**Diary Entry:**
I suppose people think I’ve been unbelievably lucky in life.
I always hated my name—Maisie—and my surname, Ferrett, was even worse. Kids can be merciless. From primary school, they called me “Furry Ferrett,” and it stuck like glue.
Staring in the mirror, I wished for long blonde hair like Victoria Whitmore, or legs like Lucy Fairfax—or at least parents with money, like the plain, failing Eleanor Harrington, whose dad picked her up in a Mercedes. *Why did Mum marry someone with such a rotten surname? Couldn’t she have thought about me?* I swore I’d only marry a man with a proper name—something posh, foreign even.
My curly dark hair was a mess, always escaping hats and clips. My pale grey eyes looked striking against my olive skin, but I hated them too.
Mum worked as a hospital accountant; Dad drove a bus. Money was always tight. Dad saved every penny for a car, scrutinising every expense. *“No need for fancy clothes—you’re not royalty,”* he’d grumble if I bought anything new. Mostly, I wore hand-me-downs from my cousin. Only if something didn’t fit her did I get it. It wore me down. If I’d had normal parents, no one would’ve called me Furry Ferrett.
Just before A-levels, Dad’s sister, Aunt Nell, visited. She worked as a maid for a wealthy family in Italy.
*“Want to know how to get there?”* she whispered one night in my room.
*“God, yes.”*
*“Keep quiet. Your dad wouldn’t approve. Eighteen yet?”*
*“Turned in January.”* My heart raced.
*“Good. No parent permission needed. Do as I say, and you’ll be set. Your dad’s always been tight-fisted.”*
She looked like a proper Italian signora, not some maid. *“Money’s money—who cares how it’s made?”* she’d say.
I was obsessed. Aunt Nell lent me cash—pay her back later, she said.
I followed her plan. To keep my parents off my back, I enrolled in a hairdressing course. But when the Italian job offer came, I dropped out, packed my things, left a note, and fled.
Aunt Nell met me in Milan, took me to a grand house on the outskirts. My job? Caring for an eighty-year-old woman.
*“Don’t mess this up. No stealing. I vouched for you,”* she warned, as I trembled, half-terrified by my own audacity.
The mansion overwhelmed me. My tiny room adjoined the old woman’s. At least I didn’t pay rent. For extra cash, I cleaned twice a week. Rarely left the house—Italy was just walls and a manicured lawn. No matter. A year would pass quickly. I’d save, learn the language, figure things out.
Like Dad, I hoarded money. Nowhere to spend it, anyway. I snapped selfies with the lavish furniture when the owners were out, posting them online. *Let them think I’m living the dream.*
Former classmates liked, envied. No one called me Furry Ferrett now—just Maisie, asking how I pulled it off. I kept my answers vague.
Then Jake, an old classmate, commented. We started messaging. He barely mentioned himself—just that he worked at his dad’s garage, earned decently, bought an Audi. Posted a pic with a sleek red car.
But soon, his messages turned romantic. Wished we weren’t so far apart, asked when I’d return. I dodged—no plans to come back, Italy was amazing. I knew my “Italian adventure” made me more appealing. But Jake insisted he’d fancied me since Year 7. I remembered catching his glances in class. Wanted to believe him. So I did.
One night, the owners left for a gala. The old woman slept. I raided the mistress’s wardrobe. A red strapless dress fit perfectly—she was slim, flat-chested; I had curves in all the right places. For once, I liked what I saw.
I poured wine, posed before the mirror—*“Back from a soirée… too tired to change…”*—uploaded it. Drank another glass. Passed out on the sofa in the dress.
I woke to the mistress shrieking in rapid Italian. Only when she jabbed a bony finger at the door did I understand: I was fired. She hauled my things, dumped them at my feet.
Stuffing my suitcase under her screams—*“Out!”*—I caught my reflection. At least I still wore the dress. Not for long. She yanked me back, forced me to strip. Her bald, paunchy husband leered. I dressed slowly as he argued with her—probably begging to keep me.
I smirked, left mid-row. Walking Milan’s streets, I replayed his hungry stare. *Should’ve ditched your hag sooner. I’d make a fine signora.*
No language, no references—no chance of another job. Aunt Nell was away. A week’s wait? No. Before the police noticed me, I’d go home. A year abroad, some savings. Maybe help Dad—if he hadn’t drunk it all.
Stepping off the train, I faced cracked pavements, grimy buildings. Reality clashed with memories of pristine Italy. Hearing English again was a relief—no more migraine-inducing Italian.
Taxis and minicabs clustered outside. In one, I spotted Jake. He faltered, 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’d have ignored me if I’d said I’m just a mechanic, dreaming of one. So I… embellished. Drive minicabs for extra cash.”*
*“Right.”* He’d filled out, looked good. *“You’ve changed.”*
*“You’re even prettier.”* He couldn’t stop staring. *“Visiting or back for good?”*
*“We’ll see,”* I hedged.
*“Hop in. Just… one thing.”* He hesitated.
*“What?”*
I’d skimped on calls home.
*“Your mum left your dad. Lives with some bloke now. Dad’s hit the bottle.”* My stomach dropped.
*“Mum still at the hospital? Take me there.”*
Silent, I watched my hometown blur past—smaller, stranger now. *He owned up. I can’t. Ashamed I barely saw Italy, nursed some old woman for cash, got sacked… I’ll think of something.*
*“If you need a place, mine’s open. Parents are sound.”*
*“Thanks. We’ll see.”*
Mum hugged me—alive, healthy. But no invitation.
*“Victor’s ten years younger. You’re so pretty now… I’m scared we’ll be rivals. Sorry. Your dad’s? Watch your money. Leave it with me—he’ll take it. I cracked. Penny-pinching, always. Victor buys me flowers just because.”*
*“It’s fine, Mum.”*
I visited Dad, gave him cash for booze. Too sad to stay. His frugality drove me away in the first place.
Crashing at my cousin’s, I waited till Aunt Nell called—a maid job, a hotel this time.
*“Staying? Someone waiting?”* Jake drove me to the airport.
*“No one. Working again. Aunt Nell fixed it. Last year was eldercare. Photos were all fake. But no one calls me Furry Ferrett now. They remember my name.”* A bitter laugh.
*“Girls wouldn’t shut up about you. Jealous.”*
*“I lied. To you, everyone. Wanted to seem better. Understand? I tricked you.”* I waited for anger.
*“Christ. Thought you were out of my league. But you’re just like me.”* He exhaled.
*“You’re not mad?”*
*“No. Listen—don’t go. What’s there? Work here. Or we’ll try London. Stay. Marry me.”* He stopped the car, faced me.
*“Jake…”* I paused. *“No. I like you. But your surname—”*
*“What’s wrong with ‘Bubb’?”*
*“Bubb. Our kids would be ‘Bubbles.’ I was ‘Furry Ferrett’—remember?”*
*“I never called you that.”*
*“Others did. I won’t do that to my kids. Don’t be angry.”* His jaw clenched. I touched his hand. *“Not rejecting you. But I need my own money, no dependence. Maybe you come to me? Good mechanics are needed everywhere. I’ll ask—”*
Watching his beat-up Ford fade, I tossed my curls and walked into the terminalAs the plane took off, I closed my eyes and smiled, already planning which hotel room to pose in next, knowing that somewhere out there, Jake was still waiting—and for now, that was enough.
