England's Best Export E-Book

Ruth Danes

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Sapphire Carmichael's life changes when an online argument escalates into a relentless campaign of harassment and death threats. Fearing for her safety, she flees her London home and finds refuge in a quiet West Country village, adopting a new identity as Melissa.
There, she falls for the charismatic Kai Tudor, who promises protection but hides dark secrets. As Melissa navigates a web of deception, she learns the truth about Kai, and must choose between love and safety. Amidst village life, Melissa forges bonds with her family members and new friends.
As secrets unfold and danger escalates, Melissa must choose her allies carefully and rely on her new-found strength.

Leseprobe

England's Best Export

Ruth Danes

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Ruth Danes

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

ChapterOne

10th July 2021, Old Caston, Essex, England

I woke up in the unfamiliar spare room of my friends’ house and took a moment to realise where I was. I remembered, and cold nausea hit me. I was now fully awake and back in the nightmare that had been going on for several weeks. The nightmare which had forced me out of my London home and would today force me to travel further afield, to the village of Godlarton in North Somerset. I would leave the sanctuary in Essex, provided by family friends, to live with, and later near, my aunt and uncle.

It’s just a quick drive to the station, twenty minutes to allow for rush hour traffic, a train to Liverpool Street, a tube to Paddington, and then a longer train journey to Bristol Temple Meads. My aunt will pick me up and take me straight to their house. We’ll leave here at nine, and I’ll be in Godlarton by two.

Being back in London is what scares me the most, but I will be disguised. I will wear a headscarf and a face mask with a loose top and trousers. Not everyone correctly guesses that I am half black and half white. Some people think I look Middle Eastern or South Asian. With that outfit, I will be well disguised. Even though there are now so many photos of me online.

I got up before I could fully remember why there were so many photos online of an unremarkable, twenty-four-year-old Londoner, who once worked in a hair salon and later in pest control. Mild-mannered, friendly Sapphire Carmichael had gone from being only noticeable due to her unusual first name to an online figure of hate in a matter of weeks.

I quickly showered and dressed in the unfamiliar clothes which the Khan family had kindly given me. I pinned a length of fabric around my head, careful to make it look like I had long, thick hair that I had covered with a scarf for religious reasons.

The mirror told me that I looked nothing like any of the Khans, but more importantly, nothing like I usually did. Hassan and Farah were originally from Afghanistan, and they both worked as interpreters some twenty years ago before settling in Essex. Their daughters Aisha and Malika, now nineteen and seventeen, only had memories of life in England. Their religion was Islam, and their culture was decidedly English. None of the women covered their hair or dressed especially modestly.

They took some trouble to get me this outfit, and they took a great risk in sheltering me whilst my family made preparations. I will always be grateful to them.

I met three of the family for breakfast. Hassan now had his own business, and today was a Saturday when he needed to leave early for work. Farah, now a civil servant, and her daughters could afford to sit over their meal. Nineteen-year-old Aisha was at home from university, where she was studying to become a teacher. Her younger sister was a trainee hairdresser and would leave for work that afternoon.

Chin up, Sapphire, I thought as I sat down and accepted a cup of coffee. No, Melissa. Chin up, Melissa. You must use your middle name from now on, there are more Melissas than Sapphires out there. Farah and Hassan live a completely different life to the one they were brought up to live. Indeed, they lived under a brutal regime until well into their twenties. They were brave and began new lives in a foreign country. You must also be brave. Besides, the West Country is not a foreign country with a totally different language, alphabet and culture.

The coffee was a mistake. I could barely drink more than a sip. My heart was already pounding too quickly. Malika saw my eyes and shaking hands and smiled sympathetically.

“Would you like a peppermint tea instead?” she asked. Her voice was different to the rest of her family’s because she was born almost completely deaf. She mainly communicated through lip reading, but she could also sign. I was only fluent in British Sign Language thanks to my family’s long friendship with hers.

“Yes, please.”

Farah looked at me kindly.

“It will be over soon, love. You will soon be safe and starting a new life. Believe me.”

“Yeah, and it won’t be for ever,” Aisha added. “They will let up eventually and take offence at what someone else posts. You don’t look anything like you usually do. People will think you are a cousin visiting from Afghanistan.”

