The Forgotten Girl (25 page)

‘Dennis was born in 1941 in South London to mother Mary and father Frank,' it read. ‘He grew up helping in his parents' newsagents with his sister Nancy. Dennis was estranged from his father. After his sister's death in 1966, after his mother's death several years before, he and his father remained at odds. Dennis considered his in-laws his family…'

I felt sorry for Dennis, losing his mum and sister in the space of a few years and not speaking to his dad. And I felt sorry for Nancy, being reduced to a passing comment in her brother's obituary. Was that all her life amounted to?

I printed out one of the obituaries and carried on my search, this time checking the images that came up.

Among reams of photos from yearbooks from the class of 1966 at various American high schools, I saw the same black and white image appear several times. I clicked on it – which took me to a Rolling Stones fan site – and studied it closely.

The photograph showed the band, who were very young, sitting in a booth in an amazing sixties nightclub with a black and white checked dancefloor. They weren't posing – it was a candid shot. Mick Jagger was sitting on the left hand side of the booth, closest to the camera, while the others – I struggled to think of their names, though I knew Bill Wyman and I thought the one with fair hair had died young – all laughed together. One of them was drinking a pint. Mick Jagger, whose long legs were stretched out under the table, was talking earnestly to a young woman who sat opposite him. She had a notebook in front of her and she was wearing an amazing dogtooth checked mini dress. Her head rested on her left hand and her long dark straight hair had swung forward, hiding her face as she wrote. Was this Nancy Harrison?

I scrolled down the page and found the picture caption.

‘At the party for the launch of their 1966 LP Aftermath, the boys were in demand,' the caption read. ‘They were interviewed by newspapers but always said they enjoyed speaking to writers from magazines more. At this party they spoke to writers Suze Williams (Viva) and Nancy Harrison (Mode) about their views on Harold Wilson and who they thought would win the upcoming World Cup. Brian tipped West Germany to take the prize – something he later denied…' The copyright said George Mann.

I stared at the photo. Was that Suze or Nancy, then? It was impossible to tell – though I thought it had to be Nancy purely because Suze had short hair in the photos from the first issue of Mode.

I remembered seeing an interview with the Stones in one of the other issues of Mode that Emily had found. Now I leafed through them to find it. It was in the third issue of the magazine – a double-page spread with a fabulous photo of the band all standing in a row, legs wide, shot from low down, making them look like they owned the world. The byline on the interview was Nancy Harrison – who must have been dead by then. How sad and brilliant that the magazine had carried on printing her work even after she'd died. I turned the page round to read the photo credit and once more it said copyright George Mann.

I printed the photo out, and turned to Google once more, typing in
George Mann photographer
.

This time I had loads of hits. Hundreds in fact. He was still alive, living and working in Paris as far as I could tell. He was a fashion photographer and shot portraits too.

I found his website, which was all in French, and called up the page that had his contact information on it. There was a phone number. Did I dare call him and ask about Nancy Harrison? He must have known her…

Vanessa made me jump as she came into my office with a page proof for me to read.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘You were away with the fairies there. Working on the relaunch issue?'

I looked up from my screen.

‘Sort of,' I admitted. ‘Trying to find out what happened to Nancy Harrison.'

‘Have you replied to Suze?' Vanessa asked, coming round my side of the desk so she could peer at my screen.

‘Not yet,' I said. ‘I wanted to find out if she was a murder suspect before I committed.'

Vanessa giggled – it was a strange sound.

‘What have you found?'

I showed her the obituary for Nancy's brother and the Rolling Stones picture.

‘So I've found this George,' I said. ‘But he lives in Paris and his website's all in French. I was going to phone him, but I'm nervous. I can't really speak French, apart from ordering a drink.'

‘I speak French,' Vanessa said, to my surprise.

‘You do?'

‘My degree's in French,' she said. ‘I lived in Paris for a year too.'

Well if that wasn't a lesson in learning more about your staff I didn't know what was.

‘Do you want me to phone him?' she said.

