Chapter 1

‘I DON’T BELIEVE it,’ she cried, pressing a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God, I just don’t believe it.’

Tears were welling in her eyes as she clutched the letter to her chest and tried to make herself accept what she’d just read. It could be that she was dreaming; this could be a cruel and faithless trick of her mind, or it could be that after all this time of waiting, and hoping, and trying to get up the courage to make it happen, her entire life was about to change.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her temples and tried to make herself think. Then, sinking down on the bottom stair, she considered reading the letter again, but didn’t, for fear that she might have misread it. She took a breath. Thank God she was alone. She didn’t want anyone else to see the letter, she’d rather die than let any of them know what she was planning to do.

Minutes ticked by. Outside she could hear next door’s cat mewling to be let in. Old Hodgkins, across the road, was having trouble starting his clapped out Fiesta again. Someone shouted from down the street, telling him to chuck the bloody thing in the knackers’ yard. Sandy didn’t have to look out to know that a dank grey sky was lying heavily over the forlorn terraced houses that she called home and the Post Office called Fairweather Street.

She looked up at the hall clock. Five past ten in the morning. Maureen, her recently divorced sister, would be back from cleaning the factory at eleven. Her other sisters, Sharon and Glenda – one was a bus driver, the other worked breakfasts and dinners in the canteen at the depot – would come in for an hour at half past twelve. As it was Friday they would bring bags of curry sauce and chips from Mo and Joe’s on the corner, then spread themselves out across the yellow plastic table cloth and eat with their fingers as they gossiped about their workmates at the Beddesley Heath bus garage. Neither Sharon nor Glenda lived at home any more, both were married, no kids yet and lived over on the Wexford Estate. Coming here Fridays was a habit they’d fallen into, even though their mother, Gladys, was hardly ever there to see them. Since the Legion had introduced bingo at lunch-times Gladys rarely made it back to the house before it was time to return to the number five check-out at Safeways.

Sandy’s brothers, Gordon and Keith, invariably made their way to the King’s Head over at Cadworth on Fridays, where they exchanged a good portion of their plasterers’ wages for cloudy pints of bitter with a dash. Gordon, who was just eighteen, still lived at the house, but Keith had recently moved in with Laura, a hairdresser who had her own flat on the same estate as Sharon and Glenda. The boys might make it back some time today, most of Gladys’s children did at some point on a Friday, if only to pop a quid or two in the old-fashioned teapot Gladys used for the Christmas Club fund. As for Bob, their father, well, it was anyone’s guess when he might be home, as no one had seen him for close on five years. The saddest part of that was that he’d been gone for almost a week before anyone had seemed to notice and the day was yet to dawn when anyone gave a sign of caring.

Sitting there at the foot of the dimly lit staircase, Sandy thought about her family and tried to muster some feeling. It was hard, for they seemed like strangers, people she’d never known, even though she’d lived with them all her life. Each of them, including Sandy, bore a clone-like resemblance to the other, with Gladys’s pale oval face and upturned nose, and their father’s lank fair hair. Not one of them was over five feet six, Sandy was the tallest of the girls at five feet four. She came fourth in the line-up, meaning she had three sisters older and two brothers younger. Perhaps she should have been a boy to even out the numbers; she might have been noticed then. As it stood, she was simply a lesser nobody in a family of nobodies.

She started as someone rapped on the front door. From the clink of milk bottles on the step outside she guessed it was Ron, the milkman, looking to be paid. She drew herself quickly in against the wall in case he peered through the letter-box. She wasn’t supposed to be here, no one knew she’d got the sack from her job at the building society and there was no way in the world she was going to use any of her savings to pay Randy Ron. She’d been with him once, in the old shed over by Miller’s Farm, where everyone went to have it away when they had nowhere else to go. She’d been there plenty of times, because there was never anywhere private in this house and there was a time when she’d been really popular with the boys – probably still would be if she hadn’t decided to give sex up for a while.

She waited as Randy Ron’s footsteps retreated down the path, then, taking heart, she looked down at the letter again. If it really did say what she thought it said she was going to have to move fast to be out of here before Maureen came home.

As her eyes moved rapidly over the five neatly typed lines, her heart started to swell and her hands to shake. ‘Oh God, thank you, God,’ she whispered as she read the final words. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ Her lips were trembling as tears of joyous disbelief swamped her eyes. Then suddenly she was on her feet, racing up the stairs to the cluttered back bedroom she shared with Maureen. Quick as a flash she was up on the dresser, opening the trapdoor to the attic and hauling out her suitcase. It was heavy, heavier even than she expected. It hit the ground with a thud and burst open.

