The Forgotten Girl

Oh bless him. He was so predictable. And traditional, I thought, with a trace of venom. Boring.

But he was nice; that was the trouble. I liked Billy. He made me laugh. He looked after me. He listened when I talked – far, far more than I listened when he talked. I could see myself marrying him. That was what scared me. I’d marry Billy, we’d buy a house round the corner from his parents’ place and I’d probably be pregnant within a year. Then I’d have to leave work and that would be it. The closest I’d ever get to Home & Hearth magazine would be leafing through it for Sunday lunch ideas and remembering that one day, I’d typed those recipes and dreamed of something more.

Billy squeezed my arm.

‘Are you okay, Nance?’ he said. ‘You’re miles away.’

‘Tired,’ I said. ‘It’s been a long day, and we were up late last night, weren’t we?’

‘It was a good party, wasn’t it?’ Billy said.

I nodded. It was a good party – we had a lot of friends and family who were delighted that we’d got engaged. We had piles of cards and presents to open. It was all lovely. And I hated even thinking about it.

I sighed. Other girls would be thrilled to be in my position. To be engaged to a lovely bloke like Billy who was handsome and funny and had a good job and great prospects. And there was ungrateful me, wishing I was living in a smelly squat like a girl I’d only just met, who was possibly on drugs and definitely starving.

Billy laughed.

‘Early night for you, Nancy,’ he said, as he opened my garden gate. ‘You’re all over the place.’

‘We were going to open our presents,’ I said.

‘They’ll keep,’ Billy said. ‘I’ll come round tomorrow and we can tackle them together. See what delights my Auntie Marge has given us.’

I rolled my eyes.

‘You’d better write her thank you letter,’ I said, smiling despite myself. ‘Not sure I can be convincing if she’s given us that coffee pot your mum gave her for Christmas.’

Auntie Marge was famous in Billy’s family for passing on unwanted gifts. It had become a bit of a joke and I suspected some of his relatives chose Marge’s presents intending them to be given to someone else one day.

I liked Billy’s family, too. They were nice. Normal. His dad liked a drink, but he knew when to stop, and his mum was funny and warm. He had two younger sisters who thought I was the bee’s knees, and his granny – who lived with them – was sharp-tongued and an absolute hoot.

It wouldn’t be so bad to be part of that family, I thought to myself sternly. Maybe I just needed to get over myself and start appreciating what I had.

Billy and I walked up the path together and he put my bag on the doorstep. Then he gently tilted my chin up and kissed me.

‘Night Nancy,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

I watched him head off down the road, hands in pockets. Everything was perfect in his world. He had a good job, working with his uncle in his garage with an eye to taking it over one day. He was looking forward to getting married and liked nothing more than talking about the children we’d have one day. I knew he wanted us to have our own family and be just like his parents and I couldn’t see anything wrong with that. I just knew it wasn’t what I wanted. At least, not yet. I was twenty-one years old and I lived just ten miles from central London. I wanted to be part of it. But as far as my dad, and Billy, were concerned, it was a whole world away.

Billy reached the corner, looked back to see me watching and waved. I waved back.

‘I’m going to break your heart,’ I said out loud. Then I pulled out my key and went inside.

I stuck some chops under the grill for dinner, chopped some carrots and peeled potatoes for mash. Then I sat at the kitchen table and wolfed my portion down as fast as I could so I’d be finished before my father came home. I’d wait to hear him come in, give him his meal and later, as Dad settled down in front of whatever sitcom he was watching that week, I’d go up to my room to read or listen to music.

That night, I had some sorting out to do.

I kept most of my clothes at work – my good clothes. Our fashion editor, who’d been sympathetic when I lied that my dad didn’t really like the latest trends, had cleared a rail in her cupboard for me and I used it as my wardrobe. But I still had to make sure I had an outfit at home every day and keep them laundered. Like a lot of girls my age, I made most of my own clothes. I even often whipped up an outfit during the day on a Saturday to wear out with Billy in the evening. I wasn’t a brilliant seamstress, but I could make the shift dresses that everyone was wearing.

