The Forgotten Girl (11 page)

Everyone just stared at their feet except Emily, who gave me a quick sympathetic grin.

I'd brought the pile of old issues into the meeting with me. Now I handed them out and I was gratified to see the first glimmers of interest in the team as they started to flick through them.

‘You'll be able to see straight away just how much there is in these magazines,' I said.

‘It would take you days to read all this,' said Riley, who was turning pages rapidly trying to find the fashion section.

‘Exactly,' I said. ‘I want to really give our readers something to talk about. I want them saying “oh I read this thing in Mode…” and I want them to feel like they're taking something away from our magazine.'

‘We don't want to be preachy,' Jen said, and I gave her a quick grin. ‘We just want to get people thinking.'

‘I want cover stars who actually have something to say, rather than just promoting their latest film,' I said. ‘Vanessa, Joanna Fuller is perfect for that. See if you can interview her in the House of Commons and find out what it's like being a twenty-five-year-old female MP in a world of old men in suits.'

Vanessa nodded firmly.

‘Humour's important too though,' I said. ‘We don't want to be boring. There are loads of fab female comedians around – maybe one of them could write a column for us? Or someone might even make a cover star.'

‘What about that woman who won the baking show?' Jen said. ‘She could do some cookery features.'

‘Great, yes,' I said. This was it – we were really getting somewhere. ‘And we could do with getting a health expert and a fitness guru on board too. But they have to be people who really know what they're talking about. I don't want a reality star who's done a fitness video.'

Riley was leafing through the fashion pages and talking urgently to Pritti, the beauty editor, who was scribbling furious notes. Damo was listening to her ideas and pointing to something on the page as she talked. I caught Jen's eye and she winked.

‘It's going to work,' she said in a low voice. ‘This is brilliant.'

Emily caught my eye.

‘You should speak to Suze Williams,' she said. ‘I bet she'd have loads of ideas.'

‘Oh wouldn't it be amazing to pick her brains?' I said.

‘Whose brains?' said Jen.

I leafed through my papers and found the photo of the first Mode team. I showed it to Jen and pointed to the short-haired, smiley brunette at the end of the line. ‘Suze Williams. She was editorial assistant when the magazine launched and she went on to become Mode's editor, but I'm not sure what happened to her after that.'

‘She'd make a great feature herself,' Jen said. ‘I bet she's got some brilliant stories to tell.'

‘I Googled her but it's weird,' I said, opening my laptop. ‘She was editor for about ten years, then she just disappeared in the late seventies.'

I typed her name into the search engine.

‘Did she go to America maybe?' Jen suggested, peering over my shoulder.

‘Doesn't look like it,' I said. ‘Wiki just says she left Mode in 1979 and then it doesn't say what happened to her.'

Emily was on her phone, scrolling through search results.

‘There's a mention of her here on this romance novels website,' she said. ‘At least it might be her. It mentions a romance novelist called Susannah Harrison and then in brackets it says Suze Williams.'

She showed me the screen on her phone and I shrugged.

‘It's plausible,' I said. ‘Writing is writing and Harrison could be her married name, or a pen name.'

I typed Susannah Harrison into Google this time and found an author's biography on her website. She had written almost a hundred romance novels – the most recent one had been published last year so she was obviously still working.

‘It says she lives in a village in Kent, with her dog,' I said.

‘Does it say her real name is Suze Williams?' Jen asked.

I shook my head.

There's no mention of Suze Williams,' I said. ‘But there is a contact-me form…'

‘Fill it in,' said Jen. ‘We could really do with her expertise.'

‘What if it's not her?'

She made a face.

‘Then we keep looking.'

Quickly I wrote a message explaining who I was and what we needed and pressed send. Then I looked up at the team, who were all now crowded round Pritti, Riley and Damo, swapping ideas for features. Even Vanessa was adding some ideas and – I blinked in surprise – she was even smiling.

Jen squeezed my arm.

‘You're a really good editor,' she said. ‘And this is going to be a really good issue. It's going to be remembered for a long time.'

