The Forgotten Girl (4 page)

‘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

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

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.