Emily despised her name, but her surname—Ferret—was even worse. Schoolchildren, merciless as always, had pinned the nickname “Ferret” on her almost as soon as she started primary.
She stared at herself in the mirror, longing for long blonde hair like Sophie Whitcombe’s, legs as elegant as Lizzie Fairfax’s, or at least parents as effortlessly cool as plain-faced, failing Gemma Harrington’s, whose chauffeur picked her up in a Jaguar. “Why did Mum marry a man with such a hideous last name? She should’ve thought about what it’d do to me. I’ll only marry someone with a normal name—better yet, something foreign,” she vowed.
Her dark, wiry curls stuck out rebelliously, slipping free of clips and hats. Her pale grey eyes against tanned skin gave her an exotic, mysterious look—but Emily hated them just the same.
Her mother was an accountant at the local hospital; her father drove buses. They were always short of cash. Dad was saving for a car, counting every penny like a miser. “No need to dress up like a show pony,” he’d grumble if she wore anything new. Most of her clothes were hand-me-downs from her cousin. New things came only if they didn’t fit her cousin first. It was unbearable. With proper parents, no one would’ve called her Ferret.
Just before her final exams, her aunt Beatrice—one of Dad’s sisters—visited. She worked as a maid for a wealthy family in Italy.
“Want me to tell you how to get there?” she whispered one night in Emily’s room.
“Of course!” Emily gasped.
“Hush. Your dad won’t approve. You’re eighteen?”
“Turned in January.” Her heart raced.
“Good. No need to ask them. Just do as I say, and you’ll be fine. Your dad’s always been tight-fisted.”
Aunt Beatrice looked every inch the Italian signora, nothing like a mere servant. “Money’s money—who cares how you get it?” she’d say.
Emily was obsessed. Beatrice lent her some cash—“Pay me back when you’ve earned it,” she said—and Emily followed her plan to the letter. To keep her parents off her back, she enrolled in hairdressing school. But