She leapt down from the dresser. The stylish, expensive-looking clothes were neatly folded in tissue, all bought from second-hand shops and lovingly reshaped, rebuttoned and retrimmed by Sandy’s own hand to fit her petite figure and newly refined taste. She worked in the privacy of her bedroom, while listening to self-improvement and voice tapes on Glenda’s old cassette machine.

Carefully folding back the top layer of clothes, she eased out a Prince of Wales check dress and held it up for inspection. Her turquoise-blue eyes glistened like jewels in her pretty though pallid face, while currents of dread and anticipation shot through her nerves. This was her going away dress.

She had already showered, so throwing off her old candlewick dressing-gown she rummaged in her drawer for underwear and tights, slipped on white knickers and bra, then emptied the rest into her case. Her hairbrush was where Maureen had dropped it, on the stool at the foot of their bunk beds. Sandy snatched it up. She hated the way her sister used her things without asking; even more, she hated the fact that Maureen and Maureen’s bloody fags had returned to their cramped little room after Maureen’s eight-month marriage had failed. Those eight months had been as close to bliss as Sandy had ever reached in her life.

Hurriedly she brushed the tangles from her hair, knowing that by Monday it would be short and chic and gloriously blonde. Her heart was floating between thuds as, from the lining of her case, she took out a small flowery bag full of brand-new make-up. She sorely wished she had more time to do this, but it wasn’t to be, and standing the mirror up against the window she began to apply an enlivening Rimmel foundation. When it was done she smiled. Darkening her complexion made her teeth look whiter, but she had good clean teeth anyway, which was more than she could say for the rest of her family. Thank God she’d never smoked, at least not actively, passively she’d probably done several thousand by now.

It took her no more than five minutes to apply the shadow, liner and mascara to her eyes, blusher to her cheeks and crimson gloss to her lips. As she worked she was thinking about Clive Baxter, her old boss at the building society, whose George Clooney eyes and Tom Cruise smile had driven the female customers wild. Of course, he still had his job even though he had been caught screwing her in the ladies lav. It had been a single lapse from the self-imposed celibacy she had started a couple of months ago and she’d had to go and get sacked over it. She’d been really upset at the time, as she’d been doing so well at the society that there was talk of her being promoted to assistant manager. But then Clive Baxter, the manager, had to go and get fresh after a few too many at someone’s birthday and Cilla Radford had to come walking in right at the crucial moment. It was just typical of Cilla the Righteous to go and blab what she’d seen to head office, though she was bloody lucky Sandy hadn’t spilled the beans on her, for Sandy knew a few choice things about Saint Cilla that Cilla certainly wouldn’t want getting back to her church-going chums. Funny how many people told Sandy their secrets when she never did anything to encourage them.

Still, she had this new job to go to now, but if it hadn’t come up she might well have sued the building society for sex discrimination, or wrongful dismissal, or whatever charge suited the circumstances, like she had when Marmons, the big electrical company, had kicked her out for stealing from the petty cash. They’d settled out of court on that one and given her three hundred quid, which she was probably mad to have accepted when everyone knew who had really taken the money, but as Julia Starky was the boss’s daughter no one was going to fire her. So Sandy Paull had been the scapegoat and Julia had paid her an extra fifty quid for taking the rap. Now she came to think about it she could probably have got a lot more out of Julia than that, but she’d learned for the next time.

Putting away her make-up she checked herself in the mirror and tried fluffing out her hair. It was a real pity she couldn’t have it done before she left, but a London salon would be ten times better than any of the local ones and now she was on her way she didn’t want to hang about.

Again from the lining of her case she took out a black leather purse. Her heart was thumping as she unzipped it and looked inside. She almost choked with relief as she saw the money was still there. Seven hundred and fifty-three quid; she just had to pray now that it was going to be enough to get her started. She knew already it wouldn’t be, because there wasn’t only her bus fare to the station, her rail ticket to London and a taxi fare to a hotel to pay for, there was the hotel itself, a deposit on a bedsit, food for a month and all her fares to and from her new job as well. But she’d find the money somehow, because nothing, just nothing, was going to stop her now.

