The Forgotten Girl (13 page)

‘All the meetings we had,' I said. ‘All our ideas. You know exactly what we're planning.'

‘Well, yes,' said Jen. ‘I suppose I do.'

‘I trusted you,' I said.

Jen snorted down the phone.

‘Really?' she said. ‘Just like I trusted you when you ran out on me?'

‘Is that what this is about?' I said. ‘Are you getting your own back?'

‘Yes,' said Jen, her voice laced with sarcasm. ‘That's what this is all about. I've worked really hard and won the job as editor on Britain's best-selling women's monthly magazine just to get revenge on you.'

I couldn't speak.

‘What would you have done, Fearne. Honestly? In my position, what would you have done?'

I bit my lip.

‘I'd have taken the job,' I said quietly.

‘Well there we go,' said Jen. ‘I learned from the best. Good luck with Mode, Fearne. I hope it works out for you.'

She hung up.

Carefully I stood up from my desk, shut my office door and twisted the blind pull to shut it. Then I went back to my chair and sat down with my head in my hands.

Just when I thought I was getting somewhere, this happened. It was a disaster. A setback so huge I wasn't sure we'd be able to come back from it.

Unable to decide whether to be furious or hurt, I switched on my computer and opened my emails. Going through some mindless press releases would distract me and let me work out how I was feeling.

I drummed my fingers on the desk as I scrolled through. It seemed fury was winning at the moment. I couldn't believe Jen would be so traitorous, so untrustworthy, and so…

I paused in my angry thoughts because I had an email from Susannah Harrison.

‘Oh thank god,' I breathed. If she'd come on board and help us turn the magazine round, then perhaps it wouldn't matter that Jen was telling the team at Grace all our plans.

I took a slurp of flat white and clicked on the email to open it.

I half expected it to say Susannah Harrison had never heard of Suze Williams – that was how well things were working out for me – but it didn't say that. Instead, it said: ‘Thank you for your interest. I'm afraid I can't help with your article. Please don't contact me again.'

I breathed out slowly. That was a fairly brutal brush off but, I thought as I read through it again, it didn't say we'd got the wrong woman. If it had, I'd have shrugged my shoulders, made a few more attempts to track down Suze and then given up. But it didn't. And that intrigued me.

I rooted around on my desk and found the photo of the first Mode team. I stared at Suze Williams. She was turned slightly away from the camera, a notebook clutched to her chest, and she was laughing. Then I called up the author biography on Susannah Harrison's website once more.

‘Susannah lives in a village in Kent with her dog, Cooper, and enjoys taking long walks,' it said.

That didn't sound like the Suze in the picture, even if she'd be in her early seventies now. She didn't look like the sort of person who'd enjoy living in a village in Kent with a dog. And yet she hadn't said it wasn't her.

I got up and went to the door of my office.

‘Damo,' I said. ‘Can you help me?'

He loped into my office and looked at me, enquiringly.

‘What do you think of this?' I said, showing him Susannah Harrison's email.

He read it, then he gave a quick nod.

‘It's her,' he said. ‘Definitely.'

I was thrilled.

‘That's what I thought,' I said.

‘Wonder why she's lying,' Damo said. ‘That's interesting.'

‘I know,' I said. ‘Isn't it? I really want to find out.'

Damo gave a mock sigh.

‘Oh I feel for poor Susannah,' he said. ‘You're not going to leave her alone now, are you?'

I stared at him.

‘This is for the good of Mode,' I said – perhaps a little over-dramatic. ‘Jen's dropped us right in it.'

He gave me a questioning look.

‘She's dumped us for Grace,' I said.

‘Shit.'

‘So it's vital we find bloody Suze Williams,' I said. ‘Our jobs are on the line, Damian.'

He laughed.

‘It's not because our jobs are on the line,' he said. ‘It's because you're nosy and you can't resist a mystery.'

I was so pleased we'd gone back to our easy banter that I ignored the dig.

‘I'm going to find her,' I said.

‘Good luck with that,' Damo said, looking dubious. ‘It's not easy to find someone who doesn't want to be found.'