“What flight are you and Malika getting on Monday?” I changed the subject, eager to think about anything other than my own problems.

Aisha told me they would get a flight that left just before 2pm which would take them to Dubai. She described how she and her sister intended to get from Dubai to Kabul, where they had grandparents. They intended to visit for three weeks and see their wider family, all of whom still lived in or near the city.

I could not concentrate. The sisters might have been planning a visit to the moon for all I took in. Farah glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall.

“We’ll need to go in fifteen minutes. Have you packed, Sa—Melissa?”

“Yes. I’ll go and check I’ve left nothing behind.”

I scoured the Khans’ spare room, its en suite and their living room, anxiety compelling me to check everything. I had left nothing behind. A small suitcase on wheels and a nondescript rucksack contained a few possessions, namely clothes, a mobile phone with a new number and some toiletries. My family had agreed to sell what they could of my old wardrobe on eBay and transfer what money they raised to my account, my new account which was under the name Ms S M Carmichael and no longer Miss Sapphire Carmichael.

I can take no chances. Everything that I can change about myself must change. The police advised this. Oh God, will my parents be safe selling my stuff online? Will someone notice and make trouble for them? We agreed to say that I have gone to visit relatives in Jamaica. Will selling my clothes support or destroy that lie?

Clothes. Not only do I no longer wear my old clothes, but my style has had to completely change. I even wear a new wig. Goodbye long, spiral curls. Goodbye feminine outfits. No more pastel colours, crystal-studded jewellery and glittery nail varnish. Hello to a style I can only call dull and unisex. It is a million miles from my own inclinations, and it is therefore what I must change into in a toilet once I am on the train to Bristol.

Farah called me, startling me out of my thoughts. I called back to confirm I was ready to go, put on a disposable facemask and a pair of open-toed sandals that my father had recently bought a charity shop. I grabbed my bags and hugged Malika and Aisha. I would miss them.

“Don’t contact us unless you can do it safely,” Malika begged.

“My aunt will send a carefully-worded text to my mum once she has collected me. She will thank her for the flowers which she sent. My mum will then text your mum to ask when you go to Kabul. After that, we will have to see how the situation goes. I came off all social media, deleted my accounts, and I changed my email address and my mobile number. We are following the police’s advice to the letter. That’s why you only know that I am getting on a train to London, and then I am travelling to somewhere else in the South-West. I will not endanger you by giving you the exact area, let alone a specific address.”

Malika’s hazel eyes widened and Aisha, naturally the fairest in her family, suddenly looked wan.

“It’s that serious?” Aisha stammered.

“Yes. The last police officer I spoke to said that he did not think my family’s devices had been hacked, but he could not rule it out.”

“They are that determined?”

“Yes. I have not only received death threats, but my family and some friends have received threats too. Not death threats but threats none the less.”

“Then go and be safe,” Aisha said. “You must do whatever you need to do in order to stay safe.”

Thus, I left their house, put my case in the back of their car and jumped in the passenger seat, tempted to slouch so that the rucksack hid the parts of my face not covered by the face mask and headscarf.

Farah and I drove the short distance to the train station in silence. There was nothing to say. I felt nervous as we approached the station because it was in the town centre, so there were naturally more people around than there had been in the street where they lived, which was on the outskirts of Old Caston. I peered at the crowds. What did they know about me? What had they read online? However, I was also beginning to feel some relief because I was on the first stage of my journey to relative safety and a new life.

She parked, and we both got out of the car. She opened the boot, I took out my suitcase and we said our goodbyes. She spoke with her usual accent, somewhere between Received Pronunciation and the Estuary English of her neighbours. I spoke with the accent I had been practising since I arrived in her house, hers. All my life I had spoken something between Multicultural London English and Standard English and had never thought twice about my pronunciation or vocabulary. Naturally, that had to change too.

She deliberately did not use any name for me as we parted, nor did I use any for her. I left her before I could break down, the enormity of what I was doing had suddenly hit me, and I did not turn back to wave as I would have done in normal circumstances.

Normal. When will I ever experience anything normal again? Will having a new identity become my new normal, just like wearing a face mask has?

Nobody approached me during my journey to Liverpool Street. The train was packed with people heading into London, but none of them paid me any attention. My heartbeat began to slow to a healthier rate.