It was ten to eleven by the time she hauled her suitcase down over the stairs. Settling it next to the front door, she rummaged in her bag for her front door key, put it on the hall table, then steeled herself to go and say the only goodbye she intended saying and the only one that was going to cause her any sadness.

Daisy, the long-suffering, devoted old mutt, who’d already turned fourteen, was lying in her basket in the corner of the kitchen. As Sandy came in, Daisy’s stubby little tail started to wag and her huge brown eyes gazed expectantly up at the only member of the family who ever remembered to walk her. Seeing that beloved whiskery old face was almost Sandy’s undoing. Tears seared the backs of her eyes and the love she felt for the poor, dying old dog almost overwhelmed her. But she couldn’t allow herself to cry, her make-up would run and Maureen would be home any minute.

‘Hey there,’ she said, trying to sound cheery as she stooped down in front of the dog. ‘You remember that job I told you about? The one that agency sent me for when I went down to London a couple of weeks ago? You know, when everyone thought I was going on a beano with a gang of girls from the office? Well, guess what? I got it. I start a week on Monday. Isn’t that great?’

Daisy licked her wrist, then nestled her face into the palm of her hand.

‘Oh God,’ Sandy choked, dabbing the corners of her eyes as she stroked Daisy’s face. ‘Try to understand, OK? I can’t stay. I’ve got to go and get myself a life. I mean, I’m twenty-four on Sunday and I can’t go on living here like this for ever, can I?’

Daisy’s big eyes gazed forlornly up at her mistress.

‘Oh, don’t look at me like that,’ Sandy said shakily. ‘I don’t want to think about you being all lonely here. I’ve got to forget you and you’ve got to forget me, OK?’

Leaning forward, she kissed the top of Daisy’s head, then, forcing herself not to look at the dog again, she turned and walked down the hall.

All the way down the garden path she struggled with her tears, seeing Daisy in her mind’s eye, nose pressed up against the door, waiting for Sandy to come back. Sandy guessed she’d never stop waiting until the day, which thanks to Sandy’s departure wouldn’t be long in coming now, that Gladys took her to the vet and had her put down.

She took the long way round to the number forty-four bus stop, past Dewhurst, the butcher, and across Fiveway Roundabout where British Gas had the road up again. If she went the shorter way she’d probably bump into Maureen, puffing on a cigarette as she hurried along Fullers Lane towards home. Fortunately, her other sister, Sharon, didn’t work the forty-four bus route, but there was a good chance that the driver who did would recognize Sandy and tell Sharon he’d seen her get off at the station, all dolled up and carrying a suitcase. But she’d be long gone by then and though they’d probably guess she was headed for London, because she’d been talking about it for long enough, no one would ever know exactly where in London even if they cared to find out, which they probably wouldn’t.

As she stood in the shelter waiting for the bus to arrive she bunched her hands in her pockets and stamped her feet to keep out the cold. She was a lot more apprehensive than she wanted to think about, so she tried buoying her confidence with reminders of all the positive and encouraging things people said about her. Most often it was her ability to pick things up so quickly that got her noticed, which was how come she’d had three managerial positions in three different fashion boutiques, a supervisor’s job in a typing pool and a couple of other jobs that had started off lowly until she’d begun working her way up the ladder. In general she got along well with other people, though she was a bit of a loner, probably because she’d jumped a couple of years at school, so had never really mixed with people her own age. She’d taken her GCSEs at fourteen and two A levels at sixteen, then she’d left, bored with exams and wanting to earn her own money, so she could go out to pubs and discos with her sisters. But she’d soon got fed up with that, couldn’t see any point to it, unless she wanted to end up pregnant and down the aisle with one of her brothers’ mates and stay stuck in this place for ever. So she’d suffered her sisters’ teasing and started a three-year night-school course in business studies, which she didn’t actually complete, but had got a lot out of anyway. Except, what was she supposed to do with it, stuck here at the back end of beyond? So that was how come she had decided to go to London, just like she’d always said she would. But talking about it and doing it were two different things, and until now she just hadn’t been able to find the courage to go, for as blasé and confident as she often appeared, underneath she was really quite shy, and horribly aware of how embarrassingly unworldly she actually was.

At last the bus came and after stowing her suitcase, she went to sit at the back, where she could hopefully ignore anyone she knew if they got on. The bus didn’t travel fast so she had plenty of time to take a last look out at the small North-Midlands town she had lived in all her life – the drab, tired-looking houses; the garage that had sacked her brother Keith after catching him selling off spare parts cheap; the old church where her sister Glenda had got stood up at the altar and all the Paull children were christened. Granny Marge was buried in the cemetery there, but no one ever went to visit her grave, except Sandy and Daisy, every once in a while.

