The Girl in the Picture Page 27

  Ben’s job was going brilliantly, the boys were settled and happy, I was nervous about the new baby after what happened with Stan, but I was being well looked after at the hospital in Brighton and my doctor had assured me I was in safe hands. And as for Violet, she was going to get the recognition she’d always wanted, albeit more than one hundred and fifty years too late.

  Predictably, Priya hadn’t let the birth of her twins slow her down. She’d talked through all my theories about what happened to Violet and we’d agreed that there had been an altercation outside the house – possibly a fight between Edwin and the gardener, William Philips.

  Priya thought Violet and Frances probably witnessed the fight and had run – in different directions – from the violence. Violet had gone home and hidden (we hoped; I still couldn’t bear the idea that someone had deliberately imprisoned her) and Frances had fled into her house where Edwin attacked her.

  Of course we still didn’t know if she had pushed Edwin down the stairs, or if he’d fallen. I didn’t really care. I thought Frances was a hero and I knew Edwin was the villain. I wanted Edwin’s role in Violet’s death, and the truth about how he stole Violet’s work and beat Frances, to be exposed. And today Violet would finally be gently put into a real grave, with a headstone that people could visit and put flowers on.

  I had continued to work in the attic – once the wall had been rebuilt. Some people asked me if it was creepy, knowing Violet’s body had been there, that Violet had died there, but I didn’t feel like that at all. It felt peaceful.

  ‘Ready?’ Ben slung his arm around my shoulders and I turned to kiss him.

  ‘Ready,’ I said. ‘I just needed a minute.’

  Ben nodded. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘It’s been a hell of a year.’

  Together we walked up the garden towards the house. The boys were standing at the kitchen door, smart in chinos and blue shirts, along with Barb and my dad.

  ‘Winnie Flood is meeting us at the church,’ Ben said. ‘She’s coming back to the house afterwards though. Her daughter’s coming with her.’

  ‘I’m so pleased she could come,’ I said. ‘This is Frances’s story too so it’s right that her family are involved.’

  ‘Come on then, fatso,’ Ben said. He waved to the boys and Stan barrelled towards him.

  I paused and watched my family walk out of the garden gate. Then I looked up at the attic window where, all those months ago, I’d first thought I’d seen a figure. For a minute, I thought I could see someone standing there. But when I blinked, the figure was gone.

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  THE FORGOTTEN GIRL

  Chapter 1

  2016

  I was nervous. Not just a little bit wobbly. I was properly, squeaky-voiced, sweaty-palms, absolutely bloody terrified. And that was very unlike me.

  The office was just up ahead – I could see it from where I stood, lurking behind my sunglasses in case anyone I knew spotted me and tried to speak to me. I wasn’t ready for conversation yet. The building had a glass front, with huge blown-up magazine covers in its windows. In pride of place, right next to the revolving door, was the cover from the most recent issue of Mode.

  I swallowed.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I muttered to myself. ‘They wouldn’t have given you the job if they didn’t think you were up to it. It’s fine. You’re fine. Better than fine. You’re brilliant.’

  I took a deep breath, straightened my back, threw back my shoulders and headed to the Starbucks opposite me.

  I ordered an espresso and a soya latte, then I sat down to compose myself for a minute.

  Today was my first day as editor of Mode. It was the job I’d wanted since I was a teenager. It had been my dream for so long, I could barely believe it was happening, and I was determined to make a success of it.

  Except here I was, ready to get started, and I’d been floored by these nerves.

  Shaking slightly, I downed my espresso in one like it was a shot of tequila and checked the time on my phone. I was early, but that was no bad thing. I had lots of good luck messages – mostly from people hoping I’ll give them a job, I thought wryly. I couldn’t help noticing, as I scrolled through and deleted them, that there was nothing from my best friend, Jen. She was obviously still upset about the way I’d behaved when I’d got the job. And if I was honest, she had every right to be upset, but I didn’t have time to worry about that now. I was sure she’d come round.

  I stood up and straightened my clothes. I’d played it safe this morning with black skinny trousers, a fitted black shirt and funky leopard-print pumps. My naturally curly blonde hair was straightened and pulled into a sleek ponytail and I wore a slash of red lipstick. I looked good. I just hoped it was good enough for the editor of Mode.

  A surge of excitement bubbled up inside me. I was the editor of Mode. Me. Fearne Summers. I picked up my latte and looped my arm through my Marc Jacobs tote.

  ‘Right, Fearne,’ I said out loud. ‘Let’s do this.’

  I wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee or a cheerleading squad waiting for me in reception (well, I was a bit) but I did think that the bored woman behind the desk could have at least cracked a smile. Or she could have tried to look a tiny bit impressed that I was the new editor of Mode. Mind you, if this office was anything like my old place – and I was pretty sure all magazine companies were the same – there would be a never-ending stream of celebrities, models, and strange PR stunts (last Christmas we’d had mince pies delivered by a llama wearing a Santa hat, and that was one of the more normal visitors). Perhaps a new editor was terribly run of the mill.

  ‘Here’s your pass,’ she said, throwing it across the desk at me. ‘The office is on the third floor, but you’re to go up to fifth first of all to meet Lizzie.’

