LITMIR.BIZ

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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 …’

      I paused.

      ‘I’ll ask George, if he knows any good photographers.’

      George threw his head back and laughed. I was pleased. I got a real thrill from making him laugh and he obviously felt the same about me. We were sitting closer together now, I noticed. His long thigh was touching my leg. I knew I should move away – I was engaged after all, even if George didn’t know that – but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to shift along.

      We looked at each other for a moment – a long moment.

      Then Frank threw open the door to the darkroom.

      ‘Prints,’ he announced. ‘Hi, kid.’

      ‘Hi Frank,’ I said, annoyed and relieved in equal measures that he’d interrupted me and George.

      ‘Fashion,’ he said, giving me a large envelope. ‘I’m pleased with them. Get Rosemary to call and tell me what she thinks.’

      I nodded.

      ‘Did you bring me an issue?’

      ‘Oh yes,’ I said, I’d thrown it on a side table when I came in, so I fetched it now. Frank – who was in his forties with a bushy beard that he claimed he’d cultivated to make him look like a grown-up – held the issue at arm’s length and looked at the cover. It was a photograph of a pie, taken from above, on a dark-brown background.

      ‘Fucking dreadful,’ he said.

      I grinned. I agreed entirely.

      ‘Why don’t you put people on the cover?’

      I shrugged.

      ‘Not up to me,’ I said.

      ‘One day it will be up to you,’ George said.

      ‘One day,’ I laughed. I pulled on my mac again and picked up the envelope of prints.

      ‘I’ll get Rosemary to ring you,’ I said. ‘Bye George.’

      George blew me a kiss and I floated on air all the way back to the office.

      As I was walking past Bruno’s though, a shout made me look round.

      ‘Nancy,’ Bruno called from the door of the café. ‘Nancy! I need you.’

      Oh god, had that Suze stolen something or caused a commotion? Heart sinking, I crossed the road.

      ‘Your friend,’ Bruno said, his Italian accent heavier than usual. ‘She is sick. You have to help her.’

       Chapter 5

      I can’t lie, for a moment I thought about telling Bruno I barely knew Suze, and going back to work. But then I remembered the slump of her shoulders when she picked up her wet article, and I knew I couldn’t abandon her. What had George called me? A sucker. Sounded about right.

      ‘Nancy!’ Bruno sounded panicky. ‘She’s at the back.’

      I went into the long narrow café, enjoying the warmth after being outside in the rain. The windows were fogged up and there was a buzz of chatter fighting with the hiss of Bruno’s fancy coffee machine that he’d brought with him from Italy.

      The left side of the room was lined with booths with maroon, PVC benches. It was close to lunchtime now, so the café was busy and I glanced at the customers as I walked past, appraising their hairstyles, their clothes and their shoes. The counter was on the right, and at the back of the café, past the serving hatch, there were another two booths. That’s where Suze was – right at the back – curled up on one of the PVC benches.

      ‘She came in, all bouncy,’ Bruno said. ‘She said she was your friend, ordered a coffee and then she fainted. We put her here and gave her some water.’

      ‘Is she asleep?’ I said, looking at the top of Suze’s dark head, which was all I could see.

      ‘No,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘I’m awake. I just feel woozy when I sit up.’

      ‘Sit up, and put your head between your legs,’ I said, remembering my friend Delia from school, who fainted all the time. ‘It gets blood to your brain, or something.’

      Suze didn’t reply, but she slowly sat up, giving me a glimpse of her very pale face, then spun her legs round so they were outside the booth, and lowered her head in between her bony knees.

      ‘Suze,’ I said, studying her shoulder blades, which stuck up like chicken wings. ‘Did you have breakfast?’

      She moved slightly – a brief shake of her head.

      ‘Bruno, can you get her some orange juice and a sandwich?’ I said, wondering if Suze still had that ten-shilling note – junior writer wasn’t a very well paid job. ‘I think she needs to eat something.’

      Bruno looked relieved that I was taking charge. He slunk off behind the counter, poured an orange juice, which he handed to me, and busied himself making a sandwich.

      I sat down opposite Suze. From the look of her, it wasn’t just breakfast she’d skipped. I wondered if she’d eaten anything all week.

      ‘Suze,’ I said. She raised her head and I was pleased to see some colour coming back into her cheeks. I pushed the glass of orange juice towards her and

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