He left me to it and I opened Google again.

Susannah Harrison village Kent
, I typed. Up came several results, none of which were right. I scrolled through them slowly, seeing results from ancestry websites for someone called Susannah Kent who died in 1989, a school called Harrison Village Primary, and other annoying links between the words, until I came upon some minutes from a parish council meeting in 2010. There, buried deep among plans to clean up the war memorial, and arrangements for the summer fair, was the name Susannah Harrison.

‘KP suggested local author Susannah Harrison might be approached to open the fair, but GT pointed out that she plays very little part in village life and is not likely to be amenable to the idea.'

That was her. I looked at the top of the page – the village was called Summerhurst. I pulled up a map and found it easily. It was tiny, but it was just the other side of Sevenoaks so it wasn't far away.

I switched the view on the map to photos and studied the pictures carefully. There were a few houses, a shop, a cafe and a pub. I didn't have Susannah Harrison's address but I reckoned someone there would know where she lived.

I sat for a few minutes, tapping my fingers on my desk, pretending that I wasn't about to do what I was about to do.

Then I picked up the early issues of Mode, my plans for next few issues and the photo of the staff from 1966 and stuffed them all in my bag.

Casually, like I was just popping out for a coffee, I sauntered out into the main office, and slunk over to Damo's desk.

‘Can you hold the fort?' I muttered.

He looked up at me.

‘Going to track down the mysterious Susannah,' he joked. Then he saw my face.

‘Oh god, you are,' he said. ‘Leave the poor woman alone.'

‘I can't,' I said. ‘I want to know why she doesn't want to know.'

Damo sighed. He pushed back his chair and picked up his bag.

‘What are you doing?' I said.

‘Coming with you.'

‘No,' I said.

‘She might be a crazy serial killer,' Damo said. ‘The whole village could be. It might be like the Wicker Man.'

‘It's in Kent,' I pointed out.

He shrugged.

‘Still coming.'

‘I need you here,' I said. ‘You're in charge.'

‘Ness?' Damo shouted to Vanessa, who was just taking off her coat. ‘Can you take charge for a couple of hours?'

She flashed him a dazzling grin.

‘Of course,' she said.

‘Right,' Damo said. ‘All sorted. Let's go.'

We stared at each other for a minute and I cursed myself as I looked away first.

‘Fine,' I said. ‘But don't talk to me.'

‘No problemo,' said Damo. ‘Onwards.'

Chapter 20

‘See,' said Damo, as we climbed out of a taxi an hour or so later. ‘Exactly like the Wicker Man.'

I grinned.

‘Exactly,' I said.

Summerhurst was a sweet village on top of a hill. The taxi had dropped us by the pub, which overlooked a green. But it wasn't the old-fashioned, traditional place I'd expected. The pub – which was closed because it was still early – was painted in a chic grey, with a menu to rival any restaurant in town, and next door was a retro-style café. There were little boutiques, a deli, an artisan bakery and a mini Waitrose. It wasn't even ten a.m. so the shops were either closed or just beginning to open, though the café was busy.

‘Coffee?' Damo said.

I nodded and followed him inside.

The place was packed – mostly with mums and babies – but we found a table near the window and sat down with flat whites.

‘So we need a plan,' I said.

Damo chuckled.

‘Why are you so desperate to find this woman?' he said.

I shook my head.

‘Not sure,' I said. ‘It's just with Jen leaving us in the lurch, I feel like she's our only hope.'

‘She's not,' Damo said, seriously. ‘She's really not. You're doing a good enough job by yourself.'

I looked down at the table top, uncomfortable with his compliments.

‘Plus,' I said. ‘I wasn't actually that bothered about tracking her down until she sent the email asking me to stop. Then it was all I could think about.'

Damo laughed again.

‘Sounds about right,' he said. ‘Contrary.'

‘I'm not contrary,' I said. ‘I'm nosy. And she worked on the first ever issue, Damo. The one I've read over and over trying to find its magic ingredient. And she went on to be Mode's longest-serving editor, and then she disappeared. That's got to be worth finding out more about. What if she's got a brilliant idea to save the magazine?'

