The Forgotten Girl (31 page)

Fearne dug around in her bag and found a packet of tissues. She pulled one out and blew her nose quietly.

‘So what happened?' she said. ‘You'd got away with it by 1979. You were riding high – editor of Mode. Why did you give it all up?'

‘My brother happened,' I said.

‘Dennis?'

I was impressed – she had done her homework.

‘Yes, Dennis. He was a teacher and he was always ahead of the game. He was very creative and innovative and he began to make a name for himself in education. He wasn't a headmaster then, but he was attracting a lot of attention. He was invited to go on some politics show one day. A Sunday morning thing, you know what I mean?'

Fearne was listening intently. She nodded.

‘I'd just taken over as editor of Mode,' I went on. ‘And Margaret Thatcher had just been elected Prime Minister. We'd done a big piece on her – it was the first overtly political article we'd run and it was…' I paused. ‘Slightly negative.'

Fearne grinned for the first time since she'd arrived.

‘Go on,' she said.

‘I was invited on to this show to talk about what young women thought about politics and whether they were interested. And one of the other guests…'

‘Was Dennis,' Fearne finished.

I nodded.

‘Yes,' I said, remembering my horror when I arrived at the television studios and found out I was expected to debate Margaret Thatcher with the brother I'd not seen for more than a decade. The brother who thought I was dead.

‘What did you do?'

‘I ran away,' I said. ‘I was in the make-up chair when they told me who the other guests were. I was loving it. It was everything I'd ever wanted – a platform to put across young women's views, being taken seriously, a chance to talk about things that were important to me and other women like me. I have to admit, I'd mentally patted myself on the back a few times that day.'

Fearne gave me a small smile.

‘You deserved to,' she said.

‘Well, pride comes before a fall, doesn't it?' I said. ‘And oh my goodness, I fell. The show runner read out the names and when I heard Dennis Harrison my heart stopped. I double-checked I'd not misheard and then asked what he did and where he came from. When she said he was a teacher from Yorkshire, I knew it had to be him. So I went to the loo, then I pretended to be ill. I handed in my notice at Mode a week later.'

Fearne was staring at me.

‘Why didn't you just tell him?' she said. ‘Why didn't you tell Dennis?'

‘Well, for a start, five minutes before you're on live television is no time to announce that you're someone's dead sister,' I said. ‘But mostly I was scared, Fearne. I knew my dad was still alive and I was bloody terrified that if I showed my face to Dennis my whole carefully crafted life would come tumbling down.

‘I've thought a lot about Dennis over the years, hoping he was okay. Following his career…'

I swallowed a sob.

‘And I know that he died.'

Fearne nodded, grim-faced.

‘I thought about going to the funeral,' I said. ‘But in the end I just sent flowers. I wrote a message about happy childhood memories, but I didn't sign it.'

Fearne handed me a tissue and I wiped my eyes.

‘What happened then?' she asked.

‘I worked out my notice at Mode, then I went to India, hoping I would find an answer to my problems.'

‘Did you?' Fearne said.

I shrugged.

‘Not really,' I said. ‘But while I was in India I wrote my first novel. It started off as a sort of musing on how I wished my life had turned out. But I discovered it was easier to write it if it wasn't about myself. I came home, found a publisher, and that was that.'

‘But you were so young,' Fearne said.

I nodded.

‘I published my first novel in 1982,' I said. ‘I was thiry-eight.'

I chuckled.

‘Well actually I was only thirty-seven. Suze was thirty-eight. She was a year older than me.'

‘Haven't you been lonely?' Fearne said. ‘Hiding out here, all alone.'

‘No,' I lied. ‘Not at all. I've got Cooper and the people who live in the village are nice.'

‘What about George?' asked Fearne. ‘Did you miss George?'

What could I say? That I missed him every minute of every day – at first? That the pain of losing Suze, who was my best and only friend, almost destroyed me and that coupled with the pain of losing George made it difficult to get out of bed every day. That once I found out for sure that he'd moved to Paris, I'd thought many times of getting on a plane and simply turning up at his studio. But how would I begin to explain? What would I say?

