Lottie couldn’t stand her name, and her last name—Ferret—was even worse. Kids, as we all know, can be merciless, and by primary school, she’d been saddled with the nickname “Furry Ferret.”
She’d stare at herself in the mirror, dreaming of long blonde hair like Emily Carter’s, legs for days like Lucy Hartley’s, or at least cool parents like that rather plain, failing student Sophie Davenport, who got picked up from school in her dad’s Range Rover. “Why did Mum have to marry a man with such a dreadful surname? She should’ve thought how it’d be for me. I’ll only marry someone with a normal last name—or better yet, something posh and foreign,” she’d muse.
Her dark, curly hair had a mind of its own, constantly escaping hats and clips. Her pale grey eyes against her olive skin looked striking and mysterious, but Lottie hated them too.
Mum worked as an accountant at the local hospital, and Dad drove a bus. Money was always tight. Dad was saving for a car, counting every penny like it was gold. “Stop prancing about like you’re on the telly,” he’d grumble if he spotted her in something new. Most of her clothes were hand-me-downs from her cousin. New things only came if they didn’t fit her sister. It was exhausting. If only she had normal parents, no one would call her Furry Ferret.
Just before her A-levels, Dad’s sister—Auntie Mavis—came to visit. She worked as a housekeeper for a wealthy family in Italy.
“Fancy going there? I know how to make it happen,” she whispered one night as they shared Lottie’s bed.
“Obviously!” Lottie gasped.
“Keep it down. Your dad’d have a fit. You eighteen yet?”
“Yeah, turned in January.” Her heart pounded.
“Brilliant. No need to ask Mummy and Daddy. Do as I say, and it’ll all work out. Your dad’s always been tight with money.”
Auntie Mavis looked every bit the wealthy expat—no one would guess she scrubbed floors. “Money’s money, love. Who cares how you get it?” she’d say.
Lottie was hooked. Auntie Mavis lent her some cash—”Pay me back when you’re rolling in it”—and she followed her instructions to the letter. To keep up appearances, she enrolled in a hairdressing course, but the second her Italian visa came through, she dropped out, packed her bags, left a note, and bolted.
In Milan, Auntie Mavis met her and whisked her off to a grand villa on the outskirts, where Lottie would care for an elderly, bedridden woman.
“Don’t mess this up. No stealing. I vouched for you,” Mavis warned the wide-eyed, slightly terrified Lottie.
The lavish house stunned her. She got a tiny room next to the old woman’s, relieved she wouldn’t have to pay rent. For extra cash, she cleaned the house twice a week. She barely left—Italy, to her, was the villa’s walls and the perfectly manicured lawn outside her window. But she didn’t care. A year would fly by. She’d save up, learn the language, figure things out.
Like her dad, she started hoarding cash. No time or place to spend it anyway. When the family was out, she’d snap selfies in their posh living room and post them online. “Let them think I’ve hit the jackpot.”
Former classmates liked and seethed with envy. No one called her Furry Ferret anymore—suddenly, it was all, “Lottie, how’d you manage it?” She gave vague, mysterious answers.
Then Harry, an old schoolmate, commented on her photos. They started messaging. Harry was cagey about himself—just that he worked at his dad’s garage, made decent money, and had bought himself an Audi. He even posted a pic leaning against a shiny red one.
But soon, his messages turned romantic. He missed her, asked when she’d return. Lottie dodged—no plans, Italy was brilliant. She knew her “glamorous” life stoked his interest, but Harry swore he’d fancied her since Year 7. She remembered his lingering looks in class. She wanted to believe him. So she did.
One night, the family was at a gala. The old woman slept soundly. Lottie sneaked into the mistress’s wardrobe and tried on dresses. A red one with thin straps fit like it was made for her. The Italian woman was all angles—Lottie had curves in all the right places. For the first time, she liked what she saw in the mirror.
She poured wine, took selfies on the fancy sofa, pretending she’d just come from some swanky event. “Back from a fundraiser… too tired to change… wine for my nerves,” she captioned them.
The wine hit hard. She passed out in the dress.
She woke to the mistress shrieking in rapid-fire Italian. The only word Lottie understood was “VAI!”—”GO!” The woman even hauled her suitcase over, dumping it at her feet.
Lottie stuffed her clothes in, fuming. Passing a mirror, she smirked—at least she’d kept the dress. Not for long. The mistress yanked her back, made her strip to her knickers under the leering gaze of her bald, paunchy husband. He babbled something heated—probably begging to keep the “help.” His wife screamed back.
Lottie tossed her curls, smirked, and left mid-row. Walking Milan’s streets, she replayed the husband’s oily stare. “Should’ve ditched the hag ages ago. I’d have made a fine signora.”
But with no Italian, no references, she was stuck. Auntie Mavis was out of town—”Wait a week.” Wait where? Before the cops noticed her, she booked a flight home. She’d saved a bit. Maybe Dad hadn’t bought that car yet—she’d help. Stay a week, then see what Mavis could rustle up.
Stepping off the train, the grimy station, cracked pavements, and shabby buildings felt worlds away from Italy’s pristine streets. Regret clawed at her. Only the familiar chatter comforted her—no more straining to decipher rapid Italian.
Taxis and minicabs lined the curb. Drivers hawked rides. One was Harry. He froze, then grinned.
“Why’d you not say you were coming? I’d have picked you up proper.”
“Where’s the Audi then? Lied, did you?” she snapped.
“Course. You’d have swerved me if I said I was just a grease monkey fresh out of the army, dreaming of an Audi. So I spruced it up. This gig’s just side hustle.”
“Right.” She eyed his broader shoulders, sharper jaw. “You’ve changed.”
“You’re even prettier.” He couldn’t look away. “Visiting or back for good?”
“Dunno yet,” she hedged.
“Hop in. Only…” He hesitated.
“What? Something I should know?”
She’d been too stingy to call home.
“Your mum left your dad. Shacked up with some bloke. Dad’s on the bottle.” Lottie’s face fell.
“Mum still at the hospital? Take me there.”
Silent, she watched her cramped hometown blur past. “At least he owned up about the Audi, the garage. I can’t. Too ashamed—Italy was just babysitting some crone. Got sacked… I’ll spin it later.”
“If you need a place, mine’s open. My folks are sound,” Harry offered.
“Ta. We’ll see.”
Mum hugged her, relieved she was safe—but didn’t invite her in.
“Look, Vova’s ten years younger. You’re stunning now. I’d feel like we were competing. Sorry. Your dad’s place? Hide any cash—he’ll nickel-and-dime you. Vova buys me flowers just because.”
“S’alright, Mum.”
She visited Dad but didn’t stay. Gave him beer money, though. Felt bad. But his miserly ways were half why she’d fled. She crashed with her cousin until Auntie Mavis rang—she’d landed Lottie a hotel maid job.
“Sure you’re going back? Someone waiting?” Harry drove her to the airport.
“Nobody. Just work. Auntie got me a hotel gig. Last year was elder care. Photos were all fake. But at least no one calls me Furry Ferret now.” She laughed bitterly.
“Oh, the girls were green. Nonstop about you,” he confirmed.
“I lied. To you, to everyone—to seem better. Get it? I fooled you.” She braced for scorn.
“Blimey. Thought you were out of my league. But you’re just like me.” He sighed, relieved.
“You’re not angry?”
“Nah. Listen, why not stay?She stepped onto the plane, clutching her phone—knowing she’d keep spinning stories, but hoping one day she’d believe her own.
