-857a-71d6743ae2d1)
Title Page (#u13cccb00-1762-5c34-805b-2f145fb47798)
Copyright (#u59f41947-5578-535e-8c14-2d43605d4c35)
Author Bio (#ueeff4397-137a-5f1e-b8ca-1924549385ff)
Acknowledgement (#u8387224b-279f-5310-811d-81cf89ef2ccc)
Dedication (#u28aa4526-678a-5ab5-8d49-cff66a272ac8)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_42ec1a6a-c4d8-5546-946a-1002fd402a84)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_e6da9cc1-9901-5da7-b142-c4140d047d71)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_3573f766-8e62-53e1-9890-4193bdfebd19)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_1c6d243a-19dc-53fc-926d-8c4a0f828d13)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_d56672a0-85fd-5f3f-88f7-3066c749648d)
Chapter 6 (#ulink_130698e9-d42c-5b90-9531-9eecc67d4e87)
Chapter 7 (#ulink_18953695-7021-5360-9a66-362a537ee739)
Chapter 8 (#ulink_855dedb9-6002-54f5-a590-ddc6f27c876b)
Chapter 9 (#ulink_e0fa6cfe-8698-50ea-942f-795ac78eda43)
Chapter 10 (#ulink_8bc03c5f-69dc-514b-b54c-c16fc1bb99e4)
Chapter 11 (#ulink_cfdb5f1c-03c8-5e8d-94c5-977b21765440)
Chapter 12 (#ulink_7d847d68-8811-5e81-9814-4bc578c0bf58)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Thanks to everyone who helped with my research into the swinging 60s, including my mum and dad, Betty, and everyone at the Hearst library who let me spend happy hours going through old magazines. Thanks to Aimee for her constant support, to my fellow HQ Digital authors for being a brilliant sounding board, and to Victoria and Helen for being brilliant editors.
For everyone who loves magazines as much as I do.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_878734cf-0bc6-59aa-8e9a-4953db625cd5)
2016
I was nervous. Not just a little bit wobbly. I was properly, squeaky-voiced, sweaty-palms, absolutely bloody terrified. And that was very unlike me.
The office was just up ahead – I could see it from where I stood, lurking behind my sunglasses in case anyone I knew spotted me and tried to speak to me. I wasn’t ready for conversation yet. The building had a glass front, with huge blown-up magazine covers in its windows. In pride of place, right next to the revolving door, was the cover from the most recent issue of Mode.
I swallowed.
‘It’s fine,’ I muttered to myself. ‘They wouldn’t have given you the job if they didn’t think you were up to it. It’s fine. You’re fine. Better than fine. You’re brilliant.’
I took a deep breath, straightened my back, threw back my shoulders and headed to the Starbucks opposite me.
I ordered an espresso and a soya latte, then I sat down to compose myself for a minute.
Today was my first day as editor of Mode. It was the job I’d wanted since I was a teenager. It had been my dream for so long, I could barely believe it was happening, and I was determined to make a success of it.
Except here I was, ready to get started, and I’d been floored by these nerves.
Shaking slightly, I downed my espresso in one like it was a shot of tequila and checked the time on my phone. I was early, but that was no bad thing. I had lots of good luck messages – mostly from people hoping I’ll give them a job, I thought wryly. I couldn’t help noticing, as I scrolled through and deleted them, that there was nothing from my best friend, Jen. She was obviously still upset about the way I’d behaved when I’d got the job. And if I was honest, she had every right to be upset, but I didn’t have time to worry about that now. I was sure she’d come round.
I stood up and straightened my clothes. I’d played it safe this morning with black skinny trousers, a fitted black shirt and funky leopard-print pumps. My naturally curly blonde hair was straightened and pulled into a sleek ponytail and I wore a slash of red lipstick. I looked good. I just hoped it was good enough for the editor of Mode.
A surge of excitement bubbled up inside me. I was the editor of Mode. Me. Fearne Summers. I picked up my latte and looped my arm through my Marc Jacobs tote.
‘Right, Fearne,’ I said out loud. ‘Let’s do this.’
I wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee or a cheerleading squad waiting for me in reception (well, I was a bit) but I did think that the bored woman behind the desk could have at least cracked a smile. Or she could have tried to look a tiny bit impressed that I was the new editor of Mode. Mind you, if this office was anything like my old place – and I was pretty sure all magazine companies were the same – there would be a never-ending stream of celebrities, models, and strange PR stunts (last Christmas we’d had mince pies delivered by a llama wearing a Santa hat, and that was one of the more normal visitors). Perhaps a new editor was terribly run of the mill.
‘Here’s your pass,’ she said, throwing it across the desk at me. ‘The office is on the third floor, but you’re to go up to fifth first of all to meet Lizzie.’
I was surprised. Lizzie was the chief-exec of Glam Media, the company that owned Mode along with lots of other magazines. I knew I’d have to catch up with her at some point today but I thought she’d give me time to meet my team, and find my office first.
Lizzie was waiting for me when I got out of the lift. The bored receptionist must have told her I was on my way.
She was in her early fifties, petite and stylishly dressed, with a cloud of dark hair. She was friendly and approachable, but she had a reputation of being ruthless in pursuit of profit for the company. She scared the bejeesus out of me if I was honest, but she’d been very nice when I met her at one of the many interviews I’d done to get the job. Now she smiled at me and shook my hand.
‘Great to have you on board, Fearne’ she said. ‘This is a time of big change for Mode.’
‘I’ve got loads of ideas,’ I said, following her down the corridor to a meeting room. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’
She gave me a brief smile over her shoulder.
‘Great,’ she said again.
Except she didn’t really mean great, I quickly discovered. She meant, yeah good luck with that, Fearne.
It turned out that Glam Media was worried about Mode. Really worried. I’d looked at the sales, of course, and seen they weren’t as good as they could be but I hadn’t really grasped just how much trouble the magazine was in.
‘The problem is the competition has really raised its game,’ Lizzie explained as I stared out of the big window in her office and tried to take in everything she was saying.
‘Grace?’ I said. It had been a fairly boring, unadventurous magazine called Home & Hearth until it was bought by a new company and had loads of money pumped into it. Now it had a new name, it was exciting and fun, and it was stealing lots of Mode’s readers.
‘So the finance department have redone your budgets for this year,’ said Lizzie. ‘To reflect Mode’s sales.’
She slid a piece of paper across her desk and I stared at the figures she’d put in front of me in horror.
‘I can’t run a glossy mag on this budget,’ I said. ‘How am I supposed to pay for fashion shoots? Or commission writers?’
Lizzie shrugged.
‘Times are tough,’ she said. ‘That’s all that’s in the pot.’
‘Can’t I have some of the website budget?’ I asked.
She shook her head.
‘Digital budget is separate,’ she said. ‘The website’s going very well. Advertising and readership are both up. It’s the magazine that’s in trouble.’
I looked at her, suddenly realising where this was going, and why my predecessor had been so keen to leave her job.
‘Are you going to close Mode?’ I asked.
She stared back at me.
‘Nothing’s decided yet.’
‘But it’s possible?’
Lizzie looked at a point somewhere past my ear.
‘Print isn’t working,’ she said.
‘But Mode is an iconic brand,’ I said desperately. ‘It’s been going since the sixties. It was the first ever young women’s glossy. You can’t close it.’
Lizzie still didn’t look me in the eye, but she did at least assume a slightly sympathetic expression.
‘We’d still have the website,’ she said. ‘It’s not ending, it’s just changing. Mode will still exist – just in a different form.’
‘A glossy mag is a treat,’ I said. ‘People will pay for that.’
She shrugged.
‘Would people lose their jobs?’ I asked, suddenly realising this didn’t just affect me.
‘That’s also possible,’ she said.
I put my head in my hands. This was a nightmare. My dream job was collapsing around my ears.
Lizzie took a breath.
‘Fearne, we took you on for a reason,’ she said. ‘You’re a great editor with a good reputation.’
I forced myself to raise my head and smile at her. That was nice to hear.
‘But you’re also known for being cut-throat,’ she carried on. ‘We all know you’re single-minded and determined. That you don’t let anything get in the way of success,’
I nodded slowly. I wasn’t sure I’d use the word ‘cut-throat’ but I was definitely single-minded.
‘We know you won’t let emotions or sentiment get in the way of doing your job.’
Oh.
‘You brought me here to close the magazine?’ I said, as I worked it all out.
Lizzie had the grace to look slightly shame-faced.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Close it or make it work. Take back some of the sales we’ve lost to Grace.’
I looked at the budget again. With the figures she’d given me it was obvious which option she wanted. I could barely cover the staffing costs with this amount of money – and I had no chance of booking top photographers or paying for big-name writers. It was an impossible task.
‘How long have I got?’ I said. ‘How long do I have to make Mode pay?’
Lizzie looked a bit confused. She’d clearly not considered this.
‘Six months?’
I swallowed.
‘Give me a year,’ I said, wondering how on earth I managed to keep my voice steady when I was so terrified by the task that lay ahead. ‘I need a year to have a proper go at this.’
Lizzie looked at something on the papers in front of her. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed.
‘Nine months?’ she said.
I shrugged.
‘Is that the best you can offer?’ I said. She nodded.
‘So if I can increase sales enough in that time, you’ll let the magazine carry on?’ I said.
Lizzie nodded again.
‘If you can make it work on the new budget, then we’ll reconsider,’ she said, sounding incredulous that I was even thinking about it.
‘Great,’ I said, faking excitement when all I felt was despair. ‘Nine months is more than enough.’
I gathered up my things and stood up, hoping she couldn’t see my legs trembling. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to meet my team now.’
Chapter 2 (#ulink_44d52646-3638-5860-a5ad-cc006214f728)
That may have been a fairly terrible way to start my new job, but as it turned out, Lizzie was a pussycat compared to the rest of the Mode team.
There weren’t many of them – lots of staff had left recently and a few people had gone with the former editor, Sophie, to her new role on a supermarket magazine. The features desk was down two writers, I had no deputy, and the art editor was working out her notice. The words rats and sinking ships crossed my mind, but I dismissed that. I had to make this work. I’d sacrificed a lot for this job.
My office was bare, with a clean desk and a shiny computer. There was no good luck card, or welcoming cup of coffee. In fact, there weren’t even many smiles. I stared round at the stony faces in our planning meeting that morning and wondered if I hadn’t just made a massive mistake.
‘So,’ I said, uber-brightly. ‘What have we got for the next issue?’
I looked at my new features director, whose name I couldn’t quite remember. She was tall and angular with pale skin and fine blonde hair pulled back into a bun – like a ballerina with a bad attitude.
She looked back at me, unsmiling.
‘Veronica?’ I said.
‘Vanessa.’
Shit.
‘Sorry,’ I sang. ‘Vanessa, who’s on the cover this month?’
She named a soap star, Dawn Robin, who was well into her forties and though stylish, nothing like the celebs our readers were interested in.
‘Oh,’ I said, so surprised that manners deserted me. ‘That’s an interesting choice.’
‘It was Sophie’s choice,’ Vanessa said.
I chuckled.
‘You got that right.’
No response. Clearly humour didn’t work.
‘Is the interview done?’ I asked. Perhaps Dawn had said something amazing that we could spin.
‘It’s done, and her PR has approved it,’ Vanessa said. She stared at me as if challenging me to tell her to start again.
For a moment I considered pulling rank, spiking the whole thing and getting a new cover star. But it was early days and I needed the team behind me if I was going to make this happen.
Instead I smiled.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘It’s good to have it in the bag. What about next issue?’
Vanessa made a show of flicking through the pages in her notebook and I forced myself to stay smiling.
‘I’m talking to Sarah Sanderson’s agent,’ she said. I groaned inwardly. Sarah Sanderson was a breakfast news presenter who’d been around for donkey’s years. Maybe it was time to get tough.
‘She’s not the right cover star for us,’ I said. ‘Scratch that. Give the interview to one of the other mags if you like. We need someone younger, sassier, more exciting.’
Vanessa pointedly scored out something on her notebook and gave me a steely glare.
‘Like who?’
I looked round at the tiny team.
‘Let’s have a brainstorming session tomorrow,’ I said. ‘We can line up some really exciting interviews. Anything goes – don’t just stick to actresses and musicians. Think about politicians, sports stars, writers, bloggers – anyone doing anything or saying anything interesting.’
Vanessa scribbled something in her pad without meeting my eyes.
‘Oh and Vanessa,’ I said. ‘I don’t want publicists approving interviews.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘Tricky,’ she said.
‘I know,’ I admitted. ‘Let them sit in on the chat if they have to, but remember we’re Mode magazine – they need us just as much as we need them. In the future, let’s be a bit sassier.’
Vanessa made a face.
‘Do we have one?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A future. Does Mode magazine have a future?’
My stomach lurched. I’d been hoping to give the team a boost before I started talking about closures and redundancies. But judging by the grim faces that surrounded me, I had to tackle this now.
I was sitting behind my desk, but now I got up and came to perch on the front instead.
‘Honestly?’ I said.
Vanessa nodded, her pale lips a tight line.
‘I hope so,’ I said.
I took a breath.
‘I have always wanted to work on Mode,’ I said. ‘This is my dream job and I was so excited about it.’
‘But?’ Vanessa said.
‘But things are trickier than I thought,’ I admitted. ‘Our circulation is lower than it’s ever been.’
‘Because of Grace?’ said the art editor – a tiny redhead called Milly.
‘Because of Grace,’ I agreed. ‘They’ve really raised their game, and of course print’s a tricky place to be anyway because of digital. But Grace’s success is proving there’s still a place for glossy mags – we just need to remind people we’re here and we’re the best.’
There was a murmur of voices, but Vanessa wasn’t giving up yet.
‘I heard they want to close us,’ she said, raising her voice so I could hear her over the chitchat.
Everyone fell silent and stared at me.
‘Is that true?’ Milly asked. ‘Are they closing us?’
I thought about lying, but they were all seasoned magazine journalists. I knew I couldn’t fool them.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s not true. But it’s a possibility.’
The chitchat became a hubbub of voices. I let them all talk for a moment, then I held my hands up.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Listen…’
Eventually everyone stopped talking.
‘Okay,’ I said. I closed my eyes briefly and sent up a silent prayer to the magazine gods that I was doing the right thing and that my already depleted team wouldn’t all hand in their notices immediately and leave me trying to save Mode on my own.
‘They’ve given us nine months to turn things round,’ I said. ‘To improve sales, to get our brand out there, to get people talking about Mode again.’
I paused.
‘We’ve got a lot of work to do.’
I spent the next hour fielding questions about exactly what Lizzie wanted (‘I don’t know,’ I said), about what redundancy packages might be on offer (‘I don’t know,’ I said), about how they would measure our success and whether it would just be sales or if it would be profits too (‘I don’t know,’ I said) and how I was planning to make this all happen.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, yet again. ‘But I do know this is a brilliant magazine with a long history.’
I looked round at the team once more.
‘And I know you’re all great writers and editors and designers,’ I said. Vanessa made a face but Milly smiled. ‘I want this to work and I can’t do it by myself, so I need you all on board.’
I thought for a moment.
‘Let’s spend tomorrow afternoon coming up with some ideas,’ I said. ‘Not just cover stars, but let’s think about what we can do to get a buzz round Mode magazine again. Anything and everything you can think of – I don’t care how off the wall the ideas are, but I want everyone here to come up with something.’
I wrapped up the meeting and the team all filed out of my office and back to their desks, muttering to each other – no doubt saying all sorts of rude things about me – and I was alone once more.
‘Bloody hell,’ I said out loud, feeling shell-shocked by my morning. But, I had to admit, being honest with the team had been the right thing to do, even if Vanessa had forced my hand a bit.
Hopefully we could come up with some exciting ideas tomorrow, I thought, leaning back in my chair. I already had lists of cover stars, features ideas and campaigns that I wanted us to try, but I knew that I needed this to be a team effort. I needed everyone with me if this was going to work.
Not for the first time that day, I wished I was still working with Jen. She was such a brilliant sounding board for ideas – and always came up with different approaches and creative ways of doing something.
But I was on my own with this, and I had to do my best.
I spun round in my chair and stared out of the window at the bustling Soho streets below me.
‘I can do this,’ I said out loud. ‘I can bloody well do this.’
‘You can do anything you want,’ a voice said. A very familiar Australian accent that I’d not heard for more than five years. ‘You always have.’
I froze. Then slowly, I turned my chair round so I was facing into my office again.
‘Damo,’ I said. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
The huge figure of my ex-boyfriend filled the doorway. His hair was longer than I’d ever seen it, and he was wearing a grey beanie hat on his head. He looked absolutely knackered, very scruffy, and really, really hot. My heart started to beat a little bit faster.
‘What kind of a welcome is that?’ he said, laughter in his eyes. ‘I just came to wish you luck.’
‘All the way from Sydney?’
‘All the way from over there,’ he said, tipping his head in the direction of the team that produced the men’s mag Homme, and who shared our office.
What. The…
He laughed properly at my startled face.
‘Don’t read Homme much, huh?’ he said. ‘I’ve been working here for ages.’
‘Not full-time?’ I said. My voice was wobbly.
‘Nah,’ Damo said. ‘Bit of this, bit of that. You know how it is.’
I did. His lack of focus was one of the things that we’d clashed about when we were together. But now I was grateful that despite the bad luck that had brought him here on the biggest day of my life, his unwillingness to commit to anything was still intact. If he was only freelance, our paths wouldn’t have to cross.
‘But,’ Damo said. ‘I’m actually covering for the art editor for a while. She’s gone on maternity leave.’
Ah.
‘Got to run. Features meeting,’ he said, rolling his eyes and making me wonder how he’d cope with the day-to-day business of life on a magazine. ‘Catch up later?’