Liverpool Street was just as busy, and I started to feel sick with nerves. I was now back in London and had to get on the tube. However, no one noticed me any more than they noticed any other person on the underground train that sped like a bullet, rattling away as we flew past platforms and posters. Within minutes we reached Paddington, and I got off the tube to get on the overground train which would take me to Bristol.

Once I was on my third and final train, I felt myself actually relaxing. My carriage was empty, and the woman who checked my ticket did nothing to trigger my anxiety. My voice and outfit were unremarkable in her eyes. As soon as we had passed Reading, I gathered my belongings and went to the toilet, where I quickly changed into trainers, baggy grey jeans, an olive green T-shirt and a short wig which looked like natural hair that had been undercut.

I fastened a cheap man’s watch around my wrist before quickly adding thick eyeliner around my eyes and lots of mascara to my lashes. I had already made my eyebrows look much heavier that morning than nature had ever intended, so I did nothing to them. I shoved my sandals, scarf, top and trousers into the bin. The lid shut with a satisfying click. Finally, I sprayed myself with a citrus scent that was advertised as unisex. I had given up my favourite perfume, which smelled of roses and violets and was what I once wore daily, when I left London for Essex.

My carriage was still empty, so I returned to it but to a different seat. The same woman came round after we had stopped at Bath Spa and asked to see my ticket again.

She made no comment when she saw her stamp on it. She only apologised for disturbing me again. She must have forgotten that she checked it earlier.

I smiled and felt lighter.

The rest of my journey went smoothly, and we pulled into Temple Meads station on time. Once I had made my way to the short stay car park, I looked for my aunt Ruby. A familiar figure with a pointed chin, relaxed greying hair and sunglasses stared past me, scanning the people leaving the building, until I waved at her. Her jaw then dropped.

We embraced. My heart was racing with relief. I even felt light headed.

“It’s so good to be here, so good to see you,” I whispered.

“I am pleased to see you again, safe and well, Melissa,” she smiled.

We might have been any family reunited after months of lockdowns and restrictions, the plump black woman in her fifties and the lighter-skinned, petite woman who looked about eighteen or nineteen. None of the many people passing by gave us a second glance.

It was only when we were safely in her car that we dared to speak frankly.

“You’ve done a great job of disguising yourself. I didn’t recognise you until you waved at me. I’ll text your mother as we agreed.” She picked up her phone.

I no longer have my mum’s number or her email address on any device of mine. Or my dad’s, my brother’s or any one of my friends’. I deleted the numbers I have for Aisha, Malika and Farah once I was on the train to Bristol. I only have phone numbers and email addresses for my aunt, my uncle Adam and cousin Alex, but nothing for anyone else from my old life.

I recalled that I also had a phone number and email address for Mared, Alex’s wife of almost two years, but I had not heard from her for a long time. She had also fallen silent on social media, and I was not completely sure why.

My family was not a large one. I had no aunts or uncles on my dad’s side, all my grandparents had died by my twenty-third birthday, and Ruby was my mum’s only sibling. Alex was her only child, so Mared was a real addition to the family.

Alex had introduced me to his girlfriend at his father’s sixtieth birthday party in the summer of 2017. He was then twenty-four to her twenty-two, and they had met through work. (They worked for the same firm, him in the legal team and her as a trainee accountant). She was not his first girlfriend, but she was the only one he had ever introduced to his wider family, so I was curious about this woman from a village in South Wales with whom my cousin was enamoured. It appeared there was nothing she could not do. She was incredibly clever, she was stunning to look at, and she was so sweet. Alex had never met a nicer girl. He could not believe his luck.

Mared was certainly beautiful. Alex had told us she had dabbled in modelling, and I could believe it. Her hair was auburn and fell in heavy waves far down her back, her almond-shaped eyes were almost amber in colour and her pale brown skin was flawless. She had a cute dusting of freckles across her button nose and naturally full lips. In addition to all of this, she was willowy and taller than my squat cousin, who had been compared to a bulldog with jaundice more than once.

His behaviour was more like that of a well-trained puppy than that of a bulldog. It was blatant how much he adored her, and not just for her looks. I already knew that she could teach herself foreign languages, she could sew her own clothes and she had graduated with a first-class degree in physics. Talking to her revealed a woman with excellent social skills, a charming nature and a quick wit.