‘Yes please,' I said. ‘I'll talk to George – presumably he's English – but I was worried about speaking to an assistant.'

Vanessa gave a very Gallic shrug and picked up my phone.

She dialled the number and waited.

‘
Bonjour
…' she said, and she was off, gabbling away. I picked out a few words – Mode, mostly. And Nancy Harrison. Then she paused, nodding, and grinned at me. ‘
Merci
,' she said.

She looked at me.

‘He's coming to the phone,' she said. She handed it to me just as a voice said: ‘
Bonjour
?'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘
Bonjour
. Is that George?'

‘Speaking,' he said – oh the relief of him talking in English. ‘My assistant tells me you want to know about Nancy Harrison?'

‘I do,' I said. I explained who I was, and that we were recreating the first issue of Mode. Then I fibbed a bit and said we were doing a ‘where are they now' piece about everyone who was involved in that first magazine.

‘I know Nancy died,' I said. ‘But I don't know anything else. I saw your name on lots of photos from the time and I thought you might have been friends with her.'

There was silence on the other end of the line, for so long that I thought we'd been cut off. But then George spoke.

‘We were friends,' he said. ‘More than friends, in fact. She was my girlfriend. At least, I hoped she was going to be. It was fairly complicated because she was engaged to someone else when we met.'

‘Messy,' I said.

George chuckled.

‘Not as far as Nancy was concerned,' he said. ‘She was very single-minded. She knew what she wanted and how to get it.'

‘What happened?' I asked. ‘Were you there when she died?'

‘No,' George said slowly. ‘And I have always been sorry about that. I was in Paris actually, on a job.'

‘Go on.'

‘I was away and Nancy was dealing with lots of things. She and Suze – do you know about Suze?'

‘I've met her,' I admitted.

‘Really?' George sounded astonished. ‘She keeps herself very much to herself these days.'

‘I had to sweet-talk my way in,' I told him and he chuckled again. I did the same, warming to this kind-sounding man.

‘So Nancy had been fibbing to her father – pretending she had a respectable job when really she was working on a magazine and spending all her time with Suze and me, at various shindigs.'

I stifled a giggle at the old-fashioned word.

‘But her ex-fiance spilled the beans. He told her dad what she'd been up to – out of spite as far as I could tell. She turned up on my doorstep battered and bruised after her dad took out his anger on her.'

I gasped.

‘Did he kill her? Her dad?'

‘Oh goodness me, no,' said George. ‘At least not directly. She took an overdose. Accidentally, I've always assumed. And she died.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘How sad.'

‘I was heartbroken,' he said. ‘My boss told me and I made the decision to stay in Paris with him. I couldn't handle London without Nancy. I felt responsible, you see. I knew what her father had done to her. But I'd believed her when she'd said she was all right and I went off to Paris that morning without a care in the world.'

‘Did you ask Suze what happened?'

‘I tried,' he said. ‘But I didn't know where she was for ages, and then when I found out she was working for Mode, I did write, but she didn't reply. I always assumed it was painful for her, too. She was the one who had a Valium habit, you see? It must have been her pills Nancy took.'

I wasn't sure what to say. It seemed a sad, insignificant end for someone who had a bright future, though it did explain why Suze was reluctant to talk about her friend.

‘I've got lots of photographs,' George was saying. ‘Reams of the bloody things. I spent a lot of time with Nancy and Suze back then, so they were often in my photos. Would you like me to email you a selection?'

‘Oh I'd love that,' I said. I gave him my email address and thanked him profusely for all his help, then hung up.

‘So Suze isn't a murderer?' Vanessa said.

‘Not a murderer,' I said. ‘Just someone who feels guilty about a friendship that went wrong.'

‘Email her then,' Vanessa said. ‘Email her and tell her we need her help.'

So I did.

Chapter 40

1966

I went to George, of course. I knew Suze would still be working at Bruno's and I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to feel George's arms round me, to feel his lips on mine. Dad made me think I was worthless, like I was – at best – an irritation to be swiped away like an annoying fly. At his worst, like today, he made me feel uncertain and unsafe. George, though. George made me feel like I meant something.