I nodded, dumbly, staring at the door as he shut it, then I put my head in my hands. What should have been the best day ever was turning into the worst. The magazine was in trouble, my new team were hostile – at least some of them were – and my ex-boyfriend (and not just any ex-boyfriend, THE ex-boyfriend) had turned up. What on earth was I going to do?
Chapter 3 (#ulink_419303d4-0e45-5888-b259-1a3b578a49c6)
1966
‘Bye, Dad,’ I called as I shut the front door. There was no reply but I wasn’t surprised. I’d put a cup of tea next to his bed before I left and he’d barely stirred. Sleeping off last night’s whisky, I assumed. I guessed his assistant, Trev, would’ve already gone to the shop to open up. No doubt Dad would drag himself along when he finally fell out of bed.
I checked my watch. I was going to have to hurry to catch my train and I didn’t want to be late for work. Deftly, I picked up the hold-all I kept stowed in the bin shelter in our front garden and set off.
I made it to the station with seconds to spare – thank goodness – and immediately shut myself in the tiny toilet on board the train. My journey from Beckenham – the sleepy suburb of south-east London where I lived – to the centre of town where I worked, took exactly half an hour. Which gave me more than enough time to transform myself from the accounts assistant in an insurance company based just off Oxford Street that I pretended to be, into the junior writer on a magazine in Soho that I really was.
Things at home were… difficult. We’d been a happy family, once. At least, Mum worked hard to make sure me and my brother Dennis were happy. Dad just worked hard. He was a stickler for appearances and making sure we were all respectable. But he had a temper that he didn’t always keep under control.
And then Mum died. I was only thirteen when she got ill. Dennis was seventeen and doing his A-levels, and he went off to university not long after. So it was just Dad and me.
It was hard, without Mum. I missed her with a quiet intensity that never really went away. In the early days I’d unthinkingly set four places at the table and then have to put one set of cutlery back in the drawer, or shout hello when I came home from school, only to have my voice echo round the empty hall. I learned to cook and to clean and to sew because Dad was traditional. And he fell apart when Mum died, spending some days in silent grief and others in a furious rage, lashing out at the world – and me.
When the girls at school said their mums wouldn’t allow them to do something, I pretended my dad was strict too. Actually he didn’t really care what I did, as long as things looked okay on the surface. As the years without Mum went by, his periods of silence got worse, so did his drinking, and so did his temper. I learned to keep out of his way when he’d had a drink, never to talk back to him or disagree, and to have his dinner on the table when he wanted it. The one thing I’d dug my heels in about had been my job. He’d not been keen on me taking a job in town instead of working in the family newsagents, so I’d lied that working in accounts would be valuable experience that could help us expand the business and he’d eventually agreed.
‘Just until you and Bill are married,’ Dad had said, his lip curling with disdain. ‘London is no place for a married woman.’
I’d smiled and agreed, confident I’d never be foolish enough to marry anyone, let alone my devoted but dull boyfriend, Billy.
So I left home every day dressed neatly and wearing sensible shoes, with my hair pulled back into a ponytail. I arrived home looking the same.
But in between, I had a very different life.
Shut in the tiny loo, I unzipped my bag and took out a burgundy knitted dress, tights and boots. Wriggling in the small space, I pulled off the beige suit and blouse I was wearing and swapped it for the mini dress. I slipped on the tights and shoes, folded up my boring clothes and tucked them into my bag for later.
I pulled out my ponytail and brushed my straight dark hair and heavy fringe so it fell flat to my shoulders. If I got a slower train I sometimes backcombed it, but there was no time for that today.
I powdered my face quickly, then painted on a swoosh of liquid eyeliner. A slick of frosted-pink lipstick and I was finished. As the train pulled into Charing Cross, I slipped off my engagement ring and dropped it into my make-up bag. Done.
I breathed out in satisfaction. It wasn’t easy living my double life, but there was no doubt I was getting better at it. It made it even worse that I couldn’t see any way of it continuing much longer.
‘Morning Nancy,’ our receptionist, Gayle, shouted as I walked into the building. ‘Love the shoes.’
I grinned. Gayle and I were the only young women in the whole office. The rest of our team – the team that put together Home & Hearth magazine every month – were older women. They were all well turned-out and interested in fashion, but none of them were what I considered cutting edge. I hung up my coat and stowed my hold-all under my desk.
I was normally one of the first people in work, which I liked. I made myself a cup of coffee in the tiny kitchen and settled at my desk. Junior writer sounded thrilling, but there was a lot of filing and typing. I didn’t mind, though. I was learning so much that sometimes I felt like my head could explode.
Today I had a pile of recipes to type up. It was normally a dull, mindless task, but today’s were all based on locations our readers might have gone to on holiday so they were full of odd ingredients that I’d never tasted which meant I had to concentrate. I’d never been abroad. When we were kids, Mum took Dennis and me to stay with her parents in Eastbourne for two weeks every August. Dad never left the shop. Those two weeks every year – when it was just me, Dennis and Mum, were some of the happiest times we ever had.
I finished the last recipe for something called moussaka, and added it to the pile on my desk.
‘Nancy?’ My editor, Rosemary, had a sixth sense when it came to knowing when I was about to relax.
She stood in the door of her office looking chic in her camel-coloured twinset and tweed skirt. Her blonde hair was twisted up at the back and high on her crown. I had no idea how old she was. Late forties? Perhaps fifty? She was very glamorous and I hoped I would be like her one day.
‘Can you pick up some prints from Frank?’ she asked.
‘Course,’ I said. Frank was the photographer we used most often. His studio was just down Carnaby Street so I never minded going for a walk down there. It felt like the place where everything was happening, and I loved just watching what was going on. ‘Can I just make a quick phone call?’
Rosemary nodded.
‘Take him an issue,’ she said, gesturing towards the teetering pile of magazines next to my desk, and disappeared back into her office.
I checked my watch, then I picked up the phone on my desk and dialled Dennis’s number. He answered almost straight away.
‘Landsdowne Grammar School.’
‘Den, it’s me,’ I said. ‘Can you talk?’
‘I can spare five minutes,’ my brother said. ‘If the headmaster comes back, I’ll pretend you’re trying to sell me exercise books.’
I giggled.
‘So come on then. How was the big engagement do?’
I groaned.
‘It was a lovely party,’ I said mechanically.
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ I said more firmly.
It had been a nice party, if you liked that sort of thing. Which I definitely didn’t. I wasn’t even sure I liked Billy very much and I still wasn’t completely sure how I’d ended up engaged to him, other than I hadn’t really liked to say no when he asked me and I’d had a vague idea that getting married could have been an escape of sorts. Except it seemed to have ended up trapping me.
‘Did Dad behave?’ Dennis asked.
‘He was on good form,’ I said. Dad was always gregarious and generous in company. ‘He charmed Billy’s nan, he bought everyone a drink… you know what he’s like.’
Dennis snorted.
‘Do you need any money?’ he said.
‘No, I’m okay,’ I said. He always looked out for me, my big brother. ‘I’m saving up to get my own place.’
‘In London?’
‘Of course in London.’
‘Come to Leeds,’ he said
‘I can’t, Den,’ I said for the millionth time. ‘My job’s here.’
He wasn’t offended.
‘The offer’s there,’ he said. ‘I have to go, I’m teaching this afternoon and the head’s going to observe, check I’m doing it right.’
‘Good luck,’ I said. ‘You’ll be great.’
‘You too,’ he said. ‘Stay out of Dad’s way, okay?’
‘I will,’ I promised.
I said goodbye and I dropped the receiver back onto the cradle. I picked up my coat and bag, and grabbed a copy of the magazine to give to Frank, thinking about the stupid mess I’d got myself tangled up in and envying Dennis for his simple life in Leeds, far, far away from Dad...
‘Oooph!’
I walked out of the building and straight into a girl who was coming the other way. She shrieked in horror and dived onto the pavement.
‘Sorry,’ I said, starting to walk round her.
‘Sorry?’ she said. ‘Sorry? Look what you’ve done.’
She stood up and thrust some dripping wet papers at me. I backed away.
‘This is the best story I’ve ever written and you made me drop it in a puddle,’ she wailed. ‘It’s ruined, look.’
She unfolded the wet pages and held them up to my face. Some of the ink had run and the words were difficult to read. I felt a glimmer of sympathy for her. Losing work was never nice.
The girl looked at me properly for the first time, and I looked back at her. She was a similar height and age to me, but her dark hair was very short and she was wearing a dress without a coat over the top, despite the rain. Her thick black mascara was running down her cheeks.
‘Are you a writer?’ she said. ‘Do you work for Home & Hearth?’
I smiled in what I hoped was a writerly fashion.
‘I do,’ I said.
She gripped my arm so tightly it made me gasp.
‘You have to help me,’ she said. ‘You have to help me get a job.’
Chapter 4 (#ulink_6cbbf7a5-29f9-54a3-aba2-51bec22a7689)
I stared at her hand, which was digging into my arm through my mac. Her fingernails were bitten down, and there was a smear of mascara and eyeliner across the back of her hand. I tried not to recoil from the dirt.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I can help you.’
The girl let go, much to my relief.
‘Really?’ she said. She ran her fingers through her short hair and made it stick up at the front. ‘I’m just so desperate for a job, you see. I wrote this article and I think it’s really good – at least I thought it was really good. No one will be able to read it now.’
I shrugged.
‘Don’t you have a copy?’
‘No,’ the girl wailed.
I subtly glanced at my watch. Rosemary would be expecting those proofs and I really wanted time to have a chat with Frank’s assistant, George. I needed to get rid of this girl.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m the lowest of the low at Home & Hearth. I don’t get to decide who works there. But if you write another feature and send it to me, I’ll make sure Rosemary, the editor, sees it.’
The girl grabbed my arm again, this time in excitement.
‘Would you?’ she said. ‘Would you really do that?’
‘Sure,’ I said. I noticed for the first time how thin she was, and how she was shivering violently because she wasn’t wearing a coat. Again I felt a flash of sympathy for this funny-looking urchin girl.
‘Have you got any money?’ I asked.
The girl raised her chin and looked at me through defiant eyes.
‘Why do you ask?’
I was too embarrassed to say I felt sorry for her.
‘Thought you might have rushed out in a hurry, and forgotten your purse,’ I lied, nodding towards her. ‘No coat.’
‘Oh,’ she said. She let go of my arm – thank goodness – and smoothed down her damp dress. ‘Yes, I didn’t realise it was raining.’
I opened my black patent bag – my pride and joy – and dug about for my purse. I found a ten-shilling note and thrust it at her.
‘I’m really sorry about your article,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got to go and run an errand for my editor. There’s a cafe there…’ I pointed across the road to a narrow shopfront, nestled in between two offices. ‘…go and get yourself a coffee and warm up.’
She looked doubtful, but she took the note anyway.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ she said.
I nodded, even though I was fairly sure that would never happen.
‘Tell Bruno that you’re my friend and he might throw in a free slice of cake,’ I said.
She grinned at me.
‘What’s your name?’ she said.
‘Nancy Harrison.’
‘I’m Suze,’ she said. ‘Suzanne Williams.’
I smiled back.
‘Hi Suze,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I have to go.’
I patted her briefly on her soggy arm and headed towards Carnaby Street.
‘It was nice to meet you,’ Suze called, over her shoulder as she crossed the Soho cobbles to Bruno’s. ‘See you soon.’
‘Not likely,’ I muttered.
I dashed down the road towards Frank’s studio, pleased to have got away from the girl. I would miss the ten shillings but I couldn’t help thinking I’d got off likely as I climbed the many stairs to Frank’s attic and rapped on the door.
George answered and my stomach did the usual flutter it did every time I saw him. He had longish dark hair that curled over his collar at the back – Dad would call him a hippy even though he wasn’t – and a cheeky smile that he rewarded me with now.
‘Hoped Rosemary would send you,’ he said. ‘Frank’s in the darkroom, just sorting the prints out. Tea?’
I followed him inside, shrugging off my damp mac and hanging it on a hook behind the door. I spent so much time in Frank’s studio, I felt very at home there.
George made me a cup of tea and we sat on the battered sofa together, waiting for Frank to finish.
‘I just met someone who thought I could get her a job on Home & Hearth,’ I said.
George raised an eyebrow.
‘She thought you were Rosemary?’ he said. ‘I can see why someone would mix you two up…’
I gave him a friendly shove and he laughed.
‘She was hanging about outside the office,’ I said. ‘She’d brought an article to show us, but I knocked her and she dropped it in a puddle.’
‘Unlucky.’
I made a face.
‘I felt a bit bad, so I bought her a coffee,’ I said.
George laughed.
‘You’re such a sucker,’ he said. ‘You’re way too nice.’
I laughed too.
‘She might be an editor one day,’ I pointed out. ‘She might remember I was nice to her, and give me a job.’
George shook his head.
‘You’ll be the editor,’ he said. ‘You’re going places, Nancy Harrison.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, only half joking. ‘I’m going to be a big name in the magazine world. I’ll run my own mag, and maybe – just maybe – I’ll need a good photographer.’
George nodded mock-gravely.
‘I’ll think to myself, who do I know in the photography business,’ I said. ‘And I’ll remember George. And I’ll think, I know – I’ll ask George…’
I paused.
‘I’ll ask George, if he knows any good photographers.’
George threw his head back and laughed. I was pleased. I got a real thrill from making him laugh and he obviously felt the same about me. We were sitting closer together now, I noticed. His long thigh was touching my leg. I knew I should move away – I was engaged after all, even if George didn’t know that – but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to shift along.
We looked at each other for a moment – a long moment.
Then Frank threw open the door to the darkroom.
‘Prints,’ he announced. ‘Hi, kid.’
‘Hi Frank,’ I said, annoyed and relieved in equal measures that he’d interrupted me and George.
‘Fashion,’ he said, giving me a large envelope. ‘I’m pleased with them. Get Rosemary to call and tell me what she thinks.’
I nodded.
‘Did you bring me an issue?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said, I’d thrown it on a side table when I came in, so I fetched it now. Frank – who was in his forties with a bushy beard that he claimed he’d cultivated to make him look like a grown-up – held the issue at arm’s length and looked at the cover. It was a photograph of a pie, taken from above, on a dark-brown background.
‘Fucking dreadful,’ he said.
I grinned. I agreed entirely.
‘Why don’t you put people on the cover?’
I shrugged.
‘Not up to me,’ I said.
‘One day it will be up to you,’ George said.
‘One day,’ I laughed. I pulled on my mac again and picked up the envelope of prints.
‘I’ll get Rosemary to ring you,’ I said. ‘Bye George.’
George blew me a kiss and I floated on air all the way back to the office.
As I was walking past Bruno’s though, a shout made me look round.
‘Nancy,’ Bruno called from the door of the café. ‘Nancy! I need you.’
Oh god, had that Suze stolen something or caused a commotion? Heart sinking, I crossed the road.
‘Your friend,’ Bruno said, his Italian accent heavier than usual. ‘She is sick. You have to help her.’
Chapter 5 (#ulink_02318385-40f8-5147-bac2-c84d9bec1dc1)
I can’t lie, for a moment I thought about telling Bruno I barely knew Suze, and going back to work. But then I remembered the slump of her shoulders when she picked up her wet article, and I knew I couldn’t abandon her. What had George called me? A sucker. Sounded about right.
‘Nancy!’ Bruno sounded panicky. ‘She’s at the back.’
I went into the long narrow café, enjoying the warmth after being outside in the rain. The windows were fogged up and there was a buzz of chatter fighting with the hiss of Bruno’s fancy coffee machine that he’d brought with him from Italy.
The left side of the room was lined with booths with maroon, PVC benches. It was close to lunchtime now, so the café was busy and I glanced at the customers as I walked past, appraising their hairstyles, their clothes and their shoes. The counter was on the right, and at the back of the café, past the serving hatch, there were another two booths. That’s where Suze was – right at the back – curled up on one of the PVC benches.
‘She came in, all bouncy,’ Bruno said. ‘She said she was your friend, ordered a coffee and then she fainted. We put her here and gave her some water.’
‘Is she asleep?’ I said, looking at the top of Suze’s dark head, which was all I could see.
‘No,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘I’m awake. I just feel woozy when I sit up.’
‘Sit up, and put your head between your legs,’ I said, remembering my friend Delia from school, who fainted all the time. ‘It gets blood to your brain, or something.’
Suze didn’t reply, but she slowly sat up, giving me a glimpse of her very pale face, then spun her legs round so they were outside the booth, and lowered her head in between her bony knees.
‘Suze,’ I said, studying her shoulder blades, which stuck up like chicken wings. ‘Did you have breakfast?’
She moved slightly – a brief shake of her head.
‘Bruno, can you get her some orange juice and a sandwich?’ I said, wondering if Suze still had that ten-shilling note – junior writer wasn’t a very well paid job. ‘I think she needs to eat something.’
Bruno looked relieved that I was taking charge. He slunk off behind the counter, poured an orange juice, which he handed to me, and busied himself making a sandwich.
I sat down opposite Suze. From the look of her, it wasn’t just breakfast she’d skipped. I wondered if she’d eaten anything all week.
‘Suze,’ I said. She raised her head and I was pleased to see some colour coming back into her cheeks. I pushed the glass of orange juice towards her and she drank it all in one go. ‘Suze, is there anyone I should phone for you?’
She shook her head.
‘A friend?’ I said. ‘Boyfriend? Parents?’
She smiled at me, weakly.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sort of a loner.’
Bruno put the sandwich in front of her and she tore into it. She ate like a child, holding her sandwich two-handed, not worried about how she looked. If my mum had been here to see her, she’d have been horrified at her lack of table manners.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I only live round the corner. I’ll just go home and sleep. I was up late finishing my article.’