However, my second meeting with her, a meal in a pub near Godlarton the following Christmas, revealed her less-than-charming side. I had gone to stay with my aunt, uncle and cousin along with my parents and my brother Alfie, and the eight of us had gone out for a meal. The pub was busy, and Mared attracted attention from a pair of men. The men looked at her approvingly. She must have noticed their stares because she smiled broadly, looking satisfied.

Perhaps Alex also noticed because he went to the bar with her and slung an arm around her waist. I was sitting nearest to the men, who were getting up to leave.

One of them spoke to the other in a whisper which was not quite quiet enough.

“What’s someone like her doing with someone like him?”

His friend shook his head as if to say it was beyond him, and they left the pub.

Only Alex, Mared and I overheard them.

Alex flushed, he had never been a confident man, particularly when it came to women. I felt my cheeks grow hot with indignation at the comment and hotter still when I saw Mared’s reaction. She looked even more satisfied, glanced at her boyfriend, then her expression could only be described as smug.

My abilities were never remarkable, apart from my ability to hide my feelings and to think on my feet. Nobody else at our table had noticed anything untoward, and I was able to stay composed and look like I was paying attention to what my mother was telling her brother-in-law and sister. Alex returned to the table in a subdued mood which did not lift. Mared remained as chatty and as cheerful as ever.

Although she had sunk considerably in my estimation, I never betrayed my change of heart towards my cousin’s girlfriend. I rarely saw either him or her due to the distance between my home in London and theirs in Bristol. Their wedding day, in September 2019, was a happy day for everyone. Alex still looked like a man who could not quite believe his luck and was eager to please his elegant, smiling bride. I accepted that my cousin was old enough to know his own mind and welcomed her into the family with the same enthusiasm which everyone else showed.

However, I understood that much had changed during the intervening twenty-two months. COVID and government-ordered restrictions had kept me away from that side of the family for nearly two years, but my aunt had communicated worrying news to my mother, who had told me in turn.

“How are you all?” I asked my aunt as she drove out of the car park. “Do you hear much from Alex and Mared these days?”

“Adam and I are fine, thanks. Work keeps us both busy. So many people want their gardens landscaped, he has a waiting list of over a year. As for me, cases built up over the three lockdowns, and we are dealing with the backlog. It was bad enough before last March, we were already overstretched.”

My aunt was a social worker. She paused before answering the rest of my question.

“Alex is still doing well at work. Did you know he was promoted in April?”

“Yes, I did. He is now quite senior in the legal team, I understand.”

“Yes. I can’t remember what his exact job title is, but he has been at Dendleswick and Hart since he gained his LLB, so it’s only natural that he is progressing. People speak so highly of him.”

“Does he believe them?”

She smiled wryly.

“Your uncle and I will never stop trying to get him to recognise his abilities and his good qualities. And that he is not an ugly man.”

“And Mared? How is she, and does she try to get Alex to see what everyone else does?”

The smile left my aunt’s face, and I could not read her eyes behind her sunglasses. She was silent as she navigated a badly-marked, multi-lane roundabout. After we had safely exited it, she spoke. Her light-hearted tone had changed.

“Mared is no better. In fact, she is worse. Alex says she now hardly leaves the house, except to potter around the garden when the weather is good. She walked to the Spar two streets away the other weekend, and you’d have thought she had been asked to fly to Mars instead of to go to the corner shop. She came back shaking and went to bed for the rest of the day.

“Alex told me that she was in tears, telling him that people were staring at her. If she was anything like she was when I last saw her, on the first May bank holiday, then I’m not surprised. It is blatantly obvious that she doesn’t wash herself or her clothes or comb her hair, she looks ill, and she barely looks at anyone.”

I was shocked.

“I knew things were bad,” I said truthfully, “but I did not know things were that bad. Has she been to a doctor? You said that her mood took a downwards turn in May last year, when we were in the first lockdown, and you thought lockdown was the cause. I understood that she has been up and down since then.”

“She has been pretty much down all this year. No, she will not see a doctor. Dendleswick and Hart managed her out of the door in January. She refused to return to the office or meet clients face-to-face, on COVID grounds, when her office reopened last September. Instead, she insisted on continuing to work from home full time.”

