The Forgotten Girl

‘Don’t you have a copy?’

‘No,’ the girl wailed.

I subtly glanced at my watch. Rosemary would be expecting those proofs and I really wanted time to have a chat with Frank’s assistant, George. I needed to get rid of this girl.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m the lowest of the low at Home & Hearth. I don’t get to decide who works there. But if you write another feature and send it to me, I’ll make sure Rosemary, the editor, sees it.’

The girl grabbed my arm again, this time in excitement.

‘Would you?’ she said. ‘Would you really do that?’

‘Sure,’ I said. I noticed for the first time how thin she was, and how she was shivering violently because she wasn’t wearing a coat. Again I felt a flash of sympathy for this funny-looking urchin girl.

‘Have you got any money?’ I asked.

The girl raised her chin and looked at me through defiant eyes.

‘Why do you ask?’

I was too embarrassed to say I felt sorry for her.

‘Thought you might have rushed out in a hurry, and forgotten your purse,’ I lied, nodding towards her. ‘No coat.’

‘Oh,’ she said. She let go of my arm – thank goodness – and smoothed down her damp dress. ‘Yes, I didn’t realise it was raining.’

I opened my black patent bag – my pride and joy – and dug about for my purse. I found a ten-shilling note and thrust it at her.

‘I’m really sorry about your article,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got to go and run an errand for my editor. There’s a cafe there…’ I pointed across the road to a narrow shopfront, nestled in between two offices. ‘…go and get yourself a coffee and warm up.’

She looked doubtful, but she took the note anyway.

‘I’ll pay you back,’ she said.

I nodded, even though I was fairly sure that would never happen.

‘Tell Bruno that you’re my friend and he might throw in a free slice of cake,’ I said.

She grinned at me.

‘What’s your name?’ she said.

‘Nancy Harrison.’

‘I’m Suze,’ she said. ‘Suzanne Williams.’

I smiled back.

‘Hi Suze,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I have to go.’

I patted her briefly on her soggy arm and headed towards Carnaby Street.

‘It was nice to meet you,’ Suze called, over her shoulder as she crossed the Soho cobbles to Bruno’s. ‘See you soon.’

‘Not likely,’ I muttered.

I dashed down the road towards Frank’s studio, pleased to have got away from the girl. I would miss the ten shillings but I couldn’t help thinking I’d got off likely as I climbed the many stairs to Frank’s attic and rapped on the door.

George answered and my stomach did the usual flutter it did every time I saw him. He had longish dark hair that curled over his collar at the back – Dad would call him a hippy even though he wasn’t – and a cheeky smile that he rewarded me with now.

‘Hoped Rosemary would send you,’ he said. ‘Frank’s in the darkroom, just sorting the prints out. Tea?’

I followed him inside, shrugging off my damp mac and hanging it on a hook behind the door. I spent so much time in Frank’s studio, I felt very at home there.

George made me a cup of tea and we sat on the battered sofa together, waiting for Frank to finish.

‘I just met someone who thought I could get her a job on Home & Hearth,’ I said.

George raised an eyebrow.

‘She thought you were Rosemary?’ he said. ‘I can see why someone would mix you two up…’

I gave him a friendly shove and he laughed.

‘She was hanging about outside the office,’ I said. ‘She’d brought an article to show us, but I knocked her and she dropped it in a puddle.’

‘Unlucky.’

I made a face.

‘I felt a bit bad, so I bought her a coffee,’ I said.

George laughed.

‘You’re such a sucker,’ he said. ‘You’re way too nice.’

I laughed too.

‘She might be an editor one day,’ I pointed out. ‘She might remember I was nice to her, and give me a job.’

George shook his head.

‘You’ll be the editor,’ he said. ‘You’re going places, Nancy Harrison.’

‘You’re right,’ I said, only half joking. ‘I’m going to be a big name in the magazine world. I’ll run my own mag, and maybe – just maybe – I’ll need a good photographer.’

George nodded mock-gravely.

‘I’ll think to myself, who do I know in the photography business,’ I said. ‘And I’ll remember George. And I’ll think, I know – I’ll ask George…’