I looked at my watch. It was lunchtime now, so Rosemary would assume I’d taken my break after going to Frank’s.
‘Round the corner?’ I said.
‘Peter Street,’ she said, through a mouthful of bread.
That really was just round the corner. I was surprised and impressed that she actually lived in Soho and I wondered if she was one of those society kids who’d dropped out of their rich world but were still supported by their parents.
‘Finish your sandwich and I’ll walk you home,’ I said, partly out of concern for her and partly because I was curious to see where she lived. ‘Make sure you’re okay.’
Suze’s eyes widened in horror.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Honestly, I’m fine now. You go back to work and I’ll pay Bruno and get home.’
‘I’ll walk you home,’ I said firmly.
Suze had finished her sandwich. She looked at me, her head tilted to one side, like she was sizing me up. Then she nodded.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll just pay Bruno.’
She eased the 10/- note out of her pocket and I grabbed her hand.
‘Keep it,’ I said. Like I said, sucker. ‘I’ll pay.’
I settled the bill and with Suze hanging on to my arm like an old lady, we left the café and headed for Berwick Street.
Suze knew everyone. The market traders all called out to her as we passed, and she had quick responses to their questions and jokes.
‘Had one too many?’ the guy on the fruit stall shouted. He had tattoos all over his arms and one crawling up the back of his neck, but his smile as he looked at Suze was kind. I’d probably walked past him every day for a year, but I’d never seen him before.
‘Ha ha,’ Suze said. ‘Just feeling a bit off.’
He threw her a bag and she caught it deftly.
‘Can’t sell these, they’re all bashed,’ he said, winking.
Suze grinned.
‘Thanks.’
She put her mouth close to my ear.
‘Nothing wrong with them,’ she said. ‘He’s such a softie, though you’d never know to look at him.’
I glanced at the greengrocer over my shoulder. She was right about that.
Peter Street ran along the bottom of Berwick Street. One end led to Wardour Street, and the other was a dead-end. Suze led me that way, to a barber’s shop, tucked right in the corner. There was a boarded-up door in between the entrance to the barber and the shop next to it and that was where she headed. She stuck her hand down the neck of her dress and pulled out a tiny key.
‘I keep it in my bra,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’d lose it otherwise.’
Then she unlocked the padlock that was keeping the plywood door firmly shut and pushed me inside, shutting the door behind us and moving the padlock from the outside to the inside.
‘It’s best to keep it locked,’ she said, in a tone that told me she hadn’t always done that.
She led the way up the narrow stairs in front of us. They were covered in threadbare carpet, and the only light came from a dirty, skinny window on the landing.
At the top was a bed-sitting room. It had fabric draped at the two large windows and the day was gloomy so it was hard to see properly. I looked at Suze and she gasped.
‘Oh I’m not being a very good host, am I?’ she said. ‘Come in, come in, sit down.’
She scurried over to the corner of the room and switched on a tall lamp. I was surprised she had electricity in what was clearly a squat, but I didn’t say anything.
Suze, though, read my mind.
‘One of the guys on the market sorted it for me,’ she said. ‘I think he’s connected it to a streetlight.’
I wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, I looked round at the room.
Suze, who was still looking a bit wobbly, threw her arms out.
‘Mia casa,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
It was a fairly large, square room with two big windows that looked out over Peter Street and a bit of the market. I could hear the buzz of chatter and music from the barber shop below, and the shouts of stallholders and shoppers at the market. The windows were covered in offcuts of material – as was the single bed in the corner to my right – I guessed Suze had begged, borrowed or stolen them from the many fabric shops nearby. Piled up near the bed were rows of battered paperbacks. Off to one side was a tiny toilet with a small sink and straight ahead of me was a tiny, two-ring electric hob with one pan, a couple of plates and two mugs neatly stacked next to it.
Beneath one window was a big table with a typewriter on top.
‘My pride and joy,’ Suze said, seeing me looking.
I grinned.
‘I’ve got the same one at home.’
Mine was covered in stickers, though, and my desk at work wasn’t nearly as tidy as Suze’s. She had a stack of blank paper next to the typewriter and two thick cardboard folders on the table, along with a notepad and a pot of pens and pencils.
‘What do you think?’ Suze said. ‘I’ve never had a guest before.’
I smiled at her.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said honestly. ‘It’s perfect.’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_696ee633-a773-5034-a1a7-1869e2e27860)
2016
I felt funny when I got home that evening. A bit low, a bit lost, and – I had to admit – a bit lonely.
I wanted to eat a nice dinner, drink some wine and tell someone about my day. But what I actually did was change into my pyjamas, make tea and eat chocolate. By myself. I lived alone in a once shabby flat, in a once shabby corner of south-east London. Every time I got off the train to go home, I noticed a new juice bar or artisan bakery and thanked my lucky stars I’d got in when I did. I’d never be able to afford my flat now – shabby or otherwise.
I had two bedrooms – one was tiny but I used it as a walk-in wardrobe – a cosy lounge and a very small kitchen, and normally I loved living alone. Today, though, I felt like the flat was just too big.
‘Maybe I should get a cat,’ I wondered out loud. Then I thought about the many, many houseplants I’d killed over the years and decided that was a very bad idea.
I flopped on the sofa in my jimjams and scrolled through endless Netflix options, without choosing anything to watch.
I thought about ringing my mum to tell her I’d started my new job.
‘Darling, well done!’ I imagined her saying. ‘I’m so proud of you and I know how hard you’ve worked.’
What were the chances of her saying that? Slim to nil. She’d listen in silence, making sure I was well aware that she wasn’t remotely interested in what she considered the frivolous and superficial world of women’s magazines. Then she’d tell me about some lecture she’d been asked to give somewhere prestigious – she was an economics don at a college at Oxford University and was always jetting off round the world to be a guest speaker at various conferences. She’d probably throw in some fawning about my future sister-in-law, Isabelle, who was one of Mum’s former PhD students – she’d met my brother Rick at a department summer party that I’d not been invited to. Isabelle was going some way to making up for the terrible disappointment my career choices had brought my mother and she talked about her a lot. She might even do the thing where she’d tell me about a friend’s son or daughter who’d just been made partner at a law firm, or published some ground-breaking scientific research, or started their own charity. She’d fill me in on all the details, then with self-pity dripping from every word, she’d say: ‘I always thought you’d end up doing something like that, but you went a different way…’
No. Mum was not the person I needed to speak to right now. And ringing Jen wasn’t a good idea either. She was ignoring my calls for a reason and I wanted to give her time to calm down.
Maybe I couldn’t settle because I needed to get down some ideas for the magazine? I turned on my laptop and opened a new document, but after staring at the blank screen for half an hour, I admitted defeat. Instead, I padded through to the kitchen, made another cup of tea, and grabbed the rest of my family-sized bar of chocolate out of the fridge. Then, even though it was only eight p.m., I went to bed and snuggled up under the duvet. I spent the rest of the evening looking at old photos of my time in Australia – my time with Damian – on my laptop.
What can I say? Every girl needs a hobby.
I’d always regretted the way Damo and I had split up – it had been pretty brutal – but I’d never regretted moving on because I knew I’d had good reasons at the time. But now I’d seen him I was struggling to remember what those reasons were.
I scrolled through the pictures until my eyes were burning. Damo and me climbing Sydney Harbour Bridge, trekking in the bush, messing around at the pool on the roof of our apartment block… It was like watching a montage from a rubbish romcom.
I woke up at five a.m., with a crick in my neck and my head resting on my laptop. I’d dribbled on the screen, which was frozen on a photo of Damo sitting on the edge of a bright blue pool, wearing nothing but denim shorts and a smile. I shut the laptop with a snap and, groaning, I dragged myself out of bed.
‘Back to work,’ I told myself firmly as I pulled on my gym gear. ‘No distractions. No complications, just work.’
One spin class, one shower and two flat whites later and I was raring to go. I gathered the team in my office, ready to start brainstorming ideas to transform Mode and send its sales soaring.
At least, I was ready. The rest of the team looked at their feet and didn’t speak.
‘So we’re looking for someone to put on the next cover,’ I said. ‘I know Vanessa mentioned Sarah Sanderson but I’m really after someone zingy and exciting and a bit younger than Dawn Robin – lovely though she is.’
I’d read Vanessa’s interview with the soap star yesterday and it was fine. Great, in fact. It just wasn’t very Mode. Passionate as Dawn was about home baking, I couldn’t see sassy, twenty-something professionals queuing up to find out what she used to make her scones rise.
I beamed at Vanessa.
‘It was a great chat,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘Any ideas about who we should do next?’
Vanessa leafed through her notebook painfully slowly. It was obvious to me she’d not prepared for the meeting at all.
‘I met that MP, last month, at a book launch,’ she said finally.
‘MP?’ I tried very hard not to roll my eyes.
‘That young one,’ she said, still turning pages. ‘The one who no one expected to win, except she did and now she’s an MP even though she’s only just graduated.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, feeling a bit excited. ‘Joanna Fuller?’
‘That’s it,’ Vanessa said. ‘What about her?’
‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘We’d need to shoot her though – make her look more Mode. And MPs are a nightmare to get time with. We might need to do the shoot and the interview whenever we can and sit on it.’
Vanessa nodded.
‘So what about next issue,’ I said. ‘Any ideas? We need to be quick, because we’re late planning this one.’
Not content with taking half the team with her to her new job, Sophie had apparently stopped planning future issues as soon as she’d handed in her notice, leaving me with barely anything in the bag and very tight deadlines.
No one seemed to share my sense of urgency.
Vanessa shrugged. She really was infuriating. I looked at my own notes.
‘What about Amy Lavender?’ I said. ‘She’s everywhere right now and her agent owes me a favour, which is lucky because our budgets are very small. If we can shoot her and interview her on the same day, we’ll have time to use it next issue. I’ll sort it out.’
‘Great idea,’ said Milly. ‘I love her. She’s hilarious.’
Vanessa looked furious.
‘Fine,’ she said, even though it was clearly anything but.
‘What else?’
‘We’ve got the Jurassic diet plan,’ Vanessa said. ‘It’s the new paleo. Basically you only eat kale and chia seeds, mushed together in a kind of primordial ooze.’
I brightened up. This was more like it.
‘Get someone to do it,’ I said. ‘And write a diary. And find a nutritionist to sing about how fabulous it is, and another one who’ll trash it completely.’
Vanessa sighed, but she didn’t complain. She wrote something on her pad that seemed to be a lot more detailed than what I’d just said. I wondered if she was writing rude things about me. I used to do that when I was an intern and editors were dismissive of me – though I really thought someone of Vanessa’s age and experience should have been past that by now.
I moved on.
‘Fashion?’ I said.
The fashion editor was a woman called Riley who I had worked with briefly years ago. I’d been so grateful to see a familiar face when I’d realised who she was yesterday, that I’d almost hugged her. Thankfully I’d stopped myself just in time.
Now she leaned back in her chair, stretching out her long brown legs – which were bare even though it was January – and smiled at me.
‘I’ve got a dresses shoot that’s in the bag,’ she said. ‘But if we’re doing Amy Lavender, we could hang on to the dresses for next issue and perhaps we could get her to do something instead?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ridiculously pleased that finally someone was using their initiative.
‘She wears lots of vintage stuff, right?’ Riley went on thoughtfully. ‘How about I take her for a trawl round some of the shops near here. We can do a feature on how to wear vintage clothes, ask Amy for her tips, and get her to model what we find.’
I loved that idea. I told her so.
‘We could do a whole vintage issue,’ said Milly, looking excited. ‘Theme the whole magazine.’
‘We could use Vanessa’s feature on Dawn Robin,’ I said wryly. Everyone laughed – except Vanessa. Oops.
‘Seriously, though,’ I said. ‘Theming the issues is a great idea. We could definitely do that. It might give us a bit of an edge – make us different.’
And help us survive, I thought.
A tiny voice spoke from the corner of my office.
I looked round. Our work experience girl, a quiet student whose name I had absolutely no chance of remembering, was there, hunched over a notebook and blushing furiously.
‘Pardon?’ I said.
She blushed even more and cleared her throat.
‘I was just saying, it’s Mode’s fiftieth anniversary,’ she said. ‘In September. So if you wanted to do a vintage theme, that would be a good time to do it.’
I stared at her. She looked down at her notebook.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Emily,’ she said.
‘Emily, you are a genius.’
She beamed at me.
‘Let’s do it,’ I said. ‘Let’s theme every issue. This one could be…’
I thought for a moment. Everyone looked at me expectantly.
‘…back to basics,’ I said. ‘Inspired by Vanessa’s Jurassic diet.’
A ghost of a smile crossed Vanessa’s face. Just a ghost, mind you.
‘I’ll do black and white fashion with Amy, then,’ Riley said. ‘Maybe some denim? And do the vintage stuff too, and hang on to it for a couple of months.’
I nodded.
Slowly, painfully, but finally, everyone started to come up with ideas of themes, of features, of fashion shoots, cover stars – the works. The beauty editor, who was aptly named Pritti, wowed me with her knowledge of different make-up looks that could fit with every theme someone shouted out. Vanessa didn’t offer many ideas, but even she didn’t seem quite as hostile as she had done.
Eventually we had a plan for the back-to-basics issue, and the beginning of a plan for future issues, too. I knew this was going to be hard work. Harder than hard work. But maybe, just maybe, we were going to pull it off.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_05dc0c34-6d3c-50b1-86e4-6654b98c444b)
I can’t lie, those first few days on Mode were a slog. I started work early and stayed late, going over page proofs, rewriting features to make them fit within our back-to-basics theme, making endless lists – and avoiding Lizzie.
I’d expected to see Damo around but actually I’d not crossed paths with him since that first day. Once, I’d been staring out of my office window and seen him crossing the road outside, and I’d heard his laugh a few times echoing down the open-plan office from Homme, but I’d not actually spoken to him. I couldn’t decide if I was pleased or disappointed about that.
Desperate to get everyone involved in the process of revitalising Mode, I got a big white board put up in the office and urged everyone to write ideas on it.
‘Anything goes,’ I trilled, putting some pens on the shelf next to it. ‘The crazier, the better. Features ideas, cover ideas, events, sponsorship plans – absolutely anything.’
But now, a whole week after it had been put up, the board was still mostly bare. Riley had written up some ideas for future fashion shoots, but I wasn’t sure ‘SOMETHING FUNNY’ was really what Mode readers were after. I did, however, love the idea for a monthly ‘unlikely style crush’. How to recreate outfits worn by cartoon characters, people from books, old ladies… Riley had scrawled on the board.
I picked up a pen and wrote ‘I love this!’ next to her idea, then I stared at the rest of the bare board in despair.
‘Come on,’ I said, under my breath, even though it was barely eight a.m. and I was alone in the office. ‘I can’t do this by myself.’
I’d come in early to wrestle with the budgets for the next few issues, which wasn’t a fun way to start the day. The rest of the office filled up gradually, and by ten a.m. everyone was there. I left my office door open all the time but no one popped their heads round to say hello. I was still very much an outsider.
I sent my budget outline to Lizzie, hoping she’d agree with how I’d moved the money around, and then I sat quietly for a minute, trying to pluck up the courage to go and speak to my team. I didn’t want to – how ridiculous was that?
I picked up my phone to call Jen, then put it down again. She probably wouldn’t answer anyway, and – I thought with uncharacteristic insecurity – I couldn’t say I blamed her.
A knock on my office doorframe made me look up. It was Emily, the intern, wobbling under the weight of a pile of magazines.
‘I’ve been using these for my uni research project,’ she said. ‘Thought they might be useful.’
She lurched over to my desk and dropped the pile in front of me.
‘They’re the first issues of Mode,’ she said. ‘They’re amazing.’
I looked at the issue on the top. It was from the late 1960s and had Twiggy on the cover. I felt a shiver of excitement.
‘Where did you get these?’ I asked Emily.
She grinned at me.
‘There’s a guy called Kevin, works in the library in the basement,’ she said.
‘There’s a library?’ I was impressed with her knowledge.
‘It’s not massive, but it’s brilliant,’ she said. ‘Anyway, Kevin’s got a daughter about my age, I gave him some advice about something, and bob’s your uncle – he bent the rules and let me take the magazines away.’
I was impressed. I studied Emily carefully. She had strawberry blonde hair that was twisted back and up on her head, Adele-style, and she was wearing capri pants and a fitted fifties-look blouse. She looked great and absolutely nothing like the interns I was used to, who were like one great identical mass of oversized tote bags and false eyelashes.
She looked back at me for a moment then lowered her eyes shyly.
‘Just thought they might be helpful,’ she said.
‘They’re not just helpful,’ I said, picking up the Twiggy issue. ‘They’re life-saving.’
She grinned again.
‘How long are you here for, Emily?’ I asked.
‘One more month,’ she said.
I made a note on my to-do list to speak to HR about taking her on full-time, and to re-do the budget I’d just sent to Lizzie to pay for her, then smiled at her.
‘There are some photos in there,’ she said, gesturing to the magazines. ‘I found them inside one of the issues.’
She leafed through the pile and pulled out an A4-size black and white glossy print.
‘It’s the team who worked on the very first issue,’ she said.
I looked at the photo. There were about ten people in the shot, their arms linked. At the centre, holding a magazine, was an older woman – about fifty-ish – stylish in a boxy Chanel suit. It was mostly women and they all looked incredible. I breathed out.
‘Those clothes,’ I said.
‘I know,’ Emily said. She came round my desk and leaned over my shoulder.
‘That’s the first editor,’ she said, pointing to the older woman.