“Why won’t she see a doctor? Why did she not feel safe at work? I assume that Dendleswick and Hart and their clients put in the usual safety measures. She isn’t clinically extremely vulnerable, anyway. I mean, she once mentioned that she used to have mild asthma, but she said it has never affected her life, and her last attack was when she was in her early teens.”

My aunt made a noise that indicated both despair and exasperation.

“God knows why she won’t see her GP. I have suggested it more than once, but I try not to be an interfering mother-in-law, so I am careful not to give too much advice. Alex will not give up trying.”

“Has she given a reason why?”

“She has never given a good reason. Alex says she never used to have an issue with medical professionals, but now she says she does not trust them. At first, she said NHS staff are overworked, then she was scared of catching COVID, but this lack of trust seems to be the real reason. Adam suggested going to a private therapist, we offered to pay because their financial situation has taken a hit due to her not working. Of course, she is not looking for another job. In any case, she refused the offer.

“Her workplace only wanted her to go into the office for occasional client meetings or to go to clients when they requested it. However, she kept insisting she could not leave the house. From what I can gather, she refused to cooperate with Occupational Health or listen to her manager. After four months or so of this, they let her go.”

“She sounds like she is in a bad way. It must be hard on Alex too, what with the emotional and financial burdens. Does she confide in anyone? Does she have any friends?”

“Yes, and I don’t know. Like I say, she rarely leaves the house, and Alex would have mentioned anyone visiting. He would grab on to any slight hope of her improving.”

We sat in silence as I digested this upsetting news. It had even pushed my problems out of my mind.

My aunt appeared to read my thoughts.

“Melissa, I know the last couple of months have been tough for you, but you must keep going. You must not wallow.”

“They have not just been tough,” I replied in a tight voice. “My life has become hellish, through no fault of my own. I have committed no crime, but I have been forced to flee my home, change my name and start a new life. My mum, my dad and my brother are also suffering because of the hate directed at me.”

“That is all the more reason to keep going. If you stop and pity yourself, I dread to think what will happen next.”

I tried another approach. Her lack of sympathy wounded me.

“I am grateful for all that you and my uncle have done in helping me, collecting me today, sorting out a job, a car and a place to live. Truly, I appreciate it, but I am still struggling. I live in fear and dread, and I don’t know if that will ever change. I am moving here, and I no longer use my first name” — I did not dare say Sapphire, even in the privacy of the car — “because of police advice. You cannot accuse me of overreacting. Nobody can.”

“No, and my advice remains the same. Keep going. Move forwards. Do not look back and feel sorry for yourself.”

I drew myself up, and we were silent until we reached my aunt’s house on the edge of Godlarton.

The contrast between her house and my parents’ home in the borough of Beaumont never failed to strike me. Beaumont was not the sort of London borough which made headlines due to gangs and violence, but it bordered neighbourhoods where crime was rife. It was not a part of London associated with old money or oligarchs, but nor was it deprived. I had lived in this unremarkable area for all of my life, first in a maisonette with my family and later in a flatshare with strangers who became friends. Neither home came with a garden, but both were near tube stations which connected me to everything that London had to offer.

My aunt and uncle lived in a detached house, with both a front and back garden, in a village surrounded by countryside. The village offered its inhabitants a sense of community, scenes of natural beauty, a handful of shops and an infrequent bus service. It was nigh on impossible to live in Godlarton without owning a car.

Oh God, I will have to drive every day. I hate driving. It is so stressful, and I know one day I will kill someone. It was a miracle that I passed my test, let alone first time. Well, a miracle and lingering alcohol in my system. My driving test was one of the few exams I ever passed. I scraped onto the apprenticeship to become a hairdresser.

And now I will be working in university admin. Another unwelcome change. And I will have to drive to get there.

My aunt saw my mouth tremble.

“Don’t cry, Melissa. Don’t see yourself as a victim or go into your new life with a chip on your shoulder.”

I could only stare at her.

“Yes, you look different to most people round here, and yes, you certainly sound different to everyone, but you have to adapt to new circumstances. Go in with a positive attitude and a smile.”