I rang the bell to his tiny flat above the studio and leaned against the doorframe, weak from fatigue, hunger and emotion. My lip had swelled up where Dad had hit me, and my cheekbone was tender.

George's footsteps came bounding down the stairs and he flung open the door.

‘Nancy…' his voice trailed off as he saw my bruises. ‘Oh, Nancy. What happened?'

‘Dad,' I said. I tried to stand up straight but I stumbled a bit and George caught me.

‘Woah,' he said. ‘Can you manage the stairs?'

‘Slowly,' I said, relieved he was here and with me. Carefully, we climbed the narrow steps, George leading the way and holding tight to my hand. Up in his flat, he steered me to the sofa and sat me down, then he bustled round like a mother hen, making me tea and toast and pouring me a brandy from a bottle Frank kept in the studio.

‘I don't like brandy,' I said.

‘Drink it,' he said, pushing the glass into my hand. ‘It's good for shock.'

I looked at my hands, which were still shaking, and sipped obediently.

‘I like your hair,' George said. He was sitting at the other end of the sofa, watching me closely.

I'd forgotten. I put my hand up to my head and touched my new style. It seemed like I'd had it done in a dream.

‘I was so stupid,' I said, remembering how I'd thought Dad would be proud of me. How he'd give me his blessing. ‘Dad was so angry and he knew about my job. Billy told him.'

A shadow crossed George's face.

‘I thought you said Billy knew what your dad was like?'

I shrugged.

‘I thought he did. But we never talked about it.'

‘And he still told your dad?'

I tucked my legs under me.

‘Maybe he didn't mean to,' I said, trying not to think too badly of Billy, who I'd almost loved, once.

George wrapped me in his arms and kissed my bruises gently.

‘He's not important,' he said. ‘I will be here for you. I'll make sure nothing happens to you ever again.'

I smiled at him.

‘I'll look after you, too.'

We lay cuddled up together on the sofa for a long time, chatting about everything and nothing.

Much later, George went out and bought bread and cheese and we made sandwiches. I was still very sore and sad, but I was starting to feel better. I knew I'd have to write to Dennis and tell him what had happened and I knew that meant his already fragile relationship with Dad would finally fall apart, but we'd have each other. And I had George, and Suze. I was going to be all right.

It was properly dark in the flat now. George got up to put on the lights and chose a record to play. He paused before he came back to sit down.

‘Nancy?' he said. ‘I need to tell you something.'

I'd been lying on the couch, but now I sat up. His tone suggested he didn't just want to tell me he liked my hair, or he'd like me to stay the night.

‘What?' I said. ‘Are you married?' I giggled weakly.

George came and sat down and took my hands.

‘Frank's moving to Paris for a year,' he said. ‘Maybe two. Maybe forever.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘Is it because Rosemary's leaving?' I'd always thought there was a spark between Rosemary and Frank, even though they were like chalk and cheese in appearance, with Rosemary's smart suits and Frank's shaggy beard.

George smiled briefly.

‘I think he thought she might ask him to go to New York with her,' he said. ‘But she didn't. His pride's a bit hurt.'

‘Poor lovesick Frank,' I said.

George paused.

‘Nance, Frank's asked me to go to Paris,' he said.

‘For how long?'

He bit his lip.

‘Forever.'

‘What did you say?' I asked carefully.

‘I said I'd think about it,' George said. ‘But I've thought about it now and I've made my decision.'

I looked up at him, trying not to appear too desperate.

‘And?'

‘I'm going to stay here,' he said.

‘Are you sure?' I said. ‘There's lots of opportunities in Paris.'

George nodded.

‘Just as many opportunities in London,' he said. ‘Frank's always been more of a fashion photographer than me. I like snapping bands and actors – portraits.'

‘So you're staying,' I said, throwing my arms round him. ‘Oh thank god.'