  I was surprised. Lizzie was the chief-exec of Glam Media, the company that owned Mode along with lots of other magazines. I knew I’d have to catch up with her at some point today but I thought she’d give me time to meet my team, and find my office first.

  Lizzie was waiting for me when I got out of the lift. The bored receptionist must have told her I was on my way.

  She was in her early fifties, petite and stylishly dressed, with a cloud of dark hair. She was friendly and approachable, but she had a reputation of being ruthless in pursuit of profit for the company. She scared the bejesus out of me if I was honest, but she’d been very nice when I met her at one of the many interviews I’d done to get the job. Now she smiled at me and shook my hand.

  ‘Great to have you on board, Fearne,’ she said. ‘This is a time of big change for Mode.’

  ‘I’ve got loads of ideas,’ I said, following her down the corridor to a meeting room. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

  She gave me a brief smile over her shoulder.

  ‘Great,’ she said again.

  Except she didn’t really mean great, I quickly discovered. She meant, yeah good luck with that, Fearne.

  It turned out that Glam Media was worried about Mode. Really worried. I’d looked at the sales, of course, and seen they weren’t as good as they could be but I hadn’t really grasped just how much trouble the magazine was in.

  ‘The problem is the competition has really raised its game,’ Lizzie explained as I stared out of the big window in her office and tried to take in everything she was saying.

  ‘Grace?’ I said. It had been a fairly boring, unadventurous magazine called Home & Hearth until it was bought by a new company and had loads of money pumped into it. Now it had a new name, it was exciting and fun, and it was stealing lots of Mode’s readers.

  ‘So the finance department have redone your budgets for this year,’ said Lizzie. ‘To reflect Mode’s sales.’

  She slid a piece of paper across her desk and I stared at the figures she’d put in front of me in horror.

  ‘I can’t run a glossy mag on this budget,’ I said. ‘How am I supp
osed to pay for fashion shoots? Or commission writers?’

  Lizzie shrugged.

  ‘Times are tough,’ she said. ‘That’s all that’s in the pot.’

  ‘Can’t I have some of the website budget?’ I asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Digital budget is separate,’ she said. ‘The website’s going very well. Advertising and readership are both up. It’s the magazine that’s in trouble.’

  I looked at her, suddenly realising where this was going, and why my predecessor had been so keen to leave her job.

  ‘Are you going to close Mode?’ I asked.

  She stared back at me.

  ‘Nothing’s decided yet.’

  ‘But it’s possible?’

  Lizzie looked at a point somewhere past my ear.

  ‘Print isn’t working,’ she said.

  ‘But Mode is an iconic brand,’ I said desperately. ‘It’s been going since the sixties. It was the first ever young women’s glossy. You can’t close it.’

  Lizzie still didn’t look me in the eye, but she did at least assume a slightly sympathetic expression.

  ‘We’d still have the website,’ she said. ‘It’s not ending, it’s just changing. Mode will still exist – just in a different form.’

  ‘A glossy mag is a treat,’ I said. ‘People will pay for that.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Would people lose their jobs?’ I asked, suddenly realising this didn’t just affect me.

  ‘That’s also possible,’ she said.

  I put my head in my hands. This was a nightmare. My dream job was collapsing around my ears.

  Lizzie took a breath.

  ‘Fearne, we took you on for a reason,’ she said. ‘You’re a great editor with a good reputation.’

  I forced myself to raise my head and smile at her. That was nice to hear.

  ‘But you’re also known for being cut-throat,’ she carried on. ‘We all know you’re single-minded and determined. That you don’t let anything get in the way of success,’

  I nodded slowly. I wasn’t sure I’d use the word ‘cut-throat’ but I was definitely single-minded.

  ‘We know you won’t let emotions or sentiment get in the way of doing your job.’

  Oh.

  ‘You brought me here to close the magazine?’ I said, as I worked it all out.

  Lizzie had the grace to look slightly shame-faced.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Close it or make it work. Take back some of the sales we’ve lost to Grace.’

  I looked at the budget again. With the figures she’d given me it was obvious which option she wanted. I could barely cover the staffing costs with this amount of money – and I had no chance of booking top photographers or paying for big-name writers. It was an impossible task.

  ‘How long have I got?’ I said. ‘How long do I have to make Mode pay?’

  Lizzie looked a bit confused. She’d clearly not considered this.

  ‘Six months?’

  I swallowed.

  ‘Give me a year,’ I said, wondering how on earth I managed to keep my voice steady when I was so terrified by the task that lay ahead. ‘I need a year to have a proper go at this.’

  Lizzie looked at something on the papers in front of her. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed.

  ‘Nine months?’ she said.

  I shrugged.

  ‘Is that the best you can offer?’ I said. She nodded.

  ‘So if I can increase sales enough in that time, you’ll let the magazine carry on?’ I said.

  Lizzie nodded again.

  ‘If you can make it work on the new budget, then we’ll reconsider,’ she said, sounding incredulous that I was even thinking about it.

  ‘Great,’ I said, faking excitement when all I felt was despair. ‘Nine months is more than enough.’

  I gathered up my things and stood up, hoping she couldn’t see my legs trembling. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to meet my team now.’

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  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

  Copyright © Kerry Barrett 2017

  Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 978-0-00-822157-7