We got out of the car, and I took my suitcase out of the boot. It was all I could do to keep control of my tongue and my tear ducts, never mind muster a smile.

My uncle Adam was at home, and he greeted me warmly.

“Sapphire! No, Melissa, I must remember to call you Melissa from now on. It’s good to see you. How are you? Did you have a good journey?”

“It’s good to see you again too. I’m as well as I can be, I’m just relieved to be here. My journey was okay. There were no delays, and I had a carriage to myself all the way from Paddington. I got changed on that leg of the journey.”

“It would have taken me a minute to have recognised you, had you not walked in with Ruby. And your voice. You have completely changed your accent. That truly does change how you sound. You do not sound like you are faking it, and I think if anyone who knows you met you now, they would not recognise you, unless they really knew you well. Even then, I think you would recognise them first and have time to get away.”

My spirits rose.

“That’s amazing. That’s just what I need to hear. It’s what I need in order to stay safe and to stay alive. It’s also what will keep Mum, Dad and Alfie alive.”

His expression became concerned.

“Are things so bad?”

Finally. Some sympathy.

Over a late lunch I told them everything which they did not already know about the events that had led to my flight.

Everything began on the first May bank holiday, 3rd May 2021. I was then working in pest control for the council, and I had the day off. My only plans involved having a lie-in and slobbing about the flat. My flatmates, Kitty Cheung and Chelsea McIntyre, were out, and I lay in bed, my laptop on my lap, enjoying a peaceful morning.

A headline and a photo caught my eye. A familiar face, the face of the girl who had bullied me out of my job at the salon, looked regally out of the screen at me. Almost five years had passed, the nineteen-year-old was now a woman in her mid-twenties, but her appearance had not changed that much. The cheekbones in her heart-shaped face were a little more pronounced, she looked slightly older, and her make-up was different, but I recognised Alicia Couzens in a heartbeat.

Seeing her unexpectedly made my heart race. I clicked on the headline. My eyes had not deceived me. It was Alicia, and she was engaged to be married to Ross Woldsworth.

Ross’s face was also familiar to me. It was familiar to most people in Britain because he was a famous actor, who had been in the business for over a decade and who had won awards. He was as rich as he was well-known and well-connected. His mother belonged to a titled family, who seemed to own most of East Anglia, as well as being a former model, while his father came from a long line of entertainers.

I had seen Ross in several films, and I knew a little about his background. I looked at the photo of them carefully. I had to admit they made an attractive pair. He looked like a handsome Viking with his tawny beard, broad chest and bright blue eyes. Like me, it was hard to say what her ethnicity was, and she was also a small woman. However, unlike me, most people would accurately guess her age and call her beautiful. I was called pretty on occasion, and that had to suffice.

How the hell has an ordinary girl from Beaumont met a celebrity, let alone got engaged to him?

Amazed, I read the article. Ross had met Alicia through his charity work at the start of 2020. They were both interested in social justice issues and the environment. After a whirlwind romance, he had proposed, and they were planning a Christmas wedding.

My disbelief grew as I read on. The actor spoke about his bride-to-be’s good heart, genuine concern for others and how she had gently shown him how real people lived.

Good heart? No, unless she has undergone extensive psychotherapy for the last five years, she is still the same malicious bully she always was. Is he deluded, insane or just stupid?

Memories flooded back. It was the beginning of October 2016, I had recently turned twenty, and I was a qualified hairdresser, despite never having developed follicles on my scalp and thus being bald from birth. I had been working in the Silver Scissors Salon opposite Beaumont West tube station since I left school, and I loved it. Hair and make-up had been passions of mine since I hit puberty. I got on with everyone there, including Patience, who owned the place, and her daughter Lou, who completed her apprenticeship when I did.

Alicia, Patience’s goddaughter, began to work at the salon, and my happy working life soon turned into a nightmare.

Up until then I had never bullied anyone nor experienced bullying. At first I did not realise what this new starter, who was so sweet to everyone else, was doing to me. I thought I was imagining the curl of her lip whenever she saw me. I thought I was reading too much into her cool tone to me, even though it was such a contrast to her warm interest in everyone else.

This coldness escalated to subtle putdowns, at first in private and later in front of customers. She began to accuse me of incompetence and of not pulling my weight.

