**Diary Entry**
I suppose people think I’ve been unbelievably lucky in life.
I could never stand my name—Jessica—let alone my last name: Ferret. Kids, as everyone knows, are merciless when it comes to nicknames. From primary school onward, I was stuck with “Ferret,” and it followed me like a shadow.
I’d stare at myself in the mirror, wishing I had long, blonde hair like Sophie Carter, endless legs like Emma White, or at least parents with money like that dull-eyed, failing student Lucy Gold, who got picked up from school in a Mercedes. “Why did Mum have to marry Dad and saddle me with this awful surname?” I’d think bitterly. “I’ll only marry someone with a normal name—better yet, something foreign and fancy.”
Everything about me annoyed me—the dark, curly hair that never stayed put under a hat or clips, the pale grey eyes that stood out sharply against my olive skin. Even those eyes, which others called striking, felt wrong to me.
Mum worked as an accountant at the local hospital; Dad drove a bus. Money was always tight. Dad was saving up for a car, so he hoarded every penny, watching like a hawk to make sure not a single pound was wasted. “No need to dress up—we’re not nobility,” he’d grumble if he noticed a new item on me. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my cousin. New things only came my way if they didn’t fit her. How sick I was of it all. If only my parents were different, no one would call me Ferret.
Just before my A-levels, Dad’s sister, Aunt Nellie, visited. She worked as a maid for a wealthy family in Italy.
“Want to know how you can get there?” she whispered one night as we shared my room.
“Of course!” I gasped.
“Quiet. Your dad wouldn’t approve. Are you eighteen?”
“Yes, turned in January.” My heart pounded.
“Good. No need to ask permission then. Do as I say, and you’ll be fine. Always knew your dad was a miser.”
She looked every bit the polished Italian signora—no one would guess she was just a maid. “Money’s what matters, not how you earn it,” she’d say.
I became obsessed with the idea. Aunt Nellie lent me some cash, saying I’d pay her back once I started working.
I did everything she advised. Enrolled in a hairdressing course to keep my parents off my back. But when the call came from Italy, I dropped out, packed my bags, left a note, and ran.
Aunt Nellie met me in Milan, drove me to a grand villa on the outskirts where I was to care for an ailing eighty-year-old woman.
“Don’t let me down. Don’t steal. I vouched for you,” she warned me as I stood there, half-terrified by my own boldness.
The lavish house stunned me, a girl from a modest background. They gave me a tiny room next to the old woman’s. At least I didn’t have to pay rent. For extra money, I cleaned the house twice a week. Rarely left. Italy, to me, was just the villa’s walls and the view of perfectly trimmed hedges outside. But I didn’t care. A year would fly by. I wasn’t destined to be a carer forever. I’d save, learn the language, figure something out.
Like my dad, I started hoarding money. Nowhere to spend it anyway. When the family was out, I’d take selfies in their lavish living room and post them online. “Let them think I’m living the dream.”
Old classmates liked and envied. No one called me Ferret anymore—just Jessica, asking how I’d ended up there. I was deliberately vague.
Then an old classmate, Daniel, commented on a photo. We started messaging. He said little about himself—worked at his dad’s garage, earned well, just bought an Audi. Posted a picture by a sleek red car.
But his messages grew more romantic. “Wish you weren’t so far. When are you coming back?” I dodged, saying Italy was amazing and I wasn’t returning. I knew my “Italian fairy tale” was why he fancied me now. But he swore he’d liked me since Year 7. I remembered catching his glances in class. Wanted to believe him—so I did.
One night, the family was at a gala. The old woman slept. I slipped into the mistress’s closet, tried on dresses. A red one with thin straps fit perfectly. The Italian woman was lean, flat-chested. I had curves—full breasts, a narrow waist, and hips. For once, I liked what I saw.
I poured wine, took mirror selfies in the living room, lounging on the sofa with paintings behind me. Posted them immediately: *”Back from a gala… too tired to undress. Wine for comfort…”*
Drank more. Fell asleep in the dress.
Woke to the mistress screaming rapid Italian. Only when she jabbed a bony finger at the door did I grasp—I was being thrown out. She even stormed to my room, hurled my things at me.
I stuffed clothes into a suitcase under her shouts—*”Out!”* No translation needed. At the door, I caught my reflection and spitefully smiled—still in the dress. Too soon. At the last second, she yanked me back.
Slowly peeled it off (just knickers underneath). The balding, portly husband’s gaze crawled over my bare skin. As I dressed, he argued heatedly with his wife—probably pleading to keep me. She shrieked back.
I tossed my wild curls, smirked, and left mid-fight. Walking Milan’s streets, I recalled his oily stare. *”Why not look sooner? Ditch that hag, and I’d be the signora…”*
If I spoke Italian, I’d find another job. But no language, no references—hopeless. Called Aunt Nellie—she wasn’t in Milan. Said wait a week. Where? Before police noticed me, I decided to go home.
Stepped off the train. The station square was grime, cracked pavement, peeling buildings—reality clashed with memories of pristine Italy. Regret gnawed. Only the familiar English chatter comforted me—no more struggling with rapid Italian.
Taxi drivers clamoured outside. One was Daniel. He flushed briefly, then grinned.
“Why not tell me you were coming? I’d have picked you up properly.”
“Where’s the Audi? Lied to me?” I snapped.
“Yeah. Would you have replied if I said I’m just a mechanic, dreaming of an Audi? So I embellished. Do this for extra cash.”
“Whatever.” I studied him—he’d grown handsomer.
“And you’re even prettier.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Visiting or back for good?”
“Not sure,” I hedged.
“Hop in. Just—” He hesitated.
“What? Something I don’t know?”
I’d been too stingy to call home.
“Your mum left your dad. Moved in with some bloke. Dad’s drinking now.” My face fell.
“Mum still at the hospital? Take me there.”
Silent, I watched my hometown blur past—smaller, stranger now. *”He owned up about the car, the garage. I can’t. Ashamed I barely saw Italy, that I got sacked… I’ll think of something.”*
“If you need a place, come to mine. My parents won’t mind,” he offered.
“Thanks. We’ll see.”
Mum teared up seeing me—but didn’t invite me home.
“Look, Will’s ten years younger. You’re so pretty now… I’m scared we’d turn into rivals. Sorry. Your dad’s place? Be careful with money—leave it with me if you’ve got any. He’ll take it. Couldn’t take his penny-pinching. Will brings me flowers for no reason.”
“It’s fine, Mum.”
Visited Dad—didn’t stay. Gave him beer money. Pitied him. But his frugality was why I’d fled. Stayed with my cousin until Aunt Nellie called—got me a hotel maid job.
“Sure you won’t stay? Someone waiting there?” Daniel drove me to the airport.
“No one. Just work. Aunt lined up a hotel job. Last year was elderly care. Photos were in their empty house. But no one calls me Ferret now.” A bitter laugh.
“Yeah. Girls just gushed, green with envy.”
“I lied. To you, everyone. To seem better. Get it? I tricked you.” Waited for disgust.
“Phew. Thought you were out of my league. But you’re just like me.” He exhaled.
“You’re not angry?”
“Nah. Listen, why go back? Work here. Or we’ll try London! Stay. Marry me!” He pulled over, facing me.
“Daniel…” I paused. “No. I like you. But your surnameShe stepped onto the plane, clutching the lie of her glamorous life like a shield, knowing the only escape from Ferret was to keep running.