I nodded.
‘Margi Matthews,’ I said. I’d read about her, of course. She’d come from the States and had been a real trailblazer.
‘And that is Suze Williams,’ Emily pointed to a young woman at one end of the picture. She had dark hair in a crop just like Twiggy’s, and she was wearing a very short, black pinafore dress over a white long-sleeved t-shirt and white tights.
‘No way,’ I said. Margi was the founding editor of the magazine, but it was Suze who’d made it what it was now. She’d been editor in the late seventies and had taken Mode from its cautious beginnings as a fashion mag, to one of the most controversial and sassy women’s mags in the business.
‘She started out as editorial assistant,’ Emily said. ‘She worked on the very first issue, and eventually took over.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I said, staring at the pic. ‘Can you take some of these, go through them and make some notes about features that catch your eye?’ I said, a germ of an idea taking root in my mind. ‘I’ll take the other half.’
‘Of course,’ Emily said, looking like I’d given her a present. ‘I’d love to.’
She took a bundle of mags from the top of the pile and headed out of my office.
I sat back in my chair, pleased with her initiative, and started leafing through the issues. They made me really sad. It was such a brilliant magazine and if Lizzie had her way it would be the end. I loved digital and how you could react to things happening immediately online, but in my opinion there was nothing better than treating yourself to a glossy magazine and curling up on the sofa to read it. Grace was a great magazine, I liked it a lot, but it didn’t have the history that Mode had. It had changed its image so many times over the years that its early days as Home & Hearth were completely forgotten now – except to magazine geeks like me.
I read for well over an hour, jotting down ideas. Magazines had really changed, that was for sure, but what surprised me about those early editions was just how blunt and honest they were. There was loads of sex in them, hard-hitting features on things like abortion and racism, there was humour, advice, and a real feeling of being in this together. We could learn a lot from these issues, I thought.
I picked up the photograph of the first Mode team again and stared at it. There were only about ten people in the picture. They all had their arms linked and they were laughing. Margi Matthews, in the middle, was holding a round glass of champagne and the man to her left, who was wearing Mad Men style glasses, was gripping the bottle. There was so much energy and enthusiasm oozing out of the photo I could almost feel it.
I tapped the photo against my chin, thinking. The difference between the team in this picture and the team I was looking at – the nervous, quiet, worried team I had – was astonishing. Somehow I had to get that enthusiasm into my team if we were going to have any chance of beating Grace’s brilliant sales. I couldn’t rely on Vanessa to come up with exciting ideas, that was clear. I needed a right-hand woman. Someone I could work with. Someone who knew me inside out. In short, I needed Jen.
She and I had worked together on and off for years. We’d met when we were both interns on magazines in the same company. Our careers had followed similar paths and we’d ended up as deputy editor – me – and features director – her – on Happy magazine. We’d loved working so closely together. I was in awe of Jen’s creativity and her knack of knowing exactly what the magazine needed each issue, while I knew I was better at managing a team and getting the job done.
We’d worked so well together in fact that we’d hatched a plan. We’d started plotting to launch our own online magazine, which we’d planned to call The Hive. We’d approached writers, spoken to designers, I’d even had some tentative meetings about getting finance in place. The feedback was enthusiastic, there was a real buzz about it and things were moving. And then Lizzie had called me to chat about this job. I’d not mentioned it to Jen at first, thinking it would come to nothing. But somehow I’d gone for one interview, then another, then presented to the board… and suddenly I was the new editor of Mode. I had to tell Jen – and more importantly we had to put all our plans for The Hive on hold.
Not surprisingly, Jen was furious. She’d put a lot of work into The Hive.
‘Carry on,’ I’d said, as we sat in our favourite bar the day I told her. ‘Carry on without me.’
She’d shaken her head, her bleached blonde hair brushing her shoulders.
‘You know that wouldn’t work,’ she’d said. ‘It’s called The Hive for a reason. It’s not a solo venture.’
‘I’ll help,’ I said desperately. ‘At evenings and weekends. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.’
Jen stared into her glass.
‘You won’t,’ she said. She didn’t sound angry, she just sounded disappointed and really tired. ‘You’ll do whatever you want to do. That’s what you always do.’
She fished a ten-pound note out of her purse and shoved it at me.
‘For the drink,’ she muttered. Then she picked up her bag and left.
I’d not seen her since then. I was put on gardening leave as soon as I handed in my notice, so I’d not gone back to Happy. Jen hadn’t replied to my emails and she cancelled all my calls. I knew she was acting as editor while the bosses at Happy found someone new to fill my role and I hoped she was doing well. She’d make a great editor and I knew she’d been bored to tears before – it was one of the reasons she’d been so keen to launch The Hive.
Although, I thought now, tapping my nails on the front cover of the first ever Mode, it might be good if she was bored.
Without stopping to think, I scrolled through my phone to her number and hit call. It rang a couple of times, then went straight to voicemail as I’d thought it would.
‘Jen, it’s me,’ I said. ‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry about everything. I’ve got lots to say to you but for now, let me just say this…’
I paused.
‘Do you want a job?’
I ended the call and sat back. As I’d hoped, my phone rang almost straight away.
‘What sort of job?’ Jen said.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_3fd6b6e1-82d9-513a-ad34-eb702731e648)
‘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 (#ulink_25bee4d0-d89a-5886-b3a4-8234809515f7)
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 (#ulink_702f4fa1-135d-57e3-b882-7301f55e6126)
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 holdall, 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.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_682ce2fd-0604-55db-bb49-a6bbf50d4f92)
2016
‘Professional?’ Damo said, shovelling a forkful of rice into his mouth. ‘What does that mean?’
I snapped a poppadom in half, put both pieces back on my plate and sighed.
‘It means,’ I said. ‘That we put whatever happened between us to one side, and we move on like grown-ups.’
Damo grinned at me.
‘Move on?’
‘Stop repeating everything I say,’ I said, remembering how infuriating he could be.
‘I need a good art editor, you need a job and you’re a good art editor. We can help each other.’
Damo didn’t look very convinced.
‘I’ve got a job,’ he said. ‘So why would I come and work for you?’
‘You’ve got some freelance shifts,’ I pointed out, offering him my broken poppadom. I wasn’t very hungry and I definitely didn’t fancy curry at lunchtime – I’d only agreed to come to Damo’s favourite restaurant as part of my campaign to butter him up.
‘Yeah, but I like being flexible,’ he said. ‘And you’re really bossy.’
I glowered at him.
‘I’m not bossy, I’m the boss,’ I said. I was beginning to recall why we’d split up. Damo was so laid back he was virtually horizontal. He wouldn’t commit to anything, he had the itchiest feet of anyone I’d ever met, and he really didn’t like being tied down. When we’d first met – when I moved to Sydney to work for a year on a mag out there – his spontaneity had thrilled me. He’d moved into my tiny apartment within about three weeks of us getting together and we’d spent weekends exploring the city and our holidays travelling all over Australia. Then, when he’d decided it was time to move on, I’d agreed. Except, I was putting down roots in Sydney. I had a lot of misgivings and doubts about his plans – and I’d never quite got round to telling him about those doubts.
As Damo gave away the few possessions he’d accumulated during his time in Sydney, and planned a route round South East Asia, he’d tell me stories about amazing things we’d see in Thailand and Laos and Cambodia.
But I had my eye on another prize – the next step on the career ladder. The deputy editor on the magazine I worked for had told me she was leaving and I wanted her job. I wanted it so badly it was like a physical pain. I knew I could do it, and do it really well. I knew I’d work brilliantly with the editor and I knew she wanted me to apply. It was perfect – but I’d not mentioned to Damo that I wanted to stay in Australia.
‘Tell him,’ Jen emailed me. ‘Tell him that you’re not going.’
‘I can’t,’ I typed back. ‘There’s never a good time.’
‘Better now than at the airport,’ she’d written.
But in the end, I’d chosen the worst possible time. We’d gone out one Saturday, into the city centre. Damo was fidgety with excitement because he’d hit his savings target, he’d shed his belongings and he’d decided today was the day we were going to buy our tickets to Bangkok.
‘And after the full moon party, we’ll head over to some of the smaller islands…’ Damo was saying.
I stopped walking.
‘Fearne?’ Damo said. ‘What’s up?’
I looked at him, standing in the clean Sydney street, his shaggy hair blowing in the wind and his brown eyes scrunched up against the sun, and I couldn’t believe what I was going to say.
‘Fearne?’ he said again.
‘I’m not going,’ I said.
Damo looked confused.
‘I thought you said you were free all morning,’ he said. ‘We can go to the travel agent later, if you’ve got something else on…’
I shook my head.
‘I’m not going to Asia,’ I said. ‘I’m staying here.’
Damian got it straight away.
‘Patti’s job?’ he said.
I nodded, biting my lip.
‘I really want it, Damo,’ I said. ‘I need that job.’
‘There will be other jobs.’
I shook my head.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe not.’
Damo took my hand.
‘You can spend your whole life trying to make your parents proud of you,’ he said. ‘And who knows, maybe one day it’ll work.’
I looked at my feet, tanned in my flip flops – thongs they called them here, though I’d never get used to that. I couldn’t meet Damo’s eyes.
‘But maybe,’ Damo carried on. ‘Maybe nothing you do will ever be good enough, and maybe you should live a little. There are more important things than work, you know.’
I gave a small smile.
‘Like what?’ I said.
‘Like me.’
For a moment we stared at each other, both of us knowing it was one of those Sliding Doors moments. And then, slowly, I shook my head.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not going.’
Damo let go of my hand.
‘I’ll see you around,’ he said.
And then he walked away. He’d taken all his stuff out of my apartment by the time I got home that evening and he booked his flight to Asia for a few days later. I was heartbroken, of course. Despite everything, I’d fallen really hard for him, and he’d hit a nerve when he’d talked about my parents. But, true to form, I dusted myself off, threw myself into making Patti’s job my own, and returned to London a year later to carry on climbing that career ladder.
I missed Damo of course. I thought about him a lot during my time in Sydney and even when I returned to London. But I didn’t see him again until he showed up in my office.
Now, sitting opposite him, I was amazed he didn’t hold more ill will towards me.
‘Damo,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about what happened. With us, I mean.’
He shrugged.
‘Long time ago,’ he said.
‘I know.’
My mouth was dry. I hated apologising.
‘I handled it all really badly,’ I said. ‘And I still think about you a lot. I’m sorry if I hurt you.’
Damian looked up at me. He had odd greeny-brown eyes, which looked bright in his brown face – he was still tanned, even though the London weather had made him paler than I’d ever seen him before.
‘I’ve not been moping for five years,’ he said, bluntly. ‘We had a great thing, but it ended and we moved on. We’re over it. I’m over it. Aren’t you?’
I swallowed.
‘Of course,’ I said in a squeaky voice. I couldn’t look at his face so I focused on his arms instead. His buff, brown arms… Nope. His face was better. I was over it. At least, I had been, until he turned up in my office.
I took a deep breath.
‘Give me six months,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some brilliant ideas to turn the magazine around, but I need you to help make it work. Six months is all I need.’
Nine months would be better, but somehow that sounded much longer.
‘Six months,’ Damo said. He wiped his plate with a piece of naan.
‘That’s it,’ I said, hoping to appeal to his flighty nature. ‘Six months.’
‘Is Jen in?’
‘She’s in.’
‘All right,’ Damo said. ‘I’ll do it.’
I swallowed the squeal of delight that rose up in my throat and instead I gave him what I hoped was a professional smile.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘I’ll let HR know.’
Chapter 12 (#ulink_e2a5b8dd-8d87-52e3-a283-6df4d6d73d52)
Getting Jen and Damo on board was the easy bit, I knew that. But I hadn’t quite expected the rest of it to be so hard.
We’d finished the Back to Basics issue, and moved on to Body Confidence. I was very aware that I’d already been at Mode for a month and basically done nothing. My deadline was getting closer and things hadn’t changed. I hardly did anything but work and sleep, although I had to confess that was nothing new. And despite all that, I couldn’t help thinking my ideas were dated and tired. I spent ages poring over back issues of Mode and Grace, trying to find out where we’d gone wrong but I hadn’t yet hit on the magic formula that would make our readers come back.
It was Monday, the Back to Basics issue had been on sale for a week, and I was getting a bit antsy about getting some early sales figures which I was expecting that day.
And I knew I had to have a catch-up meeting with Vanessa too, which I was dreading. She’d gone from being obstructive and rude, to being outright hostile – I wanted to get to the bottom of it.
She slid into my office a little while later and sat opposite me in such a sulky fashion that I almost expected her to stick her tongue out.
‘Hi,’ I said, cheerfully, gathering together my pile of old issues of Grace and Mode and dumping them on top of the vintage issues Emily had given me.
Vanessa gave me a tight smile and I suddenly felt angry. I had worked with all sorts of people over the years, some nice, some not – and she was just one more. If she didn’t like me, fine, but we had to work together.
I took a breath.
‘Vanessa,’ I said. ‘Do we have a problem?’
She flushed.
‘What kind of problem?’
‘You tell me,’ I said. ‘You’re sullen, unhelpful and you obviously don’t like me. But we have to work together and unless you can lose the attitude, you can’t stay.’
Vanessa looked horrified and for a moment she stared at me in defiance. Then her angular shoulders dropped and she nodded.
‘That’s the problem,’ she said.
I raised an eyebrow and she sighed.
‘I wasn’t supposed to stay,’ she said. ‘I was supposed to be going with Sophie to her new magazine – as her deputy. But they had someone in place, and Sophie ditched me rather than miss her chance.’
She looked up at me.
‘I guess I’m still a bit annoyed.’
Well, that was an understatement. But I felt a slight flush of shame – what Sophie had done to Vanessa wasn’t a million miles away from what I’d done to Jen.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t know exactly what went on between you and Sophie, and you don’t need to tell me, but let me lay my cards on the table. Unless we all pull our fingers out, Mode is going to close. They’re desperate to shut us down, and unless we all start coming up with some ideas, we’re toast.’
Vanessa winced.
‘I’m not very good at ideas,’ she said.
Another understatement. I started to speak but she hadn’t finished.
‘But I did have one idea,’ she continued. ‘About where we sell the mag.’
I nodded.
‘I love magazines,’ she said. ‘I work in the magazine business. And I can’t remember the last time I went into a newsagent. Probably at the airport last summer.’
I nodded again, not sure where she was going with this.
‘So I look online – because my phone is always where I am and magazines aren’t.’
‘You’re not making me feel any better,’ I said.
Vanessa smiled.
‘We need to sell the magazine where the readers are,’ she said. ‘Gyms, cinemas, coffee shops, Topshop…’
I was staring at her, open-mouthed.
‘It was just an idea,’ she muttered.
I reached across the desk and gripped her hand. She looked alarmed.
‘It’s an absolutely brilliant idea,’ I said. ‘Brilliant.’
Vanessa pulled her hand away but she gave me a proper smile this time.
‘Really?’
I smiled back.
‘Really.’
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Kerry Barrett
‘A fantastic and engaging read. Kerry Barrett truly is a very talented author.’ - Babs (Goodreads)Two women. Two decades. One story.Fearne has landed her dream job to run Mode. Except the dream isn’t quite so rosy in reality, the print magazine is struggling and Fearne is determined to save it!In 1966, desperate to escape her life, Nancy moves to London with her brilliantly unpredictable friend Suze to achieve their dream of writing for Mode magazine together.For Mode to survive Fearne needs to recreate the magic of the early issues and she is on track to find Suze – Mode’s longest-serving editor. Unbeknownst to Fearne, what she uncovers might be the biggest story of her career…Loved The Forgotten Girl then don’t miss out on A Step in Time the emotional novel from Kerry Barrett - out now!What reviewers are saying about A Step in Time‘It’s all set against the backdrop of Strictly Stars Dancing, adding an extra element of glitz and glamour to the proceedings. This is a great book that I devoured in two sittings and it’s absolutely perfect for summer holidays or wintry days snuggled on the sofa.’ – Bab’s Bookshelf‘This was a really enjoyable, funny read… I recommend this book to fans of Strictly, and also to anyone who wants a feel good story with so much more depth to it than some I have read.’ – Fiona’s Book Reviews‘Sparkly, fun, witty and deeper than expected… There aren't enough stars for this fun, deeper than expected witty and relaxing read. Highly recommended.’ – Michelle (Goodreads)
Fearne has landed her dream job to run Mode. Except the dream isn’t quite so rosy in reality – the print magazine is struggling and Fearne is determined to save it!
In 1966, desperate to escape her life, Nancy moves to London where she and her brilliantly unpredictable friend Suze try to achieve their dream of writing for Mode magazine together.
For Mode to survive, Fearne needs to recreate the magic of the early issues and she is on track to find Suze – Mode’s longest-serving editor. Unbeknownst to Fearne, what she uncovers might be the biggest story of her career…
Praise for KERRY BARRETT (#ulink_3fd21f1f-8b6d-5d8c-aa50-5c1be87e6a5e)
‘A Step in Time was a fabulous, glitzy story, that was a lot of fun to read, and thanks to Cora, had more depth than I was expecting, but very glad that it did.’ – Rachel’s Random Reads
~
‘The best book she has written to date’ – Babs’ Bookshelf on A Step in Time
~
‘I was hooked from the first page and couldn’t put it down. This is a book about living life to the full, following your dreams and being true to yourself whilst empathising with others.’ – Shellyback Books on A Step in Time
~
‘Kerry [Barrett] has yet again written likeable, funny, relatable characters. But this time there’s the added emotion which towards the end of the story had me sobbing into my cup of tea.’ – Aimee Horton on A Step in Time*
~
*Amazon reader reviews
Also available by Kerry Barrett (#ulink_40f1e8d5-cc20-57cf-aa77-889087d2be5a)
A Step in Time
Could It Be Magic series:
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered
I Put a Spell on You
Baby It’s Cold Outside
I’ll Be There for You
A Spoonful of Sugar
The Forgotten Girl
Kerry Barrett
Copyright (#ulink_1c7157f6-b334-5720-9b5f-c665fd62d804)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016
Copyright © Kerry Barrett 2016
Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2016 ISBN: 9780008216047
Version date: 2018-09-19
KERRY BARRETT
was a bookworm from a very early age, devouring Enid Blyton and Noel Streatfeild, before moving on to Sweet Valley High and 1980s bonkbusters. She did a degree in English Literature, then trained as a journalist, writing about everything from pub grub to EastEnders. Her first novel, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, took six years to finish and was mostly written in longhand on her commute to work, giving her a very good reason to buy beautiful notebooks. Kerry lives in London with her husband and two sons, and Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes is still her favourite novel.
