Emily couldn’t stand her name, and even less her surname—Weasley. Kids, as anyone knows, can be merciless to their peers. Almost from primary school, Emily had been stuck with the nickname “Weasel.”
She stared at herself in the mirror, wishing she had long blonde hair like Sophie Whitmore, the endless legs of Lucy Fairfax, or at least cool parents like plain, failing Hannah Goldsworthy, whose father picked her up from school in a Jaguar. *Why did Mum marry a man with such an awful surname? She should’ve thought about what it’d be like for me. I’ll only marry someone with a normal name—better yet, something foreign.*
Her wild, dark curls, always escaping hats and clips, annoyed her endlessly. Her light grey eyes against olive skin looked striking, mysterious—but Emily hated them too.
Mum worked as an accountant at the hospital, Dad drove a bus. Money was always tight. Dad was saving for a car, so he scrutinised every penny. *”No need for fancy clothes—money doesn’t grow on trees,”* he’d grumble if he spotted new things on her. Most of her clothes were hand-me-downs from her cousin. New ones only came if they didn’t fit her sister. It was unbearable. If only she had *proper* parents, no one would call her Weasel.
Just before her A-levels, her dad’s sister, Aunt Nell, visited. She worked as a maid for a wealthy family in France.
*”Want to know how to get there?”* she whispered one night in Emily’s cramped room.
*”Yes!”* Emily’s heart pounded.
*”Keep it down. Your dad won’t approve. You’re eighteen?”*
*”Turned in January.”*
*”Perfect. Don’t ask permission. Do what I say, and you’ll be fine. Your dad’s always been stingy.”*
Aunt Nell looked every bit the French aristocrat—no one would guess she was a maid. *”Money’s all that matters—who cares how you get it?”*
Emily became obsessed. Aunt Nell lent her cash, saying she’d repay it later.
For appearances, Emily enrolled in a hairdressing course—just to keep her parents off her back. But when the call came from France, she dropped out, packed her bags, left a note, and disappeared.
Aunt Nell met her in Paris, drove her to a grand house in the suburbs where Emily would care for an elderly woman.
*”Don’t mess up. Don’t steal. I vouched for you.”*
The mansion stunned her. She got a tiny room next to the old lady’s. At least she didn’t pay rent. For extra cash, she cleaned twice a week. She barely left—France was just the house’s walls and the view of manicured lawns. But she didn’t care. A year would fly by. She’d save money, learn the language, figure it out later.
Like her dad, she hoarded cash. Nowhere to spend it anyway. She took selfies in the lavish living room when the owners were out, posting them online. *Let them think I’ve hit the jackpot.*
Ex-classmates liked, envied. No one called her Weasel now—they used her name, asking how she got there. She stayed vague.
One day, Jake, an old classmate, commented. They started messaging. He barely mentioned himself—just that he worked at his dad’s garage, earned well, bought an Audi. Posted a photo by a sleek red car.
Then he wrote more about love. Regretted the distance, asked when she’d return. She dodged—no plans, France was amazing. She knew her “glam life” swayed him. But Jake swore he’d liked her since year seven. She remembered his lingering glances. She wanted to believe him.
One night, the owners were at a gala. The old lady slept. Emily raided the wardrobe, trying on dresses. A red one with thin straps fit perfectly. The Frenchwoman was slender, flat-chested. Emily had curves—youthful, firm. She admired herself in the mirror, finally liking what she saw.
She poured wine, filmed herself lounging in the living room, posting: *”Back from a soirée… too tired to change. Just a glass to unwind…”*
She drank one, then another. Passed out on the sofa.
She woke to the lady screaming in rapid French. Only when the woman jabbed a bony finger at the door did Emily understand—she was fired. The lady stormed to her room, flung her things at her feet.
Emily stuffed clothes into a suitcase as shrieks of *”Out!”* pierced the air. Passing the mirror, she smirked—she still wore the dress.
Too soon. The lady yanked her back.
She slowly undressed—just knickers underneath. The bald, paunchy husband leered at her bare chest. As she pulled on jeans, he argued with his wife, probably pleading to keep her. The screaming resumed.
Emily tossed her curls, smirked, and left mid-row. She walked Paris’s streets, replaying the man’s oily gaze. *Should’ve kicked out the hag—I’d be a lady then.*
Without language skills or references, finding work was hopeless. Aunt Nell wasn’t in Paris—said to wait a week. But where? Before police spotted her, she flew home.
A year away. Savings intact. If Dad hadn’t bought his car, she’d help. Stay a week—Aunt Nell might have another plan.
Stepping off the train, she faced cracked pavements, grime—reality clashed with France’s polish. She regretted coming back. Only hearing English without straining eased her headache.
At the station, taxis and private cabs vied for fares. In one, she recognised Jake. He hesitated, then grinned.
*”Why didn’t you say you were coming? I’d have picked you up properly.”*
*”Where’s the Audi? You lied?”*
*”Yeah. You wouldn’t have replied if I said I’m just a mechanic, dreaming of one. So I embellished. Cab’s just for extra cash.”*
*”Whatever.”* She studied him—older, handsomer. *”You’ve changed.”*
*”You’re even prettier.”* He stared. *”Visiting or staying?”*
*”We’ll see.”*
*”Hop in. Just… one thing.”* He hesitated.
*”What? Something I don’t know?”*
She’d skimped on calls home.
*”Your mum left your dad. Lives with some bloke. Dad’s hit the bottle.”* Emily paled.
*”Mum still at the hospital? Take me there.”*
Silent, she watched her hometown blur past—now cramped, alien. *He’s decent—owned up about the car. I can’t. Ashamed I never saw France, just wiped an old woman’s brow, got sacked… I’ll think of something.*
*”If you need a place, my parents’ is alright. They’d understand.”*
*”Thanks, Jake. We’ll see.”*
Mum hugged her, relieved—but didn’t invite her in.
*”Look, Vinnie’s ten years younger. You’re so pretty now… I’m scared we’ll be rivals. Sorry. Your dad’s? Watch your money—he’ll take it. I cracked. Every penny counted. Vinnie buys me flowers just because.”*
*”It’s fine, Mum.”*
She visited Dad, gave him drinking money—pitied him—but didn’t stay. His miserliness had driven her away.
She crashed with her cousin until Aunt Nell called—she’d secured a hotel maid job.
*”Staying? Someone waiting?”* Jake drove her to the airport.
*”No one. Working. Aunt got me a maid job—better than wiping drool. The photos? All in their house when they weren’t home. But no one calls me Weasel now.”* She smiled bitterly.
*”Girls never shut up about you—jealous.”*
*”I lied. To you, everyone. To seem better. I tricked you.”* She braced for anger.
*”Phew. Thought you were out of my league. You’re just like me.”* He exhaled.
*”You’re not mad?”*
*”No. Listen—why go back? You can work here. Fancy London? Let’s go. Stay. Marry me!”* He stopped the car, facing her.
*”Jake…”* She paused. *”No. I like you. But your surname…”*
*”What’s wrong with *Bubb*?”*
*”Our kids would be *Bubble*. I was *Weasel*—remember?”*
*”I never called you that.”*
*”Others did. I won’t let my kids suffer. Don’t be mad.”* His jaw twitched. She covered his hand. *”I’m not saying no. But I want moneyShe stepped onto the plane, clutching the faint hope that somewhere, somehow, she’d find a life where she didn’t have to hide behind lies or run from her past.
