The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting

by Angela Marsons

His insistence was beginning to bug her. ‘Why? I’ve already told you I’m happy where I am. Let’s face it, you’re in first class complete with ballrooms and cabins and I’m in steerage. That’s the way it is so why do you want me to think about it?’ Her words weren’t completely accurate. She was bored shitless but at least she was bored shitless and comfortable. She’d only last five minutes in that atmosphere before she bit someone’s head off and earned herself an A4 envelope holding her P45.

  She tried to concentrate on her chicken but she felt a restlessness that travelled to her foot, causing it to rock back and forth beneath the table. There was a word that circled in her head. Tidy. Everything was too tidy. Her appearance was now appropriate to her surroundings. Her job was tidy. Tyler was tidy. Everything was neat and tidy. It was what she’d wanted but something wasn’t right.

  ‘So what do you think, will you consider it?’

  ‘Tyler, what’s with you? I don’t want to think about it. Why are you pushing me?’

  ‘It’s an improvement, that’s all,’ he said, shifting in his seat slightly.

  ‘For who?’ she asked, irritated.

  ‘Whom, get it right!’ he corrected.

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Tyler. Who is this about, you or me?’

  The rising colour in his cheeks answered her question. She tried not to be surprised at his manipulation. It was himself he was worried about. Within the company she was the lowest of the low, she knew that. When forced to enter the management offices she received polite, puzzled smiles that told her they had no idea who she was, or where she worked. It obviously bothered Tyler more than it did her.

  She watched as he sliced a prawn in half and guided the smaller portion to the edge of his plate. Kit had wondered why he did that until she read in an etiquette article that it was polite to leave something on your plate. Where she’d grown up it was good manners to polish off the whole lot. And really, if that was the extent of one’s manners, half a soggy prawn, was it really worth it?

  She realised now why he wanted to keep their relationship secret. It was obvious he would be more comfortable with people finding out about them if she had a more acceptable job title.

  ‘Are you ashamed of me, Tyler?’

  ‘No… no one knows about us, do they?’ The panic that accompanied his words told her what she wanted to know.

  ‘Oh, I see. It’s okay for me to have great ideas that save the company money and I’m all right to entertain the assistant manager but preferably if I occupied more appropriate office space.’ She paused to spear a broccoli floret. ‘Incidentally, where’s my fifty quid?’

  ‘What fifty pounds?’

  ‘Trevor told me that now the new call-out procedure is in place and working I should have had my fifty quid for the suggestion. Come to think of it…’ she recalled with a frown ‘…I didn’t get anything for the stock control system now in operation.’

  Tyler dropped his fork, which slid from the table and stabbed him in the foot. ‘I’ll… umm… sort it out tomorrow, I promise.’

  Kit eyed him suspiciously.

  He looked around, eager for a distraction. ‘Bloody hell, can’t they do something about that? It’s hard to stomach over a nice meal,’ Tyler moaned, nodding outside.

  Kit idly followed his gaze and saw a girl opposite the restaurant dressed in what was known as a ‘whores’ uniform’ of leather and lace.

  ‘It’s a pretty sorry state that it’s getting to this part of town.’

  ‘It’s a sorry state it exists anywhere!’ Kit snapped, not taking her eyes away from the girl. She guessed her to be mid-teens and could just make out the grotesque make-up trowelled on in an attempt to make her look older.

  ‘You’d think the police would move them on,’ he continued, stuffing another huge prawn into his mouth. Kit held her tongue. She didn’t trust herself to speak on the subject too much. Just shut up and we can move past this, her mind pleaded.

  ‘I mean, it’s a nice area. There are other places.’

  Kit tried to ignore him and continued to watch the girl. The broccoli threatened to re-present itself when a blue estate car pulled up beside her. Kit held her breath. It moved along. She sighed with relief.

  Tyler misunderstood her discomfort. He removed his napkin from his lap. ‘I’ll speak to the manager, see if he can do something about—’

  ‘Tyler, sit down!’ she snapped. He remained standing. ‘Don’t you feel anything other than repulsion for her?’ she asked. The question was important.