I discussed this hurtful behaviour with my family, who advised me to politely stand up for myself, and if that did not work, to complain to Patience.

“I remember you telling us about this,” my aunt said, looking grave. “However, I don’t quite remember how you ended up leaving your job.”

“I didn’t choose to leave it. Patience made me redundant with three months’ pay in lieu of any notice.”

“She made you redundant?” My uncle was astounded. “Why?”

“Well, I did stand up to Alicia. She mocked me in front of a customer, Lou was also present, and she looked appalled. As soon as the customer had left, I told her, politely, I must add, that she was out of line and to stop it. She went quiet and glared at me for the rest of the day, but I didn’t care. I thought I had won, and she would leave me alone.”

It turned out I was wrong. The next morning I went to work with a lighter heart. Immediately after I arrived, Patience asked to speak with me in private. Suspecting nothing, I followed her to her office, where she asked me to sit down.

“I’m sorry, Sapphire. There’s nothing wrong with your work. Indeed, you are very skilled, and you always have a smile on your face. There have been no complaints about you, but I must ask you to leave the salon right away. I am making you redundant as of now, but I will give you the excellent reference you deserve, and I will pay you up until 29th January.”

It was as well that I was sitting down. The room spun, and it was half a minute before I could speak. Patience regarded me sympathetically but said nothing.

“Why?” I spluttered. “You told us the other week that you need another two people, especially as Rachel might not come back from maternity leave. Why are you getting rid of me?”

She sighed deeply and looked awkward. She could no longer meet my eyes.

“Look, Sapphire…this isn’t easy for me to say…but it’s you or Lou. I have to protect my daughter first and foremost. I like you, I honestly do, you’re an asset to the salon and a lovely person…but I have to sacrifice you to keep my child safe.”

“I don’t get it. How is my working here harming Lou? I’d never hurt her, I’d never hurt anyone. Is she upset with me?”

“No, no, not at all. It’s not that. Look, it’s complicated.” She stared at the ceiling before continuing. “Alicia is my goddaughter, the child of my oldest friend. You standing up to Alicia upset her. When Alicia gets upset, she lashes out. It’s just her way. She and her mum live on the same street as me, Darren and Lou. She came round last night and told me how you told her to stop taking the piss out of you. Lou was also in and said this was all true. I believe her.

“However, Alicia got arsey with Lou for being disloyal and said that if you don’t leave the salon, she and Lou will leave instead. My girl is extremely shy, you know that. Alicia has always been the dominant one in their friendship, and she would grind her down until she left. That would kill the self-confidence which me and her father have worked so hard to build up.

“So, I have to be a good mother and make you redundant as of now. Like I say, I will pay you three months’ wages, give you an excellent reference, and when you apply for a new job, which I know you will easily get, you can just say that I needed to get rid of some staff to save money. I will say this in your reference.”

I would like to say that I gave a witty retort which left Patience gobsmacked and sashayed out of her office and into another, better-paid job. Had I imagined that such a terrible and unexpected injustice might occur to me, I would have assumed that I would have broken down in tears and begged for another chance. However, in reality I somehow managed to keep my dignity, agree to Patience’s offer in a subdued voice and stagger out of the salon, ignoring the questions from Jade on reception as to where I was going and was I okay.

I never spoke to Jade or to anyone else from the Silver Scissors Salon again. It was just too painful and humiliating. I gave out Patience’s name and contact details when I filled in job applications but never had any further conversations with her. She kept her word. I was paid up until the end of January 2017, and her reference helped me to get my job in pest control.

My aunt shook her head, her expression angry.

“That’s appalling, Sapph…Melissa. Absolutely appalling and illegal.”

Yes! Sympathy from her. She is so strong that she doesn’t always see when other people need to indulge in a little self-pity and need to be consoled.

“Why did you not get another job in a salon?” she asked, putting her knife and fork together.

“I tried for the rest of that year, I must have tried every place in London, but I didn’t even get an interview. The job market was not on my side. Just after Christmas I decided to try anything else. I saw an apprenticeship going at the council for pest control and thought it would be interesting. Besides, I had the qualifications for that. You only needed four GCSEs, which I had scraped.”

They nodded. I had not been a lazy pupil at school, or even an unacademic one, I just had an inability to pass tests or exams. My mind would freeze, my hands would shake, the words in front of me would shift about, and I became useless.

