The Forgotten Girl. Kerry Barrett

       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