‘S'pose,' he said. ‘How are we going to find her?'

‘Well,' I said, lowering my voice. ‘I thought we could have a walk round the village, and see if any of the houses look like they might be hers…'

Damo gave me a look that suggested I was crazy, then he got up and walked to the counter.

‘G'day,' I heard him say, playing up the lost-Aussie-tourist thing. ‘We're from Susannah Harrison's publishers down under. We're here for an important meeting with her and my colleague here has lost her address.'

I glowered at him, but the waitress was looking sympathetic as Damo leaned across the counter, all the better to show off the muscles in his tanned arms.

‘Don't suppose you know where to find her, do you?'

The waitress leaned over too, so her face was close to Damo's. She was a pretty redhead with alabaster skin like Nicole Kidman's.

‘She doesn't like visitors,' I heard her say. ‘She's a bit prickly.'

‘Oh don't we know it,' Damo laughed. ‘The things we've had to promise her to get her to invite us round for a cuppa. The woman's a bloody nightmare.'

I put my head in my hands, wondering what on earth he was doing. But two seconds later he was back, with an address and a little map drawn on a napkin.

‘Bingo,' he said.

I took the napkin in awe. Scrawled beneath the map was a phone number, the name Melissa, and a little smiley face. I showed it to Damo and he grinned.

‘Still got it,' he said.

I snatched it back.

‘Looks easy enough to find,' I said. ‘Ready?'

Damo nodded.

‘Ready,' he said.

We found the house without any trouble whatsoever. It was a small cottage at the end of a lane, with a well cared-for garden all around it – exactly where you'd imagine a romance author to live.

Together we walked up the path and I knocked on the door. There was no reply and I looked at Damo. I'd not considered that Susannah, or Suze, or whatever her name was, wouldn't be at home.

‘Let's go back to the café and give it half an hour,' Damo said. ‘She might just be walking her dogs or something.'

Despondent, we walked back towards the village green.

‘I bet she's on holiday,' I said.

‘If she's not there when we go back, we'll put a note through the door,' Damo said. Nothing ever got him riled up or gloomy – apart from me leaving him hanging in the middle of Sydney, of course. ‘Then she knows how serious you are.'

I nodded.

As we turned the corner onto the main road through the village we passed a woman with a neat steely grey bob. She was carrying a Waitrose hessian bag and she had a small dog on a lead. She gave us a brief smile to acknowledge us and carried on walking the way we'd come.

We carried on a few steps and then I stopped and looked back at the woman.

‘You go on,' I said to Damo. ‘I'll catch you up.'

Damo looked at me and I smiled.

‘Go on,' I said. ‘Get me a tea will you?'

‘That her?' he said, tilting his head towards the woman.

‘She looks familiar,' I said. ‘I just want to check.'

I turned and walked quickly after the woman and caught up with her just as she reached her garden gate.

‘Excuse me,' I called.

She turned and smiled.

‘Are you lost?'

I shook my head.

‘No,' I said. ‘I'm Fearne Summers. I emailed you? I'm the editor of Mode magazine…'

Straight away the woman's smile dropped.

‘I asked you not to contact me,' she snapped. ‘I'm not interested.'

‘But you are Suze?' I said. ‘Suze Williams?'

She looked sad for a minute.

‘I've not been Suze Williams for a long time.'

She walked through the gate and shut it so it formed a barrier between her and me. But she didn't move. Instead she looked like she was going to say something. I waited, but she didn't speak so I jumped in.

‘Mode's in trouble,' I said in a hurry. ‘I've got a year to save it. I'm relaunching on a shoestring budget and I've been reading the first ever issue…'

I looked at the woman's face. She wasn't wearing any make-up but her hair was well cut and her clothes looked expensive. Those romance novels must be doing well, I thought. But it wasn't surprising. She'd been brilliant at Mode magazine, I imagined she was just as good at writing books.

She gave me a brief smile, though she still looked sad.

‘We caused quite a stir with that issue,' she said.

My hopes raised, just a little bit, I ploughed on.