“Still, it worked out well. I loved it even more than hairdressing, and I didn’t have to drive. The others loved driving the van and always argued over whose turn it was.”

“Why were you fired from that?” my uncle wanted to know.

I returned to Alicia. That May morning, when I saw her on my laptop screen, looking as innocent as a lamb, with a smile as sweet as sugar, my blood boiled. Here I was, living in a flatshare in an okay area, with a job that paid well, but I still had to pay London prices, and unhappily single. Meanwhile, Alicia, an evil little bitch who had been granted too much power in life, was grinning away, happily engaged to a good-looking man who adored her and who would admit her into a world of wealth and privilege.

This is too much to bear. I wish I could tell her and the rest of the world what I think of her and why.

I got my wish, what a curse that turned out to be, that evening.

I had seen both Chelsea and Kitty during the day. They already knew who Alicia was and what she had done to me. Chelsea was addicted to celebrity gossip and had arrived home, brandishing a glossy magazine with Alicia’s image on the cover. Her clear skin, delicate bone structure and perfect teeth had probably required no photoshopping, damn her to Hades.

We had a good rant about the unfairness of the situation over some gin, then Kitty went to watch television, and Chelsea left to go to her boyfriend’s. My flatmates had stopped drinking, but I took the bottle of gin, a new can of lemonade and my glass to my room. I opened my laptop, in the mood to browse the web and to keep drinking.

I topped up my glass with spirit and mixer, took a gulp, still feeling angry and made my first fatal mistake.

I went on Twitter and saw Alicia’s engagement was trending. Like a fool, I clicked, my fingers shaking slightly.

#ACCouzens97 cooed over how blessed she felt, to have met the man of her dreams and how she wanted to use her newfound fame to do good. #RossWOfficial simpered in reply. No, he was the blessed one. Meeting her had made him the happiest man alive. He was honoured to be her fiancé. Thousands of people had tweeted their congratulations.

I scrolled through the sugary nonsense, my blood boiling, occasionally swigging my drink. I had just swallowed the last mouthful when I read another tweet from the drippy man.

Am going to learn from my lovely lady. She has opened my eyes to her world. Am humbled & so proud of her. Never realised how privileged I was. Lots to learn about life.

Some sycophantic fool told him how modern their marriage was going to be. He, the man and the wealthy one, would learn from her, a real woman.

It’s new but what the world needs. The privileged & the powerful need to be quiet & listen. She’ll really teach you.

#SapphireCarmichael replied to #MGDulliver15, #RossWOfficial and #ACCouzens97 with a tweet unlike any other in the litany of congratulations and false humility.

Wealthy, white Englishmen have been paying women from poorer backgrounds to boss them about for centuries. Nothing new here.

“That was witty, Melissa,” my uncle shook his head, “but not wise.”

“Yeah, I know. I wish I could turn back time. I was just so angry…and so drunk.”

#RossWOfficial was still online and chivalrously leapt to defend his fiancée’s honour.

How dare you demean the woman I love? You imply she has no class or decency.

I know she has no class or decency. I know lots about her. Do you remember the Silver Scissors Salon #ACCouzens97 ?

Who do you think you are? Who are you? #RossWOfficial demanded.

The clue is in my username. I worked with your bitch fiancée. You’re thick or deluded if you love her.

This dignified back and forth continued until #ACCouzens97 came back online. Finally, after years of occasionally brooding on my mistreatment, I told her what I thought of her and what I hoped would happen to her.

Ask Patience Wetherby at Silver Scissors Salon, Beaumont, London. She can back me up. Ask her daughter, Lou.

That was my last comprehensible tweet of the night. As time passed, I became too drunk to type coherently, so I logged out, shut down my laptop and staggered to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

I nearly crashed into Kitty.

“Oh my days! Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Sapphire! How drunk are you? Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“Got the morning off.”

“That’s just as well! Sleep it off and for God’s sake, stop drinking. Alicia is not worth a hangover.”

I woke up just before ten o’clock the following morning, feeling surprisingly well. I had no headache, no churning stomach, no dry mouth and nor was the room spinning. Memories of the previous evening flashed into my mind.

Oh my days.