The Forgotten Girl

‘Who else do you have?’ Jen said. She found a notebook and pen in her bag and started making notes. ‘Who’s your team? You’ve got Riley Dean, right?’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘And Milly Thompson?’

I shook my head.

‘Gone,’ I said. ‘I’ve basically got Riley, an intern called Emily who’s enthusiastic and potentially brilliant but very green, a good beauty editor called Pritti, and a sulky features ed called Vanessa.’

Jen made a face.

‘Vanessa Bennett?’ she said. ‘I remember her from years ago. She’s not really an ideas person.’

I chuckled.

‘That’s a nice way of putting it,’ I said. ‘I’d have said boring and uninspired.’

‘Ouch,’ said Jen. She made a note in her book. ‘Who’s on your art desk?’

I shrugged.

‘Designers work across a few mags, so that’s fine,’ I said. ‘But Milly was my art editor and she’s left now so I need a replacement. A really good one.’

‘Any ideas?’ Jen said, frowning as she thought. ‘What about Danielle Watson?’

‘She’s gone to Hot,’ I said. ‘She’d never come to us now.’

I paused.

‘I did have one idea,’ I said. ‘But it might be crazy.’

Jen looked at me.

‘Who?’

‘Damian Anderson,’ I said quickly. ‘I thought I might ask him.’

Jen looked at me, not understanding.

‘Damian…?’ she said, frowning slightly as she tried to work out how she knew the name. Then realisation dawned.

‘Damo?’ she said in astonishment. ‘You want to ask Damo to be your art editor?’

I stared into the bottom of my wine glass.

‘He’s really good,’ I muttered.

‘I know he’s good,’ she said. ‘But he’s not good for you. And anyway, isn’t he in Sydney?’

‘He’s working on Homme,’ I said. ‘He’s in my office.’

‘Shiiiiiit.’

I nodded.

‘And you’ve seen him?’

I nodded again.

‘And you didn’t ring me?’

I gave her a fierce look.

‘You wouldn’t have answered,’ I said.

She shrugged.

‘Fair point,’ she said, with a grin. ‘Seriously, though, Fearne – is this a good idea?

I shook my head.

‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘But I’m desperate, Jennifer. The magazine’s dying, my team is uninspired and uninspiring, and I really want to make this work.’

She looked at me for a moment, then she drained her glass.

‘So ask him,’ she said. ‘But keep it professional.’

Chapter 9 (#ulink_25bee4d0-d89a-5886-b3a4-8234809515f7)

1966

‘You think my flat is perfect?’ Suze sounded surprised. ‘It’s not perfect at all.’

‘It’s all yours,’ I said. ‘It’s just me and my dad at home, but he’s… well, we stay out of each other’s way most of the time.’

‘Fair enough,’ Suze said, with a nod that suggested she knew what I was talking about. She sat down on the floor next to the bed.

Not wanting to discuss my father, I changed the subject.

‘So, I’m guessing you’re not supposed to live here,’ I said, sitting down next to Suze. The carpet was rough under my thighs, so I lifted them up and rested my arms on my knees.

Suze opened the tiny bag she wore and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. She offered one to me and I shook my head.

‘I knew some guys who lived here,’ she said with the cig clasped in her lips as she hunted in her bag for matches.

‘What sort of guys?’ I asked, though I knew what kind of men lived in squats in Soho. ‘Druggie guys?’

Suze lit her cigarette and smiled a vague smile at me.