Allowing her eyes to lose focus, she pushed out the depressing images she was passing and let the excitement of where she was going come flooding in. It took only seconds for her heart to start beating with hope and, as the blood of the person she was about to become began to flow through her veins, it was as though she was rising up like a phoenix from the fag ash of this turgid existence to become her real self, a smart and educated young woman who, as she’d told them at her interview, had helped her father run a lively little bookshop and coffee bar in their country village home, until he had died a few months ago. She had sold the business now and after many years of caring for her sick father she was ready at last to start living. And having just landed a job with McCann Walsh, one of the most important theatrical agents in London, she didn’t see how she could fail to do just that.

She shivered as a frisson of excitement eddied through her heart – the future was suddenly so filled with possibilities and promise that her imagination was whirling out of control. But stranger things had happened than a little Miss Ordinary being plucked from anonymity to become the latest stage and screen sensation. OK, she’d never acted, but it couldn’t be that hard and, like everyone said, she was nothing if not a quick study. Or maybe she was going to be a businesswoman and head up her own agency, provided she didn’t meet a stinking-rich playboy first, of course, who wanted to fly her off all over the world and pamper her with all his manly attention and millions of dollars. Actually, that was a nice idea, but what interested her more was Michael McCann, one of her new bosses. She hadn’t met him yet because he’d been out of the office when she was there for her interview, but she’d seen plenty of photographs dotted around the walls of him with dozens of famous faces and the minute she’d laid eyes on him she’d known that it was for a man like him and the kind of life he was leading that she had to go to London. It was meant to be, her getting this job, she could feel it in her bones, just like she could feel the trip in her heart every time she thought of Michael McCann. It was like that thing across a crowded room, except he hadn’t actually been there, of course, but there was just no way she could have reacted to a photograph like that without there being something to it – and she was just dying to find out if it was going to happen to him too, the minute he saw her. It would be so incredible if it did, because he was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, in a Ralph Fiennes kind of way, and from the very little she’d managed to find out from Zelda, the woman who’d interviewed her, he was still single.

A bolt of nerves suddenly shot through her as the grim reality of what she was going to do when she actually got to London crudely blocked out her dream. It wasn’t going to be easy and she knew it, for she had to find herself somewhere to live in a city she’d only ever been to once and where she knew absolutely no one at all – except Zelda Frey, the woman who’d interviewed her. And Zelda Frey wasn’t going to be interested in seeing her until Monday week, when her job was due to start, by which time she should have moved in with the cousin she had assured Zelda she could live with until she found herself a place.

Her throat started to ache as the apprehension in her heart expanded. God, how she wished that were true, that she had a cousin in London, or a friend, or even the friend of a friend.

She was only two stops from the station now. She didn’t want to stay here, but she was suddenly terrified to go on. Her hands were tight on the strap of her bag, her knees were pressed hard together. She wished there were someone she could do this with, for she suddenly felt so horribly alone she wasn’t sure she could go on with it now.

The bus went through a tunnel and catching her reflection in the window she felt her courage make a hesitant return. She looked good, she had an air about her that didn’t belong to dead-and-alive holes like this. And besides, she had it all worked out. She was going to get off the train at Euston, go straight to a newsstand and buy a copy of the Evening Standard, where all the flats for rent were listed. Then she was going to find a tourist information office and ask them to recommend a cheap hotel. She might have to stay there a couple of nights, but at least she’d have a roof over her head and somewhere to leave her suitcase while she went out looking for a place to live.

Filled with the dread of how much even a cheap hotel might be, she got up from her seat and rang the bell. Two minutes later she was carrying her case through the drizzle, across the road to the station. It all seemed to be happening so fast now and she had never felt so scared in her life. The part of her that was electrified and excited and unbelievably courageous had beaten a cowardly retreat. But it would come back, she told herself firmly, it was only hiding to give her the chance to realize that, OK, it would probably be tough at first, and there were doubtless going to be times when she might want to chuck it all in and come running back home. But she wouldn’t, she’d handle it, because destiny had her marked down for something big, she was sure of that, it was only getting started that was a problem. But she had a good job now and once she got going there would be no stopping her, for she really didn’t care what she had to do to make things work, she’d do it, because she was never coming back here again – not ever.