I squeezed her back.

‘You think so?' I said.

She nodded and I sighed.

‘I just hope it's enough to make the magazine work.

Chapter 17

After the meeting Damo went to sort out some last bits on Homme, Jen went back to her office, and my team all went for lunch. Without asking me to join them. Oh well, I had lots to do anyway.

I sat at my desk and thought about what I'd ask Suze Williams if I managed to get in touch with her. It would be amazing to get her take on modern magazines, I thought. Then, more gloomily, I wondered what she'd think of our most recent sales figures and whether she'd think we were a lost cause.

The phone on my desk rang, startling me out of my miserable musings.

‘Hi Fearne, it's Kinga on reception,' she sang as I answered. ‘Your mum is here for you.'

I laughed.

‘Think you've got the wrong person,' I said. ‘My mum's not here.'

But then I heard Mum's voice as she spoke to Kinga.

‘I'll go straight up,' she said. ‘Which floor?'

‘Third,' Kinga said, as I said: ‘No!'

Too late. Mum was here? What on earth for?

Fixing a smile on my face, I went to wait for her by the lift, trying not to grimace as the doors opened and she stepped out.

I had inherited Mum's hair and very little else. She wore her blonde waves shorter than me, above her chin in loose curls, and her colour was now more platinum than honey. Today she was wearing dark brown slim trousers, with flat leather Chelsea boots, a pale pink blouse and a loose brown slouchy wrap. She looked younger than her sicty-five years and very stylish.

‘Darling,' she said, kissing me on the cheek then holding me at arm's length to look me up and down. ‘What funny shoes.'

I was wearing blinding white Adidas trainers – hardly clown shoes – but I forced myself to smile, ignoring her comment.

‘Mum,' I said. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘It's reading week for my students,' she said, with a wave of her hand. ‘There are no lectures, so Daddy and I are having a day in town. I told you this.'

‘You didn't,' I said.

Mum looked unapologetic.

‘Oh I must have forgotten,' she said. ‘It's been frantic at work and the bloody Today programme are never off the phone.'

‘There's no downtime in economics, eh?' I muttered.

Mum gave me a sharp look.

‘Where's Dad?' I said, before she could tell me how things were looking on the FTSE and what the pound was doing against the dollar.

‘Oh he sends his love,' she said. ‘He decided to pop in and see some old friends in Chambers.'

My dad had been a barrister before he retired. Now he pottered happily round his study in the attic of the big Oxford house where I'd grown up, writing legal textbooks and giving occasional lectures at the university. Rick, my brother, was also a barrister, and had an eye on becoming an MP one day. My love of fashion, magazines and the Kardashians made me something of an outsider at family parties. But it would have been nice to see my dad all the same.

‘He's not coming?' I said, trying to look like I didn't care.

‘I thought I'd take you for lunch,' Mum said, neatly sidestepping my question. ‘He might pop in for coffee.'

‘Lunch?' I said. ‘Sorry, Mum. I can't come for lunch. I'm swamped.'

Mum looked over my shoulder at the empty office behind me and raised an arched eyebrow.

‘I'm the boss,' I said. ‘I have to set an example. I can't just skive off.'

‘Set an example to whom?' Mum said.

‘Fine,' I said, grudgingly. ‘Let's go.'

We went to a smart restaurant on Wardour Street – I'd never been there before but Mum said she'd heard good things about it.

‘I'm sorry about my daughter's shoes,' she said in a conspiratorial fashion to the waitress who showed us to a table. ‘I know they're not strictly in keeping with your dress code.'

‘Mum,' I hissed, amazed that I could manage a team and handle a budget and still be shown up by my own mother. ‘It's fine.'

The waitress, who looked like she could not care less what I had on my feet, sat us down and handed us some menus.

‘I think I used to come here in the sixties,' Mum said, looking round with a frown as we handed our menus to the waitress. ‘It was a bit dingier back then.'

‘Really?' I was relieved she'd taken her attention away from me.