Contents
Cover (#uab456241-be8e-5eba-9557-9e5d398f3aa7)
Blurb (#u9d6d2ea5-f596-5cee-b2d8-e085ae18d4e2)
Praise (#ulink_7f623c04-1c44-50ea-90c0-119a202d7362)
Book List (#ulink_e449781b-2677-533b-857a-71d6743ae2d1)
Title Page (#u13cccb00-1762-5c34-805b-2f145fb47798)
Copyright (#u59f41947-5578-535e-8c14-2d43605d4c35)
Author Bio (#ueeff4397-137a-5f1e-b8ca-1924549385ff)
Acknowledgement (#u8387224b-279f-5310-811d-81cf89ef2ccc)
Dedication (#u28aa4526-678a-5ab5-8d49-cff66a272ac8)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_42ec1a6a-c4d8-5546-946a-1002fd402a84)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_e6da9cc1-9901-5da7-b142-c4140d047d71)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_3573f766-8e62-53e1-9890-4193bdfebd19)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_1c6d243a-19dc-53fc-926d-8c4a0f828d13)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_d56672a0-85fd-5f3f-88f7-3066c749648d)
Chapter 6 (#ulink_130698e9-d42c-5b90-9531-9eecc67d4e87)
Chapter 7 (#ulink_18953695-7021-5360-9a66-362a537ee739)
Chapter 8 (#ulink_855dedb9-6002-54f5-a590-ddc6f27c876b)
Chapter 9 (#ulink_e0fa6cfe-8698-50ea-942f-795ac78eda43)
Chapter 10 (#ulink_8bc03c5f-69dc-514b-b54c-c16fc1bb99e4)
Chapter 11 (#ulink_cfdb5f1c-03c8-5e8d-94c5-977b21765440)
Chapter 12 (#ulink_7d847d68-8811-5e81-9814-4bc578c0bf58)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Thanks to everyone who helped with my research into the swinging 60s, including my mum and dad, Betty, and everyone at the Hearst library who let me spend happy hours going through old magazines. Thanks to Aimee for her constant support, to my fellow HQ Digital authors for being a brilliant sounding board, and to Victoria and Helen for being brilliant editors.
For everyone who loves magazines as much as I do.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_878734cf-0bc6-59aa-8e9a-4953db625cd5)
2016
I was nervous. Not just a little bit wobbly. I was properly, squeaky-voiced, sweaty-palms, absolutely bloody terrified. And that was very unlike me.
The office was just up ahead – I could see it from where I stood, lurking behind my sunglasses in case anyone I knew spotted me and tried to speak to me. I wasn’t ready for conversation yet. The building had a glass front, with huge blown-up magazine covers in its windows. In pride of place, right next to the revolving door, was the cover from the most recent issue of Mode.
I swallowed.
‘It’s fine,’ I muttered to myself. ‘They wouldn’t have given you the job if they didn’t think you were up to it. It’s fine. You’re fine. Better than fine. You’re brilliant.’
I took a deep breath, straightened my back, threw back my shoulders and headed to the Starbucks opposite me.
I ordered an espresso and a soya latte, then I sat down to compose myself for a minute.
Today was my first day as editor of Mode. It was the job I’d wanted since I was a teenager. It had been my dream for so long, I could barely believe it was happening, and I was determined to make a success of it.
Except here I was, ready to get started, and I’d been floored by these nerves.
Shaking slightly, I downed my espresso in one like it was a shot of tequila and checked the time on my phone. I was early, but that was no bad thing. I had lots of good luck messages – mostly from people hoping I’ll give them a job, I thought wryly. I couldn’t help noticing, as I scrolled through and deleted them, that there was nothing from my best friend, Jen. She was obviously still upset about the way I’d behaved when I’d got the job. And if I was honest, she had every right to be upset, but I didn’t have time to worry about that now. I was sure she’d come round.
I stood up and straightened my clothes. I’d played it safe this morning with black skinny trousers, a fitted black shirt and funky leopard-print pumps. My naturally curly blonde hair was straightened and pulled into a sleek ponytail and I wore a slash of red lipstick. I looked good. I just hoped it was good enough for the editor of Mode.
A surge of excitement bubbled up inside me. I was the editor of Mode. Me. Fearne Summers. I picked up my latte and looped my arm through my Marc Jacobs tote.
‘Right, Fearne,’ I said out loud. ‘Let’s do this.’
I wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee or a cheerleading squad waiting for me in reception (well, I was a bit) but I did think that the bored woman behind the desk could have at least cracked a smile. Or she could have tried to look a tiny bit impressed that I was the new editor of Mode. Mind you, if this office was anything like my old place – and I was pretty sure all magazine companies were the same – there would be a never-ending stream of celebrities, models, and strange PR stunts (last Christmas we’d had mince pies delivered by a llama wearing a Santa hat, and that was one of the more normal visitors). Perhaps a new editor was terribly run of the mill.
‘Here’s your pass,’ she said, throwing it across the desk at me. ‘The office is on the third floor, but you’re to go up to fifth first of all to meet Lizzie.’
I was surprised. Lizzie was the chief-exec of Glam Media, the company that owned Mode along with lots of other magazines. I knew I’d have to catch up with her at some point today but I thought she’d give me time to meet my team, and find my office first.
Lizzie was waiting for me when I got out of the lift. The bored receptionist must have told her I was on my way.
She was in her early fifties, petite and stylishly dressed, with a cloud of dark hair. She was friendly and approachable, but she had a reputation of being ruthless in pursuit of profit for the company. She scared the bejeesus out of me if I was honest, but she’d been very nice when I met her at one of the many interviews I’d done to get the job. Now she smiled at me and shook my hand.
‘Great to have you on board, Fearne’ she said. ‘This is a time of big change for Mode.’
‘I’ve got loads of ideas,’ I said, following her down the corridor to a meeting room. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’
She gave me a brief smile over her shoulder.
‘Great,’ she said again.
Except she didn’t really mean great, I quickly discovered. She meant, yeah good luck with that, Fearne.
It turned out that Glam Media was worried about Mode. Really worried. I’d looked at the sales, of course, and seen they weren’t as good as they could be but I hadn’t really grasped just how much trouble the magazine was in.
‘The problem is the competition has really raised its game,’ Lizzie explained as I stared out of the big window in her office and tried to take in everything she was saying.
‘Grace?’ I said. It had been a fairly boring, unadventurous magazine called Home & Hearth until it was bought by a new company and had loads of money pumped into it. Now it had a new name, it was exciting and fun, and it was stealing lots of Mode’s readers.
‘So the finance department have redone your budgets for this year,’ said Lizzie. ‘To reflect Mode’s sales.’
She slid a piece of paper across her desk and I stared at the figures she’d put in front of me in horror.
‘I can’t run a glossy mag on this budget,’ I said. ‘How am I supposed to pay for fashion shoots? Or commission writers?’
Lizzie shrugged.
‘Times are tough,’ she said. ‘That’s all that’s in the pot.’
‘Can’t I have some of the website budget?’ I asked.
She shook her head.
‘Digital budget is separate,’ she said. ‘The website’s going very well. Advertising and readership are both up. It’s the magazine that’s in trouble.’
I looked at her, suddenly realising where this was going, and why my predecessor had been so keen to leave her job.
‘Are you going to close Mode?’ I asked.
She stared back at me.
‘Nothing’s decided yet.’
‘But it’s possible?’
Lizzie looked at a point somewhere past my ear.
‘Print isn’t working,’ she said.
‘But Mode is an iconic brand,’ I said desperately. ‘It’s been going since the sixties. It was the first ever young women’s glossy. You can’t close it.’
Lizzie still didn’t look me in the eye, but she did at least assume a slightly sympathetic expression.
‘We’d still have the website,’ she said. ‘It’s not ending, it’s just changing. Mode will still exist – just in a different form.’
‘A glossy mag is a treat,’ I said. ‘People will pay for that.’
She shrugged.
‘Would people lose their jobs?’ I asked, suddenly realising this didn’t just affect me.
‘That’s also possible,’ she said.
I put my head in my hands. This was a nightmare. My dream job was collapsing around my ears.
Lizzie took a breath.
‘Fearne, we took you on for a reason,’ she said. ‘You’re a great editor with a good reputation.’
I forced myself to raise my head and smile at her. That was nice to hear.
‘But you’re also known for being cut-throat,’ she carried on. ‘We all know you’re single-minded and determined. That you don’t let anything get in the way of success,’
I nodded slowly. I wasn’t sure I’d use the word ‘cut-throat’ but I was definitely single-minded.
‘We know you won’t let emotions or sentiment get in the way of doing your job.’
Oh.
‘You brought me here to close the magazine?’ I said, as I worked it all out.
Lizzie had the grace to look slightly shame-faced.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Close it or make it work. Take back some of the sales we’ve lost to Grace.’
I looked at the budget again. With the figures she’d given me it was obvious which option she wanted. I could barely cover the staffing costs with this amount of money – and I had no chance of booking top photographers or paying for big-name writers. It was an impossible task.
‘How long have I got?’ I said. ‘How long do I have to make Mode pay?’
Lizzie looked a bit confused. She’d clearly not considered this.
‘Six months?’
I swallowed.
‘Give me a year,’ I said, wondering how on earth I managed to keep my voice steady when I was so terrified by the task that lay ahead. ‘I need a year to have a proper go at this.’
Lizzie looked at something on the papers in front of her. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed.
‘Nine months?’ she said.
I shrugged.
‘Is that the best you can offer?’ I said. She nodded.
‘So if I can increase sales enough in that time, you’ll let the magazine carry on?’ I said.
Lizzie nodded again.
‘If you can make it work on the new budget, then we’ll reconsider,’ she said, sounding incredulous that I was even thinking about it.
‘Great,’ I said, faking excitement when all I felt was despair. ‘Nine months is more than enough.’
I gathered up my things and stood up, hoping she couldn’t see my legs trembling. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to meet my team now.’
Chapter 2 (#ulink_44d52646-3638-5860-a5ad-cc006214f728)
That may have been a fairly terrible way to start my new job, but as it turned out, Lizzie was a pussycat compared to the rest of the Mode team.
There weren’t many of them – lots of staff had left recently and a few people had gone with the former editor, Sophie, to her new role on a supermarket magazine. The features desk was down two writers, I had no deputy, and the art editor was working out her notice. The words rats and sinking ships crossed my mind, but I dismissed that. I had to make this work. I’d sacrificed a lot for this job.
My office was bare, with a clean desk and a shiny computer. There was no good luck card, or welcoming cup of coffee. In fact, there weren’t even many smiles. I stared round at the stony faces in our planning meeting that morning and wondered if I hadn’t just made a massive mistake.
‘So,’ I said, uber-brightly. ‘What have we got for the next issue?’
I looked at my new features director, whose name I couldn’t quite remember. She was tall and angular with pale skin and fine blonde hair pulled back into a bun – like a ballerina with a bad attitude.
She looked back at me, unsmiling.
‘Veronica?’ I said.
‘Vanessa.’
Shit.
‘Sorry,’ I sang. ‘Vanessa, who’s on the cover this month?’
She named a soap star, Dawn Robin, who was well into her forties and though stylish, nothing like the celebs our readers were interested in.
‘Oh,’ I said, so surprised that manners deserted me. ‘That’s an interesting choice.’
‘It was Sophie’s choice,’ Vanessa said.
I chuckled.
‘You got that right.’
No response. Clearly humour didn’t work.
‘Is the interview done?’ I asked. Perhaps Dawn had said something amazing that we could spin.
‘It’s done, and her PR has approved it,’ Vanessa said. She stared at me as if challenging me to tell her to start again.
For a moment I considered pulling rank, spiking the whole thing and getting a new cover star. But it was early days and I needed the team behind me if I was going to make this happen.
Instead I smiled.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘It’s good to have it in the bag. What about next issue?’
Vanessa made a show of flicking through the pages in her notebook and I forced myself to stay smiling.
‘I’m talking to Sarah Sanderson’s agent,’ she said. I groaned inwardly. Sarah Sanderson was a breakfast news presenter who’d been around for donkey’s years. Maybe it was time to get tough.
‘She’s not the right cover star for us,’ I said. ‘Scratch that. Give the interview to one of the other mags if you like. We need someone younger, sassier, more exciting.’
Vanessa pointedly scored out something on her notebook and gave me a steely glare.
‘Like who?’
I looked round at the tiny team.
‘Let’s have a brainstorming session tomorrow,’ I said. ‘We can line up some really exciting interviews. Anything goes – don’t just stick to actresses and musicians. Think about politicians, sports stars, writers, bloggers – anyone doing anything or saying anything interesting.’
Vanessa scribbled something in her pad without meeting my eyes.
‘Oh and Vanessa,’ I said. ‘I don’t want publicists approving interviews.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘Tricky,’ she said.
‘I know,’ I admitted. ‘Let them sit in on the chat if they have to, but remember we’re Mode magazine – they need us just as much as we need them. In the future, let’s be a bit sassier.’
Vanessa made a face.
‘Do we have one?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A future. Does Mode magazine have a future?’
My stomach lurched. I’d been hoping to give the team a boost before I started talking about closures and redundancies. But judging by the grim faces that surrounded me, I had to tackle this now.
I was sitting behind my desk, but now I got up and came to perch on the front instead.
‘Honestly?’ I said.
Vanessa nodded, her pale lips a tight line.
‘I hope so,’ I said.
I took a breath.
‘I have always wanted to work on Mode,’ I said. ‘This is my dream job and I was so excited about it.’
‘But?’ Vanessa said.
‘But things are trickier than I thought,’ I admitted. ‘Our circulation is lower than it’s ever been.’
‘Because of Grace?’ said the art editor – a tiny redhead called Milly.
‘Because of Grace,’ I agreed. ‘They’ve really raised their game, and of course print’s a tricky place to be anyway because of digital. But Grace’s success is proving there’s still a place for glossy mags – we just need to remind people we’re here and we’re the best.’
There was a murmur of voices, but Vanessa wasn’t giving up yet.
‘I heard they want to close us,’ she said, raising her voice so I could hear her over the chitchat.
Everyone fell silent and stared at me.
‘Is that true?’ Milly asked. ‘Are they closing us?’
I thought about lying, but they were all seasoned magazine journalists. I knew I couldn’t fool them.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s not true. But it’s a possibility.’
The chitchat became a hubbub of voices. I let them all talk for a moment, then I held my hands up.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Listen…’
Eventually everyone stopped talking.
‘Okay,’ I said. I closed my eyes briefly and sent up a silent prayer to the magazine gods that I was doing the right thing and that my already depleted team wouldn’t all hand in their notices immediately and leave me trying to save Mode on my own.
‘They’ve given us nine months to turn things round,’ I said. ‘To improve sales, to get our brand out there, to get people talking about Mode again.’
I paused.
‘We’ve got a lot of work to do.’
I spent the next hour fielding questions about exactly what Lizzie wanted (‘I don’t know,’ I said), about what redundancy packages might be on offer (‘I don’t know,’ I said), about how they would measure our success and whether it would just be sales or if it would be profits too (‘I don’t know,’ I said) and how I was planning to make this all happen.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, yet again. ‘But I do know this is a brilliant magazine with a long history.’
I looked round at the team once more.
‘And I know you’re all great writers and editors and designers,’ I said. Vanessa made a face but Milly smiled. ‘I want this to work and I can’t do it by myself, so I need you all on board.’
I thought for a moment.
‘Let’s spend tomorrow afternoon coming up with some ideas,’ I said. ‘Not just cover stars, but let’s think about what we can do to get a buzz round Mode magazine again. Anything and everything you can think of – I don’t care how off the wall the ideas are, but I want everyone here to come up with something.’
I wrapped up the meeting and the team all filed out of my office and back to their desks, muttering to each other – no doubt saying all sorts of rude things about me – and I was alone once more.
‘Bloody hell,’ I said out loud, feeling shell-shocked by my morning. But, I had to admit, being honest with the team had been the right thing to do, even if Vanessa had forced my hand a bit.
Hopefully we could come up with some exciting ideas tomorrow, I thought, leaning back in my chair. I already had lists of cover stars, features ideas and campaigns that I wanted us to try, but I knew that I needed this to be a team effort. I needed everyone with me if this was going to work.
Not for the first time that day, I wished I was still working with Jen. She was such a brilliant sounding board for ideas – and always came up with different approaches and creative ways of doing something.
But I was on my own with this, and I had to do my best.
I spun round in my chair and stared out of the window at the bustling Soho streets below me.
‘I can do this,’ I said out loud. ‘I can bloody well do this.’
‘You can do anything you want,’ a voice said. A very familiar Australian accent that I’d not heard for more than five years. ‘You always have.’