  He thought for a moment. It was too late. Kit could see he was searching for the appropriate response. ‘Well, of course, I feel sorry for her.’

  ‘Really, how sorry?’ Kit asked.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He sat back down, his disinterest obvious.

  Kit shook her head. He couldn’t understand; she shouldn’t expect him to.

  ‘Let’s not fight, let’s forget about it and enjoy our meal,’ he mollified.

  Christ, thought Kit, that wasn’t even a cross word! Her idea of a good fight included spit and feathers.

  She tried to do as he suggested, but every time she saw headlights reflected in the puddles outside, her breath caught as she silently prayed for the car to move along. Tyler had no such problem with his meal.

  It was obvious that his previous discomfort had passed. His embarrassment, his stutters were gone. He was as relaxed as when they’d first walked in. He felt nothing for the girl standing half in the shadows of the unlit doorway. Even his anger had been fake, he didn’t see her at all. Instantly she knew. He’d used that girl as a distraction only. She recalled what they’d been talking about.

  She placed her fork beside her half-full plate. ‘Tyler, you never passed those ideas as mine, did you?’ she asked incredulously. ‘That’s why I’ve not received the money.’

  ‘I haven’t received the money, get it right!’ he corrected her again.

  ‘Fuck my grammar, Tyler! Am I right?’ she demanded.

  His slightly trembling hand and defiant chin confirmed her suspicion. He looked like a child who had pinched a toy and felt justified in doing so.

  ‘They wouldn’t have believed—’

  ‘What, that I’m capable of having an original thought? My God, you people are unbelievable! How the hell do you manage to sit upright with no fucking backbone?’

  He gave her a disapproving glance.

  This can’t work, she thought with the first ounce of honesty she’d allowed herself in weeks. The clothes, the hair, the make-up, they weren’t her. She still felt like a fraud and it didn’t matter how she acted, what she settled for, she’d be judged. The words ‘Be careful what you wish for’ sing-songed mockingly around her tidy, empty head.

  ‘If your opinion of me is so low, why all this?’ She motioned around the restaurant with its French chef, luxurious décor and five-pounds-a-glass apple juice. ‘Do you think my life began when I joined your company?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he smiled indulgently.

  Kit hated that smile. ‘So why have you never asked me one question about my life and why haven’t you yet bothered to make a move?’

  His reddening face was not necessary for the answer. The fancy restaurants, a trip to the opera, the memory of which now helped her off to sleep more effectively than sheep, the constant nudges to better herself. She suddenly felt like she was on the pages of My Fair Lady. This was everything she’d dreamed of during the dark, lonely nights in Soho.

  What was Mark doing now? she wondered, and then tried to banish the thought from her mind. She didn’t want to think about Mark. He was gone now; he was in the past.

  ‘It’s not going to happen, Tyler. You’ve moulded me, you’ve shaped me and I think in your mind you’ve educated me. Almost to the standard that you could be happy with.’ She breathed in deeply. She was tired, drained from the effort of holding on to the cape of respectability that she’d designed herself and which was now squeezing the spirit from her body.
r />   ‘There’s something you should know. That was me.’

  He raised his head, confused. She could see he’d already forgotten the girl across the street. She felt no anger for his disregard, just a deep sadness. ‘That was what I did until just before Christmas. I was lucky.’ She thought again of the knife’s legacy across her buttocks. She lifted her head. ‘I was lucky, I got out.’

  She could see remnants of half-chewed prawn in his open mouth. She would not go into detail. ‘There is nothing more for you to know, except that it’s over.’

  She saw his struggle not to show the relief that eventually succeeded in flitting across his features. A little more disappointment would have been prudent, but he couldn’t muster that.

  She looked around the expensive restaurant with expensive people, with expensive clothes, and realised no matter how expensive she looked or how hard she tried to believe otherwise, she would never fit into a place like this with ease. It wasn’t her. And what she was about to do would confirm that once and for all.

  ‘I am going to leave now and I make no apologies for the fact that my actions might embarrass you.’