‘I was studying in London of course,' she said, thoughtfully. Mum had – obviously – gone to LSE and liked to remind me of it at every opportunity. ‘And I used to come to Carnaby Street to look at the shops. I remember going to a party round here once. It was this amazing flat with a roof terrace and someone got cross about Bob Dylan and threw his record out of the window... ‘

I grinned. Finally some common ground.

‘I've found a photo from that time. It's of the team that launched Mode,' I said. I leaned down and dug about in my bag for the picture of Suze Williams and the rest of them.

‘What's Mode?' Mum reached for a breadstick.

I was pleased I was still bent over so she couldn't see my face. I'd found the photo but I gave myself a second to take a few deep breaths before I sat up again.

‘Mode is the magazine I edit,' I said, through gritted teeth. ‘It was the first magazine that was aimed just at young women and it launched in 1966. It was groundbreaking at the time, and it's been very successful ever since.'

I paused, aware I was reverting to type and trying desperately to impress her.

‘It was fairly political back then – covering all sorts of women's issues. I'm trying to get back to those roots.'

Mum nodded politely.

‘Because I'm in charge,' I added. ‘And I don't think we should ignore young women's opinions.'

‘That's it,' Mum said in triumph. And I beamed at her, pleased she was finally listening to what I had to say.

‘Bands used to play here,' Mum said, gesturing with her breadstick. ‘There was a stage over there, but the bar's in the same place, that's what made me recognise it. Oh we had some good nights out here.'

I stared at her.

‘Great,' I said. ‘Glad you had fun.'

‘Sorry, darling. What were you saying?'

Mum dragged her gaze from the far wall of the restaurant and back to me.

‘I want the magazine to cover more women's issues,' I said. ‘Current affairs and how they'll affect young women. Engage with them more.'

I looked around for inspiration. A woman at the next table had shopping bags round her feet.

‘Like how Brexit might make Zara more expensive,' I said.

Mum blinked at me.

‘Who's Zara?' she said.

I sighed.

‘Or something about the next American president,' I said vaguely.

Mum smiled.

‘Well done, darling,' she said, the way she congratulated her cat when it ate all its dinner. ‘Let me know if you want me to write anything for you.'

I twisted my lips into a smile.

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘I will.'

The rest of lunch was easier, because I didn't try to talk. Mum told me about the play she and Dad were going to see. She asked if I'd read a piece Isabelle – my brother's girlfriend – had written for the New Statesman and I lied and said I had. I'd actually seen it on Facebook and read the introduction, so I could say enough to start Mum off.

As she debated the pros and cons of Isabelle's arguments with herself, I drifted off. I wondered if Mum's path had ever crossed with Suze Williams's in the sixties. I couldn't imagine they hung out in the same places. Mum had always been very career-driven, spurred on – I always thought – by her desperation to leave the Midlands market town where she'd grown up far, far behind. The same sort of drive that got me out of Oxford, lovely though it was, and down to London, via Sydney.

Mum was looking at her watch.

‘I don't know what's happened to your father,' she said. ‘I'll have to meet him at the theatre.'

She started gathering her bits.

‘You get off,' I said, almost aching with relief. ‘Lunch is my treat.'

Mum gave me a sympathetic glance.

‘You don't have to do that, darling,' she said. ‘I know things are tight for you. All those years when you were doing internships.'

‘Long time ago,' I said. ‘Honestly, my treat.'

‘Thank you,' she said graciously. We kissed goodbye.

It was only when she'd gone that I discovered she'd left two twenty-pound notes on the table.

Chapter 18

1966

Suze wasn't fine.

The party was in an attic flat above a shop on Wardour Street. Suze didn't know who lived there, and she didn't know whose party it was.

‘Is it a birthday party?' I asked as we walked along the road. I could hear guitars playing in a bar across the road and three girls, wearing identical baker boy hats on their identical long straight hair, stood outside smoking.

Suze gave me a withering look.

‘It's just a party,' she said. ‘This is it.'