I froze. Then slowly, I turned my chair round so I was facing into my office again.
‘Damo,’ I said. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
The huge figure of my ex-boyfriend filled the doorway. His hair was longer than I’d ever seen it, and he was wearing a grey beanie hat on his head. He looked absolutely knackered, very scruffy, and really, really hot. My heart started to beat a little bit faster.
‘What kind of a welcome is that?’ he said, laughter in his eyes. ‘I just came to wish you luck.’
‘All the way from Sydney?’
‘All the way from over there,’ he said, tipping his head in the direction of the team that produced the men’s mag Homme, and who shared our office.
What. The…
He laughed properly at my startled face.
‘Don’t read Homme much, huh?’ he said. ‘I’ve been working here for ages.’
‘Not full-time?’ I said. My voice was wobbly.
‘Nah,’ Damo said. ‘Bit of this, bit of that. You know how it is.’
I did. His lack of focus was one of the things that we’d clashed about when we were together. But now I was grateful that despite the bad luck that had brought him here on the biggest day of my life, his unwillingness to commit to anything was still intact. If he was only freelance, our paths wouldn’t have to cross.
‘But,’ Damo said. ‘I’m actually covering for the art editor for a while. She’s gone on maternity leave.’
Ah.
‘Got to run. Features meeting,’ he said, rolling his eyes and making me wonder how he’d cope with the day-to-day business of life on a magazine. ‘Catch up later?’
I nodded, dumbly, staring at the door as he shut it, then I put my head in my hands. What should have been the best day ever was turning into the worst. The magazine was in trouble, my new team were hostile – at least some of them were – and my ex-boyfriend (and not just any ex-boyfriend, THE ex-boyfriend) had turned up. What on earth was I going to do?
Chapter 3 (#ulink_419303d4-0e45-5888-b259-1a3b578a49c6)
1966
‘Bye, Dad,’ I called as I shut the front door. There was no reply but I wasn’t surprised. I’d put a cup of tea next to his bed before I left and he’d barely stirred. Sleeping off last night’s whisky, I assumed. I guessed his assistant, Trev, would’ve already gone to the shop to open up. No doubt Dad would drag himself along when he finally fell out of bed.
I checked my watch. I was going to have to hurry to catch my train and I didn’t want to be late for work. Deftly, I picked up the hold-all I kept stowed in the bin shelter in our front garden and set off.
I made it to the station with seconds to spare – thank goodness – and immediately shut myself in the tiny toilet on board the train. My journey from Beckenham – the sleepy suburb of south-east London where I lived – to the centre of town where I worked, took exactly half an hour. Which gave me more than enough time to transform myself from the accounts assistant in an insurance company based just off Oxford Street that I pretended to be, into the junior writer on a magazine in Soho that I really was.
Things at home were… difficult. We’d been a happy family, once. At least, Mum worked hard to make sure me and my brother Dennis were happy. Dad just worked hard. He was a stickler for appearances and making sure we were all respectable. But he had a temper that he didn’t always keep under control.
And then Mum died. I was only thirteen when she got ill. Dennis was seventeen and doing his A-levels, and he went off to university not long after. So it was just Dad and me.
It was hard, without Mum. I missed her with a quiet intensity that never really went away. In the early days I’d unthinkingly set four places at the table and then have to put one set of cutlery back in the drawer, or shout hello when I came home from school, only to have my voice echo round the empty hall. I learned to cook and to clean and to sew because Dad was traditional. And he fell apart when Mum died, spending some days in silent grief and others in a furious rage, lashing out at the world – and me.
When the girls at school said their mums wouldn’t allow them to do something, I pretended my dad was strict too. Actually he didn’t really care what I did, as long as things looked okay on the surface. As the years without Mum went by, his periods of silence got worse, so did his drinking, and so did his temper. I learned to keep out of his way when he’d had a drink, never to talk back to him or disagree, and to have his dinner on the table when he wanted it. The one thing I’d dug my heels in about had been my job. He’d not been keen on me taking a job in town instead of working in the family newsagents, so I’d lied that working in accounts would be valuable experience that could help us expand the business and he’d eventually agreed.
‘Just until you and Bill are married,’ Dad had said, his lip curling with disdain. ‘London is no place for a married woman.’
I’d smiled and agreed, confident I’d never be foolish enough to marry anyone, let alone my devoted but dull boyfriend, Billy.
So I left home every day dressed neatly and wearing sensible shoes, with my hair pulled back into a ponytail. I arrived home looking the same.
But in between, I had a very different life.
Shut in the tiny loo, I unzipped my bag and took out a burgundy knitted dress, tights and boots. Wriggling in the small space, I pulled off the beige suit and blouse I was wearing and swapped it for the mini dress. I slipped on the tights and shoes, folded up my boring clothes and tucked them into my bag for later.
I pulled out my ponytail and brushed my straight dark hair and heavy fringe so it fell flat to my shoulders. If I got a slower train I sometimes backcombed it, but there was no time for that today.
I powdered my face quickly, then painted on a swoosh of liquid eyeliner. A slick of frosted-pink lipstick and I was finished. As the train pulled into Charing Cross, I slipped off my engagement ring and dropped it into my make-up bag. Done.
I breathed out in satisfaction. It wasn’t easy living my double life, but there was no doubt I was getting better at it. It made it even worse that I couldn’t see any way of it continuing much longer.
‘Morning Nancy,’ our receptionist, Gayle, shouted as I walked into the building. ‘Love the shoes.’
I grinned. Gayle and I were the only young women in the whole office. The rest of our team – the team that put together Home & Hearth magazine every month – were older women. They were all well turned-out and interested in fashion, but none of them were what I considered cutting edge. I hung up my coat and stowed my hold-all under my desk.
I was normally one of the first people in work, which I liked. I made myself a cup of coffee in the tiny kitchen and settled at my desk. Junior writer sounded thrilling, but there was a lot of filing and typing. I didn’t mind, though. I was learning so much that sometimes I felt like my head could explode.
Today I had a pile of recipes to type up. It was normally a dull, mindless task, but today’s were all based on locations our readers might have gone to on holiday so they were full of odd ingredients that I’d never tasted which meant I had to concentrate. I’d never been abroad. When we were kids, Mum took Dennis and me to stay with her parents in Eastbourne for two weeks every August. Dad never left the shop. Those two weeks every year – when it was just me, Dennis and Mum, were some of the happiest times we ever had.
I finished the last recipe for something called moussaka, and added it to the pile on my desk.
‘Nancy?’ My editor, Rosemary, had a sixth sense when it came to knowing when I was about to relax.
She stood in the door of her office looking chic in her camel-coloured twinset and tweed skirt. Her blonde hair was twisted up at the back and high on her crown. I had no idea how old she was. Late forties? Perhaps fifty? She was very glamorous and I hoped I would be like her one day.
‘Can you pick up some prints from Frank?’ she asked.
‘Course,’ I said. Frank was the photographer we used most often. His studio was just down Carnaby Street so I never minded going for a walk down there. It felt like the place where everything was happening, and I loved just watching what was going on. ‘Can I just make a quick phone call?’
Rosemary nodded.
‘Take him an issue,’ she said, gesturing towards the teetering pile of magazines next to my desk, and disappeared back into her office.
I checked my watch, then I picked up the phone on my desk and dialled Dennis’s number. He answered almost straight away.
‘Landsdowne Grammar School.’
‘Den, it’s me,’ I said. ‘Can you talk?’
‘I can spare five minutes,’ my brother said. ‘If the headmaster comes back, I’ll pretend you’re trying to sell me exercise books.’
I giggled.
‘So come on then. How was the big engagement do?’
I groaned.
‘It was a lovely party,’ I said mechanically.
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ I said more firmly.
It had been a nice party, if you liked that sort of thing. Which I definitely didn’t. I wasn’t even sure I liked Billy very much and I still wasn’t completely sure how I’d ended up engaged to him, other than I hadn’t really liked to say no when he asked me and I’d had a vague idea that getting married could have been an escape of sorts. Except it seemed to have ended up trapping me.
‘Did Dad behave?’ Dennis asked.
‘He was on good form,’ I said. Dad was always gregarious and generous in company. ‘He charmed Billy’s nan, he bought everyone a drink… you know what he’s like.’
Dennis snorted.
‘Do you need any money?’ he said.
‘No, I’m okay,’ I said. He always looked out for me, my big brother. ‘I’m saving up to get my own place.’
‘In London?’
‘Of course in London.’
‘Come to Leeds,’ he said
‘I can’t, Den,’ I said for the millionth time. ‘My job’s here.’
He wasn’t offended.
‘The offer’s there,’ he said. ‘I have to go, I’m teaching this afternoon and the head’s going to observe, check I’m doing it right.’
‘Good luck,’ I said. ‘You’ll be great.’
‘You too,’ he said. ‘Stay out of Dad’s way, okay?’
‘I will,’ I promised.
I said goodbye and I dropped the receiver back onto the cradle. I picked up my coat and bag, and grabbed a copy of the magazine to give to Frank, thinking about the stupid mess I’d got myself tangled up in and envying Dennis for his simple life in Leeds, far, far away from Dad...
‘Oooph!’
I walked out of the building and straight into a girl who was coming the other way. She shrieked in horror and dived onto the pavement.
‘Sorry,’ I said, starting to walk round her.
‘Sorry?’ she said. ‘Sorry? Look what you’ve done.’
She stood up and thrust some dripping wet papers at me. I backed away.
‘This is the best story I’ve ever written and you made me drop it in a puddle,’ she wailed. ‘It’s ruined, look.’
She unfolded the wet pages and held them up to my face. Some of the ink had run and the words were difficult to read. I felt a glimmer of sympathy for her. Losing work was never nice.
The girl looked at me properly for the first time, and I looked back at her. She was a similar height and age to me, but her dark hair was very short and she was wearing a dress without a coat over the top, despite the rain. Her thick black mascara was running down her cheeks.
‘Are you a writer?’ she said. ‘Do you work for Home & Hearth?’
I smiled in what I hoped was a writerly fashion.
‘I do,’ I said.
She gripped my arm so tightly it made me gasp.
‘You have to help me,’ she said. ‘You have to help me get a job.’
Chapter 4 (#ulink_6cbbf7a5-29f9-54a3-aba2-51bec22a7689)
I stared at her hand, which was digging into my arm through my mac. Her fingernails were bitten down, and there was a smear of mascara and eyeliner across the back of her hand. I tried not to recoil from the dirt.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I can help you.’
The girl let go, much to my relief.
‘Really?’ she said. She ran her fingers through her short hair and made it stick up at the front. ‘I’m just so desperate for a job, you see. I wrote this article and I think it’s really good – at least I thought it was really good. No one will be able to read it now.’
I shrugged.
‘Don’t you have a copy?’
‘No,’ the girl wailed.
I subtly glanced at my watch. Rosemary would be expecting those proofs and I really wanted time to have a chat with Frank’s assistant, George. I needed to get rid of this girl.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m the lowest of the low at Home & Hearth. I don’t get to decide who works there. But if you write another feature and send it to me, I’ll make sure Rosemary, the editor, sees it.’
The girl grabbed my arm again, this time in excitement.
‘Would you?’ she said. ‘Would you really do that?’
‘Sure,’ I said. I noticed for the first time how thin she was, and how she was shivering violently because she wasn’t wearing a coat. Again I felt a flash of sympathy for this funny-looking urchin girl.
‘Have you got any money?’ I asked.
The girl raised her chin and looked at me through defiant eyes.
‘Why do you ask?’
I was too embarrassed to say I felt sorry for her.
‘Thought you might have rushed out in a hurry, and forgotten your purse,’ I lied, nodding towards her. ‘No coat.’
‘Oh,’ she said. She let go of my arm – thank goodness – and smoothed down her damp dress. ‘Yes, I didn’t realise it was raining.’
I opened my black patent bag – my pride and joy – and dug about for my purse. I found a ten-shilling note and thrust it at her.
‘I’m really sorry about your article,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got to go and run an errand for my editor. There’s a cafe there…’ I pointed across the road to a narrow shopfront, nestled in between two offices. ‘…go and get yourself a coffee and warm up.’
She looked doubtful, but she took the note anyway.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ she said.
I nodded, even though I was fairly sure that would never happen.
‘Tell Bruno that you’re my friend and he might throw in a free slice of cake,’ I said.
She grinned at me.
‘What’s your name?’ she said.
‘Nancy Harrison.’
‘I’m Suze,’ she said. ‘Suzanne Williams.’
I smiled back.
‘Hi Suze,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I have to go.’
I patted her briefly on her soggy arm and headed towards Carnaby Street.
‘It was nice to meet you,’ Suze called, over her shoulder as she crossed the Soho cobbles to Bruno’s. ‘See you soon.’
‘Not likely,’ I muttered.
I dashed down the road towards Frank’s studio, pleased to have got away from the girl. I would miss the ten shillings but I couldn’t help thinking I’d got off likely as I climbed the many stairs to Frank’s attic and rapped on the door.
George answered and my stomach did the usual flutter it did every time I saw him. He had longish dark hair that curled over his collar at the back – Dad would call him a hippy even though he wasn’t – and a cheeky smile that he rewarded me with now.
‘Hoped Rosemary would send you,’ he said. ‘Frank’s in the darkroom, just sorting the prints out. Tea?’
I followed him inside, shrugging off my damp mac and hanging it on a hook behind the door. I spent so much time in Frank’s studio, I felt very at home there.
George made me a cup of tea and we sat on the battered sofa together, waiting for Frank to finish.
‘I just met someone who thought I could get her a job on Home & Hearth,’ I said.
George raised an eyebrow.
‘She thought you were Rosemary?’ he said. ‘I can see why someone would mix you two up…’
I gave him a friendly shove and he laughed.
‘She was hanging about outside the office,’ I said. ‘She’d brought an article to show us, but I knocked her and she dropped it in a puddle.’
‘Unlucky.’
I made a face.
‘I felt a bit bad, so I bought her a coffee,’ I said.
George laughed.
‘You’re such a sucker,’ he said. ‘You’re way too nice.’
I laughed too.
‘She might be an editor one day,’ I pointed out. ‘She might remember I was nice to her, and give me a job.’
George shook his head.
‘You’ll be the editor,’ he said. ‘You’re going places, Nancy Harrison.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, only half joking. ‘I’m going to be a big name in the magazine world. I’ll run my own mag, and maybe – just maybe – I’ll need a good photographer.’
George nodded mock-gravely.
‘I’ll think to myself, who do I know in the photography business,’ I said. ‘And I’ll remember George. And I’ll think, I know – I’ll ask George…’
I paused.
‘I’ll ask George, if he knows any good photographers.’
George threw his head back and laughed. I was pleased. I got a real thrill from making him laugh and he obviously felt the same about me. We were sitting closer together now, I noticed. His long thigh was touching my leg. I knew I should move away – I was engaged after all, even if George didn’t know that – but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to shift along.
We looked at each other for a moment – a long moment.
Then Frank threw open the door to the darkroom.
‘Prints,’ he announced. ‘Hi, kid.’
‘Hi Frank,’ I said, annoyed and relieved in equal measures that he’d interrupted me and George.
‘Fashion,’ he said, giving me a large envelope. ‘I’m pleased with them. Get Rosemary to call and tell me what she thinks.’
I nodded.
‘Did you bring me an issue?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said, I’d thrown it on a side table when I came in, so I fetched it now. Frank – who was in his forties with a bushy beard that he claimed he’d cultivated to make him look like a grown-up – held the issue at arm’s length and looked at the cover. It was a photograph of a pie, taken from above, on a dark-brown background.
‘Fucking dreadful,’ he said.
I grinned. I agreed entirely.
‘Why don’t you put people on the cover?’
I shrugged.
‘Not up to me,’ I said.
‘One day it will be up to you,’ George said.
‘One day,’ I laughed. I pulled on my mac again and picked up the envelope of prints.
‘I’ll get Rosemary to ring you,’ I said. ‘Bye George.’
George blew me a kiss and I floated on air all the way back to the office.
As I was walking past Bruno’s though, a shout made me look round.
‘Nancy,’ Bruno called from the door of the café. ‘Nancy! I need you.’
Oh god, had that Suze stolen something or caused a commotion? Heart sinking, I crossed the road.
‘Your friend,’ Bruno said, his Italian accent heavier than usual. ‘She is sick. You have to help her.’
Chapter 5 (#ulink_02318385-40f8-5147-bac2-c84d9bec1dc1)
I can’t lie, for a moment I thought about telling Bruno I barely knew Suze, and going back to work. But then I remembered the slump of her shoulders when she picked up her wet article, and I knew I couldn’t abandon her. What had George called me? A sucker. Sounded about right.
‘Nancy!’ Bruno sounded panicky. ‘She’s at the back.’
I went into the long narrow café, enjoying the warmth after being outside in the rain. The windows were fogged up and there was a buzz of chatter fighting with the hiss of Bruno’s fancy coffee machine that he’d brought with him from Italy.
The left side of the room was lined with booths with maroon, PVC benches. It was close to lunchtime now, so the café was busy and I glanced at the customers as I walked past, appraising their hairstyles, their clothes and their shoes. The counter was on the right, and at the back of the café, past the serving hatch, there were another two booths. That’s where Suze was – right at the back – curled up on one of the PVC benches.
‘She came in, all bouncy,’ Bruno said. ‘She said she was your friend, ordered a coffee and then she fainted. We put her here and gave her some water.’
‘Is she asleep?’ I said, looking at the top of Suze’s dark head, which was all I could see.
‘No,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘I’m awake. I just feel woozy when I sit up.’
‘Sit up, and put your head between your legs,’ I said, remembering my friend Delia from school, who fainted all the time. ‘It gets blood to your brain, or something.’
