Let them think I’ve had the luckiest life.
Amber despised her first name, and her last name, Ferret, was even worse. Kids, as they do, could be merciless. From primary school, they’d nicknamed her “Furry,” and it stuck like glue.
She stared at herself in the mirror and wished for long, blonde hair like Emily Whitmore, legs like Sophie Hartley’s, or at least parents as cool as those of plain-Jane underachiever Lucy Bancroft, who got picked up from school in a Mercedes. “Why did Mum have to marry Dad with such an awful surname? She should’ve thought about what I’d go through. I’ll only marry someone with a normal last name—better yet, something posh,” she dreamed.
Her curly dark hair, always escaping hats and clips, annoyed her. The stormy grey eyes against her olive skin looked striking, mysterious even, but Amber hated them too.
Mum worked as an accountant at the local hospital, Dad drove a bus. Money was always tight. Dad scrimped for a car, watching every penny like a hawk. “No need for fancy clothes—we’re not made of money,” he’d grumble if he spotted something new on her. Most of her wardrobe was hand-me-downs from her cousin. Rarely did she get anything new—only if it didn’t fit her sister. It wore her down. With proper parents, no one would’ve called her “Furry.”
Just before her A-levels, Dad’s sister, Aunt Nell, visited. She worked as a housemaid for a wealthy family in Rome.
“Fancy going there? I could show you how,” she whispered one night as they shared Amber’s room.
“Of course!” Amber’s pulse quickened.
“Keep it down. Your dad wouldn’t approve. You’re eighteen, yeah?”
“Turned in January.”
“Good. No need to ask them, then. Do as I say, and you’ll be sorted. Your dad’s always been stingy.”
Aunt Nell looked every inch the Roman signora. No one would guess she was just a maid. “Money’s what matters—how you get it, who cares?” she’d say.
The idea consumed Amber. Aunt Nell fronted her the cash, saying she’d pay it back once she started working.
Amber followed her instructions to the letter. To keep up appearances, she enrolled in a hairdressing course—just so her parents wouldn’t pry. But when the call came from Rome, she dropped out, packed her bags, left a note, and fled.
In Rome, Aunt Nell met her and took her to a grand villa on the outskirts. Amber’s job? Caring for an eighty-year-old invalid.
“Don’t let me down. No stealing. I vouched for you,” Aunt Nell warned as Amber trembled, half-terrified by her own audacity.
The opulent house overwhelmed her. Her quarters were tiny, attached to the old woman’s bedroom. At least she didn’t have to rent a flat. For extra pay, she cleaned the house twice a week. She barely left. Italy, to her, was just those walls and the manicured lawn outside the window. But it didn’t matter. A year would fly by—she wouldn’t be a carer forever. She’d save, learn the language, figure something out.
She started hoarding money like her dad. No time or place to spend it anyway. When the owners were out, she’d snap selfies in the lavish living room and post them online. “Let them think I’m living the dream.”
Former classmates liked and envied her. No one called her “Furry” anymore—they used her name, asking how she’d ended up there. Amber stayed vague.
One day, an old classmate, Nate, commented on her photos. They began messaging. Nate was sparing with details—just that he worked at his dad’s garage, earned well, and had bought himself an Audi. He posted a picture of a sleek red car.
But soon, his messages turned romantic. He wished she weren’t so far away, asked when she’d return. Amber dodged, saying she wasn’t coming back—life in Rome was too good. She knew her Italian adventure stoked his interest, but Nate swore he’d fancied her since Year Seven. She remembered his glances in class. She wanted to believe him.
One evening, the owners left for a gala. They wouldn’t return till dawn. The old woman was asleep. Amber slipped into the walk-in wardrobe and tried on the lady’s dresses. A scarlet one with thin straps fit like it was made for her. The Italian woman was lean, flat-chested—Amber had curves in all the right places. For the first time, she liked what she saw.
She poured wine, posed before the mirror in the sitting room, snapping photos with paintings in the background—uploading them with captions like “*Just back from an event… too tired to change. A glass of wine to unwind…*”
She drank. Then another glass. Then passed out in the gown on the sofa.
She woke to screaming. The lady ranted in rapid Italian—Amber caught nothing but the furious finger pointing at the door. She was being thrown out. The woman even fetched Amber’s things, dumping them at her feet.
Amber stuffed her clothes into a suitcase under a torrent of “*Vai via!*” She didn’t need a translation. At the door, she caught her reflection—still in the red dress—and smirked vengefully. Too soon. At the last second, the lady yanked her back.
Slowly, Amber undressed. Underneath, just knickers. The husband’s greasy gaze crawled over her bare skin. As she pulled on jeans and a top, he babbled urgently—probably pleading for his wife to keep her. The argument raged.
Amber tossed her wild curls, smirked, and walked out.
She wandered Rome’s streets, replaying the husband’s hungry stare. “*Why wait till now? Toss out that harpy, and I’d be the lady of the house…*”
She couldn’t stay. No language skills, no references. Aunt Nell wasn’t answering. A week’s wait? Where? Before the police noticed her, she booked a flight home. A year abroad, some savings. If Dad hadn’t bought that car, she’d help. A week at home, then maybe Aunt Nell would have a plan.
Stepping off the train, she grimaced. The station square was grimy, cracked asphalt, peeling buildings—nothing like tidy Rome. She regretted coming back, though hearing English again was a relief.
Taxis and private cars lined up. Drivers hawked rides. In one, she spotted Nate. For a second, he froze—then smiled warmly.
“You never said you were coming! I’d have fetched you from the airport.”
“Where’s the Audi? Did you lie?”
“Guilty. You wouldn’t have replied if I’d said I’m just a mechanic, dreaming of an Audi. So I spiced it up. This gig’s just for extra cash.”
Amber studied his face—older, handsomer. “You’ve changed.”
“And you’re even prettier.” He didn’t look away. “Visiting or staying?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Hop in. Just… one thing.”
“What?”
Amber had been too stingy to call home.
“Your mum left your dad. Some bloke’s moved in. Your dad’s drinking now.” Her face fell.
“Mum still at the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“Take me there.”
She rode in silence. Home felt claustrophobic now. “*At least he came clean about the Audi, the garage. I can’t. I’m ashamed—Italy was a sham. Tending to some old bat, then getting sacked… I’ll think of something later.*”
“If you’ve nowhere to stay, mine’s open. My parents are sound.”
“Thanks, Nate. We’ll see.”
Mum was thrilled to see her—but didn’t invite her in.
“Look, Vova’s ten years younger. And you’re stunning. I… I worry we’d be rivals. Stay with your dad, but hide your cash. He’ll take it. I couldn’t take his penny-pinching. Vova buys me flowers just because.”
Amber swallowed the sting.
Dad was worse. She left cash but didn’t stay. His miserliness had driven her away. For days, she crashed at her cousin’s till Aunt Nell called—she’d landed her a hotel maid job.
“Sure you’re going back? Someone waiting?” Nate drove her to the airport.
“No one. Work. Aunt Nell got me a hotel gig. Last year was just care work. Those photos? All staged. But no one calls me ‘Furry’ now. They remember my name.” A bitter laugh.
“Girls were jealous.”
“I lied. To you, to everyone. To seem better.” She braced for disgust.
A relieved sigh. “I thought you were out of my league. But you’re just like me.”
“You’re not angry?”
“NahShe stepped onto the plane, closing her eyes as the engines roared to life, wondering if she’d ever stop running—or if she even wanted to.