Instead, I scratched my head.

‘I missed him,' I said. ‘And I missed Suze too. Dreadfully. So I threw myself into work. I worked all the time. I ate, slept, breathed, lived Mode. And when I was made editor, I thought it would help.'

‘But it didn't?' said Fearne.

‘No,' I said. ‘It didn't. I have been happy, by and large, but I've also been terribly, terribly lonely.'

Fearne patted me gently on the hand. And then, to my alarm, she burst into tears.

Chapter 51

There was something about Suze's house that made me cry, apparently. I'd cried more in her company than I'd done in the last three years.

Considering the horror of the story she'd just told me – which made my problems seem minuscule in comparison – she was very kind. She handed me some tissues, then she went and got me a glass of water from the kitchen.

‘I've put the kettle on,' she said, when she came back. ‘I think you could do with a cup of tea.'

I nodded, and blew my nose.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I'm not sure what came over me. Your story is so sad, and when you said about throwing yourself into work, it just really made me think…'

I trailed off.

‘Think?' prompted Suze – or was I supposed to call her Nancy now? I said as much. She grimaced.

‘I'm not sure,' she said. ‘It depends what happens next.'

I chewed my lip. I knew what I wanted her to do, but I wasn't sure what she'd think.

‘So… “think”…?' she said; obviously she'd had enough of talking about herself.

‘It made me think of something Damo said to me yesterday,' I said.

I told her all about Damo and me, how we'd broken up when I'd dumped him for the sake of my career. How Madison had told me that his feelings for me had been rekindled when we started working together again. And how we'd spent the night together. She nodded as I spoke, taking it all in.

‘So what did he say?' she asked.

I took a breath.

‘He said that I was trying to meet unreachable expectations,' I said. ‘That I would work and work and work and it would never be enough. That some things were more important than magazines, like friends and relationships and fun.'

I looked at her as she perched on the edge of her sofa cushion, looking like she might take to her heels and run away any minute.

‘Please don't take this the wrong way,' I said. ‘But I don't want my life to end up like yours.'

Suze looked at me, her eyes wide, then she chuckled.

‘Oh god, of course not,' she said. ‘It's been bloody awful.'

She took my hand.

‘I think the one thing I've learned over the years is that a career is a wonderful thing. But it's just part of a life. And Damo is right, Fearne. Some things are more important.'

‘Jen always said I'd walk over everyone to get to where I wanted to be,' I said, feeling a bit ashamed. ‘She was right. I walked all over her. And when she did the same to me, I didn't like it.'

Suze nodded.

‘It's not a nice feeling, knowing you're someone's Plan B,' she said. ‘That you were just filling in the time until something better came along.'

‘Oh god, that's exactly what I did,' I said, burying my head in my hands. ‘We'd made all these plans – these brilliant, exciting plans – and I just dropped them like a hot potato as soon as Mode called.'

‘And Jen did the same, when Grace showed an interest in her?' Suze said.

‘Exactly,' I said. ‘And it made me feel like shit.'

‘Can you forgive her?'

I nodded, slowly.

‘I think so,' I said. ‘If she can forgive me.'

Suze smiled.

‘So make amends,' she said.

‘What about Damo?'

‘Do you love him?'

‘No,' I said. ‘But I did once. I really loved him. And I think, if I let myself, I could love him again. But I've been so awful to him, I'm not sure he'd trust me ever again.'

‘You're going to have to woo him,' Suze said with a smile.

‘Woo him?'

‘Oh don't pretend you don't understand,' she said, nudging me. ‘You need to give him some old-fashioned romance. Show him you're serious about making it up to him. And you have to prove that you're willing to put your career in second place sometimes.'

‘Sometimes,' I said.

I felt good, suddenly, like talking to Suze had made things much clearer.

‘What about you?' I said. ‘What are we going to do about your life?'