Now I pulled everything out of my bag and checked what I had. The dress I’d worn today was fine, I’d take that back to the office tomorrow and hang it up. But I had a couple of mini skirts that needed washing, and two polo neck sweaters that could do with a clean, too. I shoved them under my bed – I’d take them to the launderette at the weekend.

For tomorrow I had a denim pinafore dress with buttons right up the front. It was one of my favourite outfits. I wore it with a bright, rainbow striped t-shirt underneath, and some white boots – which were also in my bag.

I put everything for the next day in my holdall, neatly packed in plastic bags in case it rained. Checked my make-up was all fine – it was – and felt in the side pocket to make sure my Post Office book was still in there. I had two Post Office accounts – one was a joint account with Billy. We were saving for the wedding and a house and our life together. The other was my escape fund.

‘Just going to post a letter,’ I called as I went downstairs. I could hear my dad laughing at something on the TV.

I went outside into the cold night air, stashed my hold-all in the shed where I could get it tomorrow, walked round the block and then went back home and went to bed. Billy was right, I was exhausted. But it was more the strain of my double life that was taking it out of me, not the engagement party.

As I snuggled down in bed, I looked over at the piles of unopened engagement cards and presents stacked on my chest of drawers. But the last thing I thought of before I fell asleep, was Suze.

Chapter 11 (#ulink_682ce2fd-0604-55db-bb49-a6bbf50d4f92)

2016

‘Professional?’ Damo said, shovelling a forkful of rice into his mouth. ‘What does that mean?’

I snapped a poppadom in half, put both pieces back on my plate and sighed.

‘It means,’ I said. ‘That we put whatever happened between us to one side, and we move on like grown-ups.’

Damo grinned at me.

‘Move on?’

‘Stop repeating everything I say,’ I said, remembering how infuriating he could be.

‘I need a good art editor, you need a job and you’re a good art editor. We can help each other.’

Damo didn’t look very convinced.

‘I’ve got a job,’ he said. ‘So why would I come and work for you?’

‘You’ve got some freelance shifts,’ I pointed out, offering him my broken poppadom. I wasn’t very hungry and I definitely didn’t fancy curry at lunchtime – I’d only agreed to come to Damo’s favourite restaurant as part of my campaign to butter him up.

‘Yeah, but I like being flexible,’ he said. ‘And you’re really bossy.’

I glowered at him.

‘I’m not bossy, I’m the boss,’ I said. I was beginning to recall why we’d split up. Damo was so laid back he was virtually horizontal. He wouldn’t commit to anything, he had the itchiest feet of anyone I’d ever met, and he really didn’t like being tied down. When we’d first met – when I moved to Sydney to work for a year on a mag out there – his spontaneity had thrilled me. He’d moved into my tiny apartment within about three weeks of us getting together and we’d spent weekends exploring the city and our holidays travelling all over Australia. Then, when he’d decided it was time to move on, I’d agreed. Except, I was putting down roots in Sydney. I had a lot of misgivings and doubts about his plans – and I’d never quite got round to telling him about those doubts.

As Damo gave away the few possessions he’d accumulated during his time in Sydney, and planned a route round South East Asia, he’d tell me stories about amazing things we’d see in Thailand and Laos and Cambodia.

But I had my eye on another prize – the next step on the career ladder. The deputy editor on the magazine I worked for had told me she was leaving and I wanted her job. I wanted it so badly it was like a physical pain. I knew I could do it, and do it really well. I knew I’d work brilliantly with the editor and I knew she wanted me to apply. It was perfect – but I’d not mentioned to Damo that I wanted to stay in Australia.

‘Tell him,’ Jen emailed me. ‘Tell him that you’re not going.’

‘I can’t,’ I typed back. ‘There’s never a good time.’