  She didn’t wait to see his expression before summoning a waiter and asking for their most expensive chicken dish to be put into a take-out box. The poor chap had no idea what she was talking about but to Tyler’s acute embarrassment she pursued her request. The waiter retreated with obvious disapproval while Tyler held his head in his hands.

  Upon his return she assured the waiter that her companion would settle the bill and thanked him for his assistance.

  Tyler sat rigidly; only his eyes moved, darting from her to the girl outside.

  ‘What’s wrong, Tyler, feel like you’ve been duped?’ she asked meaningfully. The terror on his face was due more to his concern of people finding out.

  ‘I c… can’t believe you were a c… call girl,’ he stuttered.

  ‘No, Tyler, the word is “whore”, get it right,’ she mocked, before leaving the restaurant without a backward glance.

  She walked across the road. It was eleven o’clock and the traffic was slowing. An earlier storm had cooled the July heat, which was now a chilly breeze. The heat of the food warmed her hands as she approached the young girl.

  ‘I don’t do girls,’ she said, rolling her eyes with the drama of a teenager.

  ‘Neither do I,’ Kit stated, sidling up beside her. ‘Hungry?’

  The guarded grey eyes looked at her suspiciously. ‘Fuck off, lady!’ she growled.

  ‘Just left a job in customer relations, eh?’

  The girl ignored her. Kit opened one of the foil cartons and popped a piece of chicken into her mouth.

  ‘You got a name?’

  ‘What the fuck’s it to you?’

  Kit nearly laughed out loud. If the hair were two shades darker, she would have been convinced she was in a time warp.

  ‘I only asked if you got a name.’

  ‘Terri!’ she barked, glancing down at the steaming food.

  ‘That your real name or your stage name?’

  ‘Just piss off, will ya? I’m busy!’

  Kit noted there was less defence, her concentration taken up by the food in Kit’s hand.

  ‘What you doing out here? What are you, fourteen?’

  ‘Fifteen!’ she snarled, like an angry puppy.

  Kit had deliberately gone lower, knowing that in her defence and anger Terri would reveal her true age. Realising what she’d done, she stuck her chin out defiantly. ‘So what you gonna do about it?’

  ‘I could report you, you know,’ Kit stated, taking a little longer than necessary to place the next piece of chicken in her mouth. She could report the girl; she could walk to the nearest police station and ensure that she would be picked up within hours. That was so nice and tidy, problem solved and a good night’s sleep with a clear conscience. Except Kit knew Terri would be back on the streets tomorrow, just in a different place.

  ‘Yeah and I could kick your ass.’

  ‘Ooh, scary! Chicken?’ Kit offered, pushing the carton towards her.

  The girl knocked the food roughly out of her hands. Unperturbed, Kit fished into the paper bag. ‘Voilà, here’s one I made earlier but I really think this chicken does not want to fly.’

  Terri’s mouth twitched. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Who are you?’ Kit leaned against the doorway. A Peugeot 405 pulled up beside them. A balding man in his fifties wound down the window.

  ‘How much for both?’ he shouted.

  ‘Fuck off, we’re eating!’ Kit shouted.

  He gave her the finger and moved along.

  ‘What the hell you do that for?’

  ‘Because I hate eating alone.’

  ‘You’re bloody mad, you are.’

  ‘Yep, got a certificate to prove it.’ Kit watched as the hungry eyes ate the food that she was too proud to accept.

  ‘Can you hold this a minute?’ asked Kit, giving her little choice as she thrust it into the girl’s stomach. She took a pencil and an old envelope out of her bag and scribbled down her address. ‘Look, this is me,’ she said, placing the paper in the girl’s free hand.

  ‘I don’t want—’

  ‘I know you don’t, but if you do you know where to find me.’

  Kit held her gaze for a few long seconds, the eyes that faced her unsure. She looked down at the tray still half full of steaming chicken and vegetables. ‘I’ve had enough. Chuck it in that bin over there, will you?’

  Kit walked away quickly. She reached the end of the road and quickly glanced back to see Terri hungrily eating the chicken.