Suze didn’t reply, but she slowly sat up, giving me a glimpse of her very pale face, then spun her legs round so they were outside the booth, and lowered her head in between her bony knees.
‘Suze,’ I said, studying her shoulder blades, which stuck up like chicken wings. ‘Did you have breakfast?’
She moved slightly – a brief shake of her head.
‘Bruno, can you get her some orange juice and a sandwich?’ I said, wondering if Suze still had that ten-shilling note – junior writer wasn’t a very well paid job. ‘I think she needs to eat something.’
Bruno looked relieved that I was taking charge. He slunk off behind the counter, poured an orange juice, which he handed to me, and busied himself making a sandwich.
I sat down opposite Suze. From the look of her, it wasn’t just breakfast she’d skipped. I wondered if she’d eaten anything all week.
‘Suze,’ I said. She raised her head and I was pleased to see some colour coming back into her cheeks. I pushed the glass of orange juice towards her and she drank it all in one go. ‘Suze, is there anyone I should phone for you?’
She shook her head.
‘A friend?’ I said. ‘Boyfriend? Parents?’
She smiled at me, weakly.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sort of a loner.’
Bruno put the sandwich in front of her and she tore into it. She ate like a child, holding her sandwich two-handed, not worried about how she looked. If my mum had been here to see her, she’d have been horrified at her lack of table manners.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I only live round the corner. I’ll just go home and sleep. I was up late finishing my article.’
I looked at my watch. It was lunchtime now, so Rosemary would assume I’d taken my break after going to Frank’s.
‘Round the corner?’ I said.
‘Peter Street,’ she said, through a mouthful of bread.
That really was just round the corner. I was surprised and impressed that she actually lived in Soho and I wondered if she was one of those society kids who’d dropped out of their rich world but were still supported by their parents.
‘Finish your sandwich and I’ll walk you home,’ I said, partly out of concern for her and partly because I was curious to see where she lived. ‘Make sure you’re okay.’
Suze’s eyes widened in horror.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Honestly, I’m fine now. You go back to work and I’ll pay Bruno and get home.’
‘I’ll walk you home,’ I said firmly.
Suze had finished her sandwich. She looked at me, her head tilted to one side, like she was sizing me up. Then she nodded.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll just pay Bruno.’
She eased the 10/- note out of her pocket and I grabbed her hand.
‘Keep it,’ I said. Like I said, sucker. ‘I’ll pay.’
I settled the bill and with Suze hanging on to my arm like an old lady, we left the café and headed for Berwick Street.
Suze knew everyone. The market traders all called out to her as we passed, and she had quick responses to their questions and jokes.
‘Had one too many?’ the guy on the fruit stall shouted. He had tattoos all over his arms and one crawling up the back of his neck, but his smile as he looked at Suze was kind. I’d probably walked past him every day for a year, but I’d never seen him before.
‘Ha ha,’ Suze said. ‘Just feeling a bit off.’
He threw her a bag and she caught it deftly.
‘Can’t sell these, they’re all bashed,’ he said, winking.
Suze grinned.
‘Thanks.’
She put her mouth close to my ear.
‘Nothing wrong with them,’ she said. ‘He’s such a softie, though you’d never know to look at him.’
I glanced at the greengrocer over my shoulder. She was right about that.
Peter Street ran along the bottom of Berwick Street. One end led to Wardour Street, and the other was a dead-end. Suze led me that way, to a barber’s shop, tucked right in the corner. There was a boarded-up door in between the entrance to the barber and the shop next to it and that was where she headed. She stuck her hand down the neck of her dress and pulled out a tiny key.
‘I keep it in my bra,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’d lose it otherwise.’
Then she unlocked the padlock that was keeping the plywood door firmly shut and pushed me inside, shutting the door behind us and moving the padlock from the outside to the inside.
‘It’s best to keep it locked,’ she said, in a tone that told me she hadn’t always done that.
She led the way up the narrow stairs in front of us. They were covered in threadbare carpet, and the only light came from a dirty, skinny window on the landing.
At the top was a bed-sitting room. It had fabric draped at the two large windows and the day was gloomy so it was hard to see properly. I looked at Suze and she gasped.
‘Oh I’m not being a very good host, am I?’ she said. ‘Come in, come in, sit down.’
She scurried over to the corner of the room and switched on a tall lamp. I was surprised she had electricity in what was clearly a squat, but I didn’t say anything.
Suze, though, read my mind.
‘One of the guys on the market sorted it for me,’ she said. ‘I think he’s connected it to a streetlight.’
I wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, I looked round at the room.
Suze, who was still looking a bit wobbly, threw her arms out.
‘Mia casa,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
It was a fairly large, square room with two big windows that looked out over Peter Street and a bit of the market. I could hear the buzz of chatter and music from the barber shop below, and the shouts of stallholders and shoppers at the market. The windows were covered in offcuts of material – as was the single bed in the corner to my right – I guessed Suze had begged, borrowed or stolen them from the many fabric shops nearby. Piled up near the bed were rows of battered paperbacks. Off to one side was a tiny toilet with a small sink and straight ahead of me was a tiny, two-ring electric hob with one pan, a couple of plates and two mugs neatly stacked next to it.
Beneath one window was a big table with a typewriter on top.
‘My pride and joy,’ Suze said, seeing me looking.
I grinned.
‘I’ve got the same one at home.’
Mine was covered in stickers, though, and my desk at work wasn’t nearly as tidy as Suze’s. She had a stack of blank paper next to the typewriter and two thick cardboard folders on the table, along with a notepad and a pot of pens and pencils.
‘What do you think?’ Suze said. ‘I’ve never had a guest before.’
I smiled at her.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said honestly. ‘It’s perfect.’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_696ee633-a773-5034-a1a7-1869e2e27860)
2016
I felt funny when I got home that evening. A bit low, a bit lost, and – I had to admit – a bit lonely.
I wanted to eat a nice dinner, drink some wine and tell someone about my day. But what I actually did was change into my pyjamas, make tea and eat chocolate. By myself. I lived alone in a once shabby flat, in a once shabby corner of south-east London. Every time I got off the train to go home, I noticed a new juice bar or artisan bakery and thanked my lucky stars I’d got in when I did. I’d never be able to afford my flat now – shabby or otherwise.
I had two bedrooms – one was tiny but I used it as a walk-in wardrobe – a cosy lounge and a very small kitchen, and normally I loved living alone. Today, though, I felt like the flat was just too big.
‘Maybe I should get a cat,’ I wondered out loud. Then I thought about the many, many houseplants I’d killed over the years and decided that was a very bad idea.
I flopped on the sofa in my jimjams and scrolled through endless Netflix options, without choosing anything to watch.
I thought about ringing my mum to tell her I’d started my new job.
‘Darling, well done!’ I imagined her saying. ‘I’m so proud of you and I know how hard you’ve worked.’
What were the chances of her saying that? Slim to nil. She’d listen in silence, making sure I was well aware that she wasn’t remotely interested in what she considered the frivolous and superficial world of women’s magazines. Then she’d tell me about some lecture she’d been asked to give somewhere prestigious – she was an economics don at a college at Oxford University and was always jetting off round the world to be a guest speaker at various conferences. She’d probably throw in some fawning about my future sister-in-law, Isabelle, who was one of Mum’s former PhD students – she’d met my brother Rick at a department summer party that I’d not been invited to. Isabelle was going some way to making up for the terrible disappointment my career choices had brought my mother and she talked about her a lot. She might even do the thing where she’d tell me about a friend’s son or daughter who’d just been made partner at a law firm, or published some ground-breaking scientific research, or started their own charity. She’d fill me in on all the details, then with self-pity dripping from every word, she’d say: ‘I always thought you’d end up doing something like that, but you went a different way…’
No. Mum was not the person I needed to speak to right now. And ringing Jen wasn’t a good idea either. She was ignoring my calls for a reason and I wanted to give her time to calm down.
Maybe I couldn’t settle because I needed to get down some ideas for the magazine? I turned on my laptop and opened a new document, but after staring at the blank screen for half an hour, I admitted defeat. Instead, I padded through to the kitchen, made another cup of tea, and grabbed the rest of my family-sized bar of chocolate out of the fridge. Then, even though it was only eight p.m., I went to bed and snuggled up under the duvet. I spent the rest of the evening looking at old photos of my time in Australia – my time with Damian – on my laptop.
What can I say? Every girl needs a hobby.
I’d always regretted the way Damo and I had split up – it had been pretty brutal – but I’d never regretted moving on because I knew I’d had good reasons at the time. But now I’d seen him I was struggling to remember what those reasons were.
I scrolled through the pictures until my eyes were burning. Damo and me climbing Sydney Harbour Bridge, trekking in the bush, messing around at the pool on the roof of our apartment block… It was like watching a montage from a rubbish romcom.
I woke up at five a.m., with a crick in my neck and my head resting on my laptop. I’d dribbled on the screen, which was frozen on a photo of Damo sitting on the edge of a bright blue pool, wearing nothing but denim shorts and a smile. I shut the laptop with a snap and, groaning, I dragged myself out of bed.
‘Back to work,’ I told myself firmly as I pulled on my gym gear. ‘No distractions. No complications, just work.’
One spin class, one shower and two flat whites later and I was raring to go. I gathered the team in my office, ready to start brainstorming ideas to transform Mode and send its sales soaring.
At least, I was ready. The rest of the team looked at their feet and didn’t speak.
‘So we’re looking for someone to put on the next cover,’ I said. ‘I know Vanessa mentioned Sarah Sanderson but I’m really after someone zingy and exciting and a bit younger than Dawn Robin – lovely though she is.’
I’d read Vanessa’s interview with the soap star yesterday and it was fine. Great, in fact. It just wasn’t very Mode. Passionate as Dawn was about home baking, I couldn’t see sassy, twenty-something professionals queuing up to find out what she used to make her scones rise.
I beamed at Vanessa.
‘It was a great chat,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘Any ideas about who we should do next?’
Vanessa leafed through her notebook painfully slowly. It was obvious to me she’d not prepared for the meeting at all.
‘I met that MP, last month, at a book launch,’ she said finally.
‘MP?’ I tried very hard not to roll my eyes.
‘That young one,’ she said, still turning pages. ‘The one who no one expected to win, except she did and now she’s an MP even though she’s only just graduated.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, feeling a bit excited. ‘Joanna Fuller?’
‘That’s it,’ Vanessa said. ‘What about her?’
‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘We’d need to shoot her though – make her look more Mode. And MPs are a nightmare to get time with. We might need to do the shoot and the interview whenever we can and sit on it.’
Vanessa nodded.
‘So what about next issue,’ I said. ‘Any ideas? We need to be quick, because we’re late planning this one.’
Not content with taking half the team with her to her new job, Sophie had apparently stopped planning future issues as soon as she’d handed in her notice, leaving me with barely anything in the bag and very tight deadlines.
No one seemed to share my sense of urgency.
Vanessa shrugged. She really was infuriating. I looked at my own notes.
‘What about Amy Lavender?’ I said. ‘She’s everywhere right now and her agent owes me a favour, which is lucky because our budgets are very small. If we can shoot her and interview her on the same day, we’ll have time to use it next issue. I’ll sort it out.’
‘Great idea,’ said Milly. ‘I love her. She’s hilarious.’
Vanessa looked furious.
‘Fine,’ she said, even though it was clearly anything but.
‘What else?’
‘We’ve got the Jurassic diet plan,’ Vanessa said. ‘It’s the new paleo. Basically you only eat kale and chia seeds, mushed together in a kind of primordial ooze.’
I brightened up. This was more like it.
‘Get someone to do it,’ I said. ‘And write a diary. And find a nutritionist to sing about how fabulous it is, and another one who’ll trash it completely.’
Vanessa sighed, but she didn’t complain. She wrote something on her pad that seemed to be a lot more detailed than what I’d just said. I wondered if she was writing rude things about me. I used to do that when I was an intern and editors were dismissive of me – though I really thought someone of Vanessa’s age and experience should have been past that by now.
I moved on.
‘Fashion?’ I said.
The fashion editor was a woman called Riley who I had worked with briefly years ago. I’d been so grateful to see a familiar face when I’d realised who she was yesterday, that I’d almost hugged her. Thankfully I’d stopped myself just in time.
Now she leaned back in her chair, stretching out her long brown legs – which were bare even though it was January – and smiled at me.
‘I’ve got a dresses shoot that’s in the bag,’ she said. ‘But if we’re doing Amy Lavender, we could hang on to the dresses for next issue and perhaps we could get her to do something instead?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ridiculously pleased that finally someone was using their initiative.
‘She wears lots of vintage stuff, right?’ Riley went on thoughtfully. ‘How about I take her for a trawl round some of the shops near here. We can do a feature on how to wear vintage clothes, ask Amy for her tips, and get her to model what we find.’
I loved that idea. I told her so.
‘We could do a whole vintage issue,’ said Milly, looking excited. ‘Theme the whole magazine.’
‘We could use Vanessa’s feature on Dawn Robin,’ I said wryly. Everyone laughed – except Vanessa. Oops.
‘Seriously, though,’ I said. ‘Theming the issues is a great idea. We could definitely do that. It might give us a bit of an edge – make us different.’
And help us survive, I thought.
A tiny voice spoke from the corner of my office.
I looked round. Our work experience girl, a quiet student whose name I had absolutely no chance of remembering, was there, hunched over a notebook and blushing furiously.
‘Pardon?’ I said.
She blushed even more and cleared her throat.
‘I was just saying, it’s Mode’s fiftieth anniversary,’ she said. ‘In September. So if you wanted to do a vintage theme, that would be a good time to do it.’
I stared at her. She looked down at her notebook.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Emily,’ she said.
‘Emily, you are a genius.’
She beamed at me.
‘Let’s do it,’ I said. ‘Let’s theme every issue. This one could be…’
I thought for a moment. Everyone looked at me expectantly.
‘…back to basics,’ I said. ‘Inspired by Vanessa’s Jurassic diet.’
A ghost of a smile crossed Vanessa’s face. Just a ghost, mind you.
‘I’ll do black and white fashion with Amy, then,’ Riley said. ‘Maybe some denim? And do the vintage stuff too, and hang on to it for a couple of months.’
I nodded.
Slowly, painfully, but finally, everyone started to come up with ideas of themes, of features, of fashion shoots, cover stars – the works. The beauty editor, who was aptly named Pritti, wowed me with her knowledge of different make-up looks that could fit with every theme someone shouted out. Vanessa didn’t offer many ideas, but even she didn’t seem quite as hostile as she had done.
Eventually we had a plan for the back-to-basics issue, and the beginning of a plan for future issues, too. I knew this was going to be hard work. Harder than hard work. But maybe, just maybe, we were going to pull it off.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_05dc0c34-6d3c-50b1-86e4-6654b98c444b)
I can’t lie, those first few days on Mode were a slog. I started work early and stayed late, going over page proofs, rewriting features to make them fit within our back-to-basics theme, making endless lists – and avoiding Lizzie.
I’d expected to see Damo around but actually I’d not crossed paths with him since that first day. Once, I’d been staring out of my office window and seen him crossing the road outside, and I’d heard his laugh a few times echoing down the open-plan office from Homme, but I’d not actually spoken to him. I couldn’t decide if I was pleased or disappointed about that.
Desperate to get everyone involved in the process of revitalising Mode, I got a big white board put up in the office and urged everyone to write ideas on it.
‘Anything goes,’ I trilled, putting some pens on the shelf next to it. ‘The crazier, the better. Features ideas, cover ideas, events, sponsorship plans – absolutely anything.’
But now, a whole week after it had been put up, the board was still mostly bare. Riley had written up some ideas for future fashion shoots, but I wasn’t sure ‘SOMETHING FUNNY’ was really what Mode readers were after. I did, however, love the idea for a monthly ‘unlikely style crush’. How to recreate outfits worn by cartoon characters, people from books, old ladies… Riley had scrawled on the board.
I picked up a pen and wrote ‘I love this!’ next to her idea, then I stared at the rest of the bare board in despair.
‘Come on,’ I said, under my breath, even though it was barely eight a.m. and I was alone in the office. ‘I can’t do this by myself.’
I’d come in early to wrestle with the budgets for the next few issues, which wasn’t a fun way to start the day. The rest of the office filled up gradually, and by ten a.m. everyone was there. I left my office door open all the time but no one popped their heads round to say hello. I was still very much an outsider.
I sent my budget outline to Lizzie, hoping she’d agree with how I’d moved the money around, and then I sat quietly for a minute, trying to pluck up the courage to go and speak to my team. I didn’t want to – how ridiculous was that?
I picked up my phone to call Jen, then put it down again. She probably wouldn’t answer anyway, and – I thought with uncharacteristic insecurity – I couldn’t say I blamed her.
A knock on my office doorframe made me look up. It was Emily, the intern, wobbling under the weight of a pile of magazines.
‘I’ve been using these for my uni research project,’ she said. ‘Thought they might be useful.’
She lurched over to my desk and dropped the pile in front of me.
‘They’re the first issues of Mode,’ she said. ‘They’re amazing.’
I looked at the issue on the top. It was from the late 1960s and had Twiggy on the cover. I felt a shiver of excitement.
‘Where did you get these?’ I asked Emily.
She grinned at me.
‘There’s a guy called Kevin, works in the library in the basement,’ she said.
‘There’s a library?’ I was impressed with her knowledge.
‘It’s not massive, but it’s brilliant,’ she said. ‘Anyway, Kevin’s got a daughter about my age, I gave him some advice about something, and bob’s your uncle – he bent the rules and let me take the magazines away.’
