Kerry Barrett - The Forgotten Girl

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.

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.’