  Once around the corner she slowed slightly, enjoying the freedom of the cool night air, and tried to analyse her feelings about Tyler, which she felt should probably have been stronger.

  What she hated most was the deceit. She didn’t mind him putting her ideas forward as his own, it was the fact that he’d had no intention of telling her at all if he could have avoided it. She tried to feel sorry that their relationship was over but she realised he was no different to the punters in Soho, only better dressed. He still intended to use her but in a more appropriate, upmarket and definitely dishonest way. She even tried to be concerned about the fact that work would be very uncomfortable, if indeed she had a job left to go to.

  Why did she feel such a fraud? She felt as though she was hiding but she didn’t know why. What was left for her to overcome? She had the external forces to make her life ordinary, her little flat and her easy job. So why did she still feel like they were fragmented parts of a jigsaw? Why the hell did these things still not make her whole? She felt like a 3D object trying to force itself into a 2D picture.

  What was now preventing her from mentally fading into the life of which she’d dreamed?

  16

  Fran

  ‘That was wonderful,’ breathed Fran as they exited Symphony Hall into Centenary Square. It was the first time she had entered the huge ICC complex and the hall had taken her breath away, especially the awe-inspiring vision of the acoustic canopy and reverberation chamber.

  Martine had commented, as they had taken their seats, that Symphony Hall was built on rubber cushions to prevent any disturbance from the railway tunnel underneath. It worked, thought Fran.

  From the second the conductor had flexed his baton Fran had been lost. The music washed over her in waves. It had penetrated her body and soul and soothed the wounds inflicted by her parents. The melodies had aimed right for the new, warm place somewhere between her breastbone and stomach. Since the first day she’d seen Jamie she’d been walking around with a gift inside that jolted her when she thought of his fair hair or dungarees, or the imprint of his body against her own. The memory of him kept her warm.

  ‘I can’t believe you haven’t visited these places in your own city.’

  ‘I never enjoyed music like this,’ Fran replied, unable to believe her own words. And it was true. Her senses seemed to have been rea
wakened from a deep sleep. A few months earlier the performance she’d just witnessed would have made her eyes glaze over with boredom.

  ‘Well, I promised I’d show you the world and it looks like we don’t even have to leave this city,’ joked Martine.

  ‘I’ll have you know I’ve led an extremely sheltered life. My only liaison with music is occasionally listening to the Rolling Stones. Classy, huh?’ teased Fran.

  ‘It’s not important what the music is. Any music can either lift your heart or leaden your soul. It doesn’t matter if it’s Michael Jackson or Madame Butterfly, just as long as you feel.’

  Fran saw the depth of Martine’s passion for music and marvelled at the diversity of her interests. ‘My opinion of music was always you can’t eat it, drink it or smoke it, so why bother?’ she baited.

  ‘Blasphemy,’ Martine cried, covering her ears. ‘Please remind me why I like you?’

  Fran fluttered her long eyelashes. ‘My natural warmth and charm that attracts you like an unsuspecting bug to the flypaper.’

  ‘Will I be poisoned by arsenic, too?’

  ‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’

  A look passed between them that went unnoticed by the crowds leaving alongside them. It was a look meant only for them, filled with the tension of unfulfilled longing that was apparent to both.

  ‘All ready for tomorrow?’ Martine asked softly.

  Fran’s face sobered. ‘Yes, I don’t think he has long left. I want to see him before…’ Her voice caught. Martine reached for her hand. Fran knew it was time to face both her parents. Too many questions swirled around her mind like debris in a tornado. It was time to question their actions. She knew it was her own reluctance to do this that had resulted in her trip to Macy’s. Thank God Kit was in, she thought.

  ‘Don’t let your mother in, Fran,’ Martine breathed. ‘I know you’re intimidated by her but you’re going for your father. Be yourself, she can’t threaten that which is real.’

  ‘I just wish I knew how to feel about the whole thing. I feel sad, but do I feel sad enough? He’s my father. I should be in tears. What does it say about me?’ Fran asked, seriously.