‘It's a disaster,' Suze said, only half-joking. ‘It's too late.'

I jumped to my feet.

‘We can rescue this,' I said. ‘As well as saving Mode, we can save ourselves.'

Suze groaned.

‘Well, I think there's hope for you, my love, but I can't imagine there's much for me.'

I waved my hand to dismiss her concerns.

‘You can get this back,' I said. ‘When I was a little girl and I did something wrong, my mum always used to tell me that it wasn't the wrong deed that was the problem – it was the cover-up.'

Suze nodded.

‘I'd agree with that,' she said. ‘It's always the lies that bring down governments.'

‘So tell everyone the truth,' I said. ‘Tell your story.'

‘No,' said Suze.

‘Dennis is dead,' I said harshly. ‘He's not going to be upset now.'

‘He had a wife,' Suze said. ‘And children. And grandchildren. It could affect them.'

‘In a good way,' I said. ‘Family is good. I bet they'd love to get to know you.'

Suze looked dubious, but she didn't disagree.

‘And there's George,' I said.

‘For heaven's sake,' she said. ‘I've not seen George for fifty years. He's probably got a wife as well.'

‘Oh he does,' I said, teasing. ‘In fact he's got three.'

‘Three?' shrieked Suze.

‘The first one was English – an artist who he married in 1970,' I told her, quoting from George's website. ‘They had a daughter and they divorced when she was five. He married a French model about ten minutes later, and split up almost before the ink was dry on the marriage certificate. Then he married another French woman. She was a politician. They had three children – two boys and a girl – and they were married until a few years ago when she was killed in a car accident. He's a granddad, your George, and he spends most of his time in his house in Toulouse, close to where three of his four children live. One of his daughters lives in London, actually. But I don't know what her name is.'

Suze looked slightly shell-shocked.

‘Well thank goodness for that,' she said. ‘Or you'd probably have dragged her down here too.'

I grinned.

‘Journalist,' I said. ‘Nosy.'

Suze nodded, as if she understood completely. Then she leaned into me, conspiratorially.

‘I knew all that,' she said. ‘I've got Wikipedia too, you know.'

I howled with laughter and so did Suze. And when we caught our breath, I saw my chance.

‘So will you do it?' I asked her. ‘Will you let me interview you?'

She gave me something of a resigned smile.

‘Okay then,' she said. ‘I'll do it.'

Chapter 52

2016

Three months later

‘So you've got BBC Breakfast first thing tomorrow,' Emily told me. ‘Then Woman's Hour at ten a.m., and Loose Women at lunchtime.'

I blinked at her.

‘Riley's sorting you out some outfits, because you'll have to wear something different to each interview,' she carried on. ‘And she's got some ideas for Suze too, when she arrives.'

‘Nancy,' I said. ‘We're supposed to call her Nancy, now.'

‘Nancy,' she said.

She looked down at the list she held in her hand and carried on.

‘Vanessa's off to Westfield today to launch the pop-up shops…'

‘Is she going on her own?' I said, worried she'd be overwhelmed.

Emily shook her head.

‘No,' she said. ‘She's got a whole team of interns going with her.'

‘Good.'

I sat down at my desk and looked at the itinerary Emily handed me. It was crazy – packed with interviews for television and radio. It was a strange feeling being asked the questions instead of asking them myself.

Nancy's interview had been amazing. She'd been so honest with me – about her terrible upbringing, and the abuse she'd suffered at the hands of her dad. She had one photograph of her mum, which she even let us print in the magazine. She'd told me all about Suze – the real Suze – and how she'd also had an awful childhood. And she'd told me about the horrible day when Suze died and Nancy had made the drastic – but once she explained it properly, completely understandable – decision to pretend that the dying girl was Nancy and she was Suze.

We'd given the interview lots of space in the magazine, which was coming out tomorrow. We were expecting the first copies in the office later that afternoon. I was sick with nerves and I'd barely slept for a week. I was really, really proud of what we'd done but I still wasn't sure it was going to sell.