I was impressed. I studied Emily carefully. She had strawberry blonde hair that was twisted back and up on her head, Adele-style, and she was wearing capri pants and a fitted fifties-look blouse. She looked great and absolutely nothing like the interns I was used to, who were like one great identical mass of oversized tote bags and false eyelashes.
She looked back at me for a moment then lowered her eyes shyly.
‘Just thought they might be helpful,’ she said.
‘They’re not just helpful,’ I said, picking up the Twiggy issue. ‘They’re life-saving.’
She grinned again.
‘How long are you here for, Emily?’ I asked.
‘One more month,’ she said.
I made a note on my to-do list to speak to HR about taking her on full-time, and to re-do the budget I’d just sent to Lizzie to pay for her, then smiled at her.
‘There are some photos in there,’ she said, gesturing to the magazines. ‘I found them inside one of the issues.’
She leafed through the pile and pulled out an A4-size black and white glossy print.
‘It’s the team who worked on the very first issue,’ she said.
I looked at the photo. There were about ten people in the shot, their arms linked. At the centre, holding a magazine, was an older woman – about fifty-ish – stylish in a boxy Chanel suit. It was mostly women and they all looked incredible. I breathed out.
‘Those clothes,’ I said.
‘I know,’ Emily said. She came round my desk and leaned over my shoulder.
‘That’s the first editor,’ she said, pointing to the older woman.
I nodded.
‘Margi Matthews,’ I said. I’d read about her, of course. She’d come from the States and had been a real trailblazer.
‘And that is Suze Williams,’ Emily pointed to a young woman at one end of the picture. She had dark hair in a crop just like Twiggy’s, and she was wearing a very short, black pinafore dress over a white long-sleeved t-shirt and white tights.
‘No way,’ I said. Margi was the founding editor of the magazine, but it was Suze who’d made it what it was now. She’d been editor in the late seventies and had taken Mode from its cautious beginnings as a fashion mag, to one of the most controversial and sassy women’s mags in the business.
‘She started out as editorial assistant,’ Emily said. ‘She worked on the very first issue, and eventually took over.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I said, staring at the pic. ‘Can you take some of these, go through them and make some notes about features that catch your eye?’ I said, a germ of an idea taking root in my mind. ‘I’ll take the other half.’
‘Of course,’ Emily said, looking like I’d given her a present. ‘I’d love to.’
She took a bundle of mags from the top of the pile and headed out of my office.
I sat back in my chair, pleased with her initiative, and started leafing through the issues. They made me really sad. It was such a brilliant magazine and if Lizzie had her way it would be the end. I loved digital and how you could react to things happening immediately online, but in my opinion there was nothing better than treating yourself to a glossy magazine and curling up on the sofa to read it. Grace was a great magazine, I liked it a lot, but it didn’t have the history that Mode had. It had changed its image so many times over the years that its early days as Home & Hearth were completely forgotten now – except to magazine geeks like me.
I read for well over an hour, jotting down ideas. Magazines had really changed, that was for sure, but what surprised me about those early editions was just how blunt and honest they were. There was loads of sex in them, hard-hitting features on things like abortion and racism, there was humour, advice, and a real feeling of being in this together. We could learn a lot from these issues, I thought.
I picked up the photograph of the first Mode team again and stared at it. There were only about ten people in the picture. They all had their arms linked and they were laughing. Margi Matthews, in the middle, was holding a round glass of champagne and the man to her left, who was wearing Mad Men style glasses, was gripping the bottle. There was so much energy and enthusiasm oozing out of the photo I could almost feel it.
I tapped the photo against my chin, thinking. The difference between the team in this picture and the team I was looking at – the nervous, quiet, worried team I had – was astonishing. Somehow I had to get that enthusiasm into my team if we were going to have any chance of beating Grace’s brilliant sales. I couldn’t rely on Vanessa to come up with exciting ideas, that was clear. I needed a right-hand woman. Someone I could work with. Someone who knew me inside out. In short, I needed Jen.
She and I had worked together on and off for years. We’d met when we were both interns on magazines in the same company. Our careers had followed similar paths and we’d ended up as deputy editor – me – and features director – her – on Happy magazine. We’d loved working so closely together. I was in awe of Jen’s creativity and her knack of knowing exactly what the magazine needed each issue, while I knew I was better at managing a team and getting the job done.
We’d worked so well together in fact that we’d hatched a plan. We’d started plotting to launch our own online magazine, which we’d planned to call The Hive. We’d approached writers, spoken to designers, I’d even had some tentative meetings about getting finance in place. The feedback was enthusiastic, there was a real buzz about it and things were moving. And then Lizzie had called me to chat about this job. I’d not mentioned it to Jen at first, thinking it would come to nothing. But somehow I’d gone for one interview, then another, then presented to the board… and suddenly I was the new editor of Mode. I had to tell Jen – and more importantly we had to put all our plans for The Hive on hold.
Not surprisingly, Jen was furious. She’d put a lot of work into The Hive.
‘Carry on,’ I’d said, as we sat in our favourite bar the day I told her. ‘Carry on without me.’
She’d shaken her head, her bleached blonde hair brushing her shoulders.
‘You know that wouldn’t work,’ she’d said. ‘It’s called The Hive for a reason. It’s not a solo venture.’
‘I’ll help,’ I said desperately. ‘At evenings and weekends. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.’
Jen stared into her glass.
‘You won’t,’ she said. She didn’t sound angry, she just sounded disappointed and really tired. ‘You’ll do whatever you want to do. That’s what you always do.’
She fished a ten-pound note out of her purse and shoved it at me.
‘For the drink,’ she muttered. Then she picked up her bag and left.
I’d not seen her since then. I was put on gardening leave as soon as I handed in my notice, so I’d not gone back to Happy. Jen hadn’t replied to my emails and she cancelled all my calls. I knew she was acting as editor while the bosses at Happy found someone new to fill my role and I hoped she was doing well. She’d make a great editor and I knew she’d been bored to tears before – it was one of the reasons she’d been so keen to launch The Hive.
Although, I thought now, tapping my nails on the front cover of the first ever Mode, it might be good if she was bored.
Without stopping to think, I scrolled through my phone to her number and hit call. It rang a couple of times, then went straight to voicemail as I’d thought it would.
‘Jen, it’s me,’ I said. ‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry about everything. I’ve got lots to say to you but for now, let me just say this…’
I paused.
‘Do you want a job?’
I ended the call and sat back. As I’d hoped, my phone rang almost straight away.
‘What sort of job?’ Jen said.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_3fd6b6e1-82d9-513a-ad34-eb702731e648)
‘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 (#ulink_25bee4d0-d89a-5886-b3a4-8234809515f7)
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 (#ulink_702f4fa1-135d-57e3-b882-7301f55e6126)
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 holdall, 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.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_682ce2fd-0604-55db-bb49-a6bbf50d4f92)
2016
‘Professional?’ Damo said, shovelling a forkful of rice into his mouth. ‘What does that mean?’
I snapped a poppadom in half, put both pieces back on my plate and sighed.
‘It means,’ I said. ‘That we put whatever happened between us to one side, and we move on like grown-ups.’
Damo grinned at me.
‘Move on?’
‘Stop repeating everything I say,’ I said, remembering how infuriating he could be.
‘I need a good art editor, you need a job and you’re a good art editor. We can help each other.’
Damo didn’t look very convinced.
‘I’ve got a job,’ he said. ‘So why would I come and work for you?’
‘You’ve got some freelance shifts,’ I pointed out, offering him my broken poppadom. I wasn’t very hungry and I definitely didn’t fancy curry at lunchtime – I’d only agreed to come to Damo’s favourite restaurant as part of my campaign to butter him up.
‘Yeah, but I like being flexible,’ he said. ‘And you’re really bossy.’
I glowered at him.
‘I’m not bossy, I’m the boss,’ I said. I was beginning to recall why we’d split up. Damo was so laid back he was virtually horizontal. He wouldn’t commit to anything, he had the itchiest feet of anyone I’d ever met, and he really didn’t like being tied down. When we’d first met – when I moved to Sydney to work for a year on a mag out there – his spontaneity had thrilled me. He’d moved into my tiny apartment within about three weeks of us getting together and we’d spent weekends exploring the city and our holidays travelling all over Australia. Then, when he’d decided it was time to move on, I’d agreed. Except, I was putting down roots in Sydney. I had a lot of misgivings and doubts about his plans – and I’d never quite got round to telling him about those doubts.
As Damo gave away the few possessions he’d accumulated during his time in Sydney, and planned a route round South East Asia, he’d tell me stories about amazing things we’d see in Thailand and Laos and Cambodia.
But I had my eye on another prize – the next step on the career ladder. The deputy editor on the magazine I worked for had told me she was leaving and I wanted her job. I wanted it so badly it was like a physical pain. I knew I could do it, and do it really well. I knew I’d work brilliantly with the editor and I knew she wanted me to apply. It was perfect – but I’d not mentioned to Damo that I wanted to stay in Australia.
‘Tell him,’ Jen emailed me. ‘Tell him that you’re not going.’
‘I can’t,’ I typed back. ‘There’s never a good time.’
‘Better now than at the airport,’ she’d written.
But in the end, I’d chosen the worst possible time. We’d gone out one Saturday, into the city centre. Damo was fidgety with excitement because he’d hit his savings target, he’d shed his belongings and he’d decided today was the day we were going to buy our tickets to Bangkok.
‘And after the full moon party, we’ll head over to some of the smaller islands…’ Damo was saying.
I stopped walking.
‘Fearne?’ Damo said. ‘What’s up?’
I looked at him, standing in the clean Sydney street, his shaggy hair blowing in the wind and his brown eyes scrunched up against the sun, and I couldn’t believe what I was going to say.
‘Fearne?’ he said again.
‘I’m not going,’ I said.
Damo looked confused.
‘I thought you said you were free all morning,’ he said. ‘We can go to the travel agent later, if you’ve got something else on…’
I shook my head.
‘I’m not going to Asia,’ I said. ‘I’m staying here.’
Damian got it straight away.
‘Patti’s job?’ he said.
I nodded, biting my lip.
‘I really want it, Damo,’ I said. ‘I need that job.’
‘There will be other jobs.’
I shook my head.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe not.’
Damo took my hand.
‘You can spend your whole life trying to make your parents proud of you,’ he said. ‘And who knows, maybe one day it’ll work.’
I looked at my feet, tanned in my flip flops – thongs they called them here, though I’d never get used to that. I couldn’t meet Damo’s eyes.
‘But maybe,’ Damo carried on. ‘Maybe nothing you do will ever be good enough, and maybe you should live a little. There are more important things than work, you know.’
I gave a small smile.
‘Like what?’ I said.
‘Like me.’
For a moment we stared at each other, both of us knowing it was one of those Sliding Doors moments. And then, slowly, I shook my head.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not going.’
Damo let go of my hand.
‘I’ll see you around,’ he said.
And then he walked away. He’d taken all his stuff out of my apartment by the time I got home that evening and he booked his flight to Asia for a few days later. I was heartbroken, of course. Despite everything, I’d fallen really hard for him, and he’d hit a nerve when he’d talked about my parents. But, true to form, I dusted myself off, threw myself into making Patti’s job my own, and returned to London a year later to carry on climbing that career ladder.
I missed Damo of course. I thought about him a lot during my time in Sydney and even when I returned to London. But I didn’t see him again until he showed up in my office.
Now, sitting opposite him, I was amazed he didn’t hold more ill will towards me.
‘Damo,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about what happened. With us, I mean.’
He shrugged.
‘Long time ago,’ he said.
‘I know.’
My mouth was dry. I hated apologising.
‘I handled it all really badly,’ I said. ‘And I still think about you a lot. I’m sorry if I hurt you.’
Damian looked up at me. He had odd greeny-brown eyes, which looked bright in his brown face – he was still tanned, even though the London weather had made him paler than I’d ever seen him before.
‘I’ve not been moping for five years,’ he said, bluntly. ‘We had a great thing, but it ended and we moved on. We’re over it. I’m over it. Aren’t you?’
I swallowed.
‘Of course,’ I said in a squeaky voice. I couldn’t look at his face so I focused on his arms instead. His buff, brown arms… Nope. His face was better. I was over it. At least, I had been, until he turned up in my office.
I took a deep breath.
‘Give me six months,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some brilliant ideas to turn the magazine around, but I need you to help make it work. Six months is all I need.’
Nine months would be better, but somehow that sounded much longer.
‘Six months,’ Damo said. He wiped his plate with a piece of naan.
‘That’s it,’ I said, hoping to appeal to his flighty nature. ‘Six months.’
‘Is Jen in?’
‘She’s in.’
‘All right,’ Damo said. ‘I’ll do it.’
I swallowed the squeal of delight that rose up in my throat and instead I gave him what I hoped was a professional smile.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘I’ll let HR know.’
Chapter 12 (#ulink_e2a5b8dd-8d87-52e3-a283-6df4d6d73d52)
Getting Jen and Damo on board was the easy bit, I knew that. But I hadn’t quite expected the rest of it to be so hard.
We’d finished the Back to Basics issue, and moved on to Body Confidence. I was very aware that I’d already been at Mode for a month and basically done nothing. My deadline was getting closer and things hadn’t changed. I hardly did anything but work and sleep, although I had to confess that was nothing new. And despite all that, I couldn’t help thinking my ideas were dated and tired. I spent ages poring over back issues of Mode and Grace, trying to find out where we’d gone wrong but I hadn’t yet hit on the magic formula that would make our readers come back.
It was Monday, the Back to Basics issue had been on sale for a week, and I was getting a bit antsy about getting some early sales figures which I was expecting that day.
And I knew I had to have a catch-up meeting with Vanessa too, which I was dreading. She’d gone from being obstructive and rude, to being outright hostile – I wanted to get to the bottom of it.
She slid into my office a little while later and sat opposite me in such a sulky fashion that I almost expected her to stick her tongue out.
‘Hi,’ I said, cheerfully, gathering together my pile of old issues of Grace and Mode and dumping them on top of the vintage issues Emily had given me.
Vanessa gave me a tight smile and I suddenly felt angry. I had worked with all sorts of people over the years, some nice, some not – and she was just one more. If she didn’t like me, fine, but we had to work together.
I took a breath.
‘Vanessa,’ I said. ‘Do we have a problem?’
She flushed.
‘What kind of problem?’
‘You tell me,’ I said. ‘You’re sullen, unhelpful and you obviously don’t like me. But we have to work together and unless you can lose the attitude, you can’t stay.’
Vanessa looked horrified and for a moment she stared at me in defiance. Then her angular shoulders dropped and she nodded.
‘That’s the problem,’ she said.
I raised an eyebrow and she sighed.
‘I wasn’t supposed to stay,’ she said. ‘I was supposed to be going with Sophie to her new magazine – as her deputy. But they had someone in place, and Sophie ditched me rather than miss her chance.’
She looked up at me.
‘I guess I’m still a bit annoyed.’
Well, that was an understatement. But I felt a slight flush of shame – what Sophie had done to Vanessa wasn’t a million miles away from what I’d done to Jen.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t know exactly what went on between you and Sophie, and you don’t need to tell me, but let me lay my cards on the table. Unless we all pull our fingers out, Mode is going to close. They’re desperate to shut us down, and unless we all start coming up with some ideas, we’re toast.’
Vanessa winced.
‘I’m not very good at ideas,’ she said.
Another understatement. I started to speak but she hadn’t finished.
‘But I did have one idea,’ she continued. ‘About where we sell the mag.’
I nodded.
‘I love magazines,’ she said. ‘I work in the magazine business. And I can’t remember the last time I went into a newsagent. Probably at the airport last summer.’
I nodded again, not sure where she was going with this.
‘So I look online – because my phone is always where I am and magazines aren’t.’
‘You’re not making me feel any better,’ I said.
Vanessa smiled.
‘We need to sell the magazine where the readers are,’ she said. ‘Gyms, cinemas, coffee shops, Topshop…’
I was staring at her, open-mouthed.
‘It was just an idea,’ she muttered.
I reached across the desk and gripped her hand. She looked alarmed.
‘It’s an absolutely brilliant idea,’ I said. ‘Brilliant.’
Vanessa pulled her hand away but she gave me a proper smile this time.
‘Really?’
I smiled back.
‘Really.’
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Kerry Barrett
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 07.05.2024
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О книге: ‘A fantastic and engaging read. Kerry Barrett truly is a very talented author.’ – Babs (Goodreads)Two women. Two decades. One story.Fearne has landed her dream job to run Mode. Except the dream isn’t quite so rosy in reality, the print magazine is struggling and Fearne is determined to save it!In 1966, desperate to escape her life, Nancy moves to London with her brilliantly unpredictable friend Suze to achieve their dream of writing for Mode magazine together.For Mode to survive Fearne needs to recreate the magic of the early issues and she is on track to find Suze – Mode’s longest-serving editor. Unbeknownst to Fearne, what she uncovers might be the biggest story of her career…Loved The Forgotten Girl then don’t miss out on A Step in Time the emotional novel from Kerry Barrett – out now!What reviewers are saying about A Step in Time‘It’s all set against the backdrop of Strictly Stars Dancing, adding an extra element of glitz and glamour to the proceedings. This is a great book that I devoured in two sittings and it’s absolutely perfect for summer holidays or wintry days snuggled on the sofa.’ – Bab’s Bookshelf‘This was a really enjoyable, funny read… I recommend this book to fans of Strictly, and also to anyone who wants a feel good story with so much more depth to it than some I have read.’ – Fiona’s Book Reviews‘Sparkly, fun, witty and deeper than expected… There aren′t enough stars for this fun, deeper than expected witty and relaxing read. Highly recommended.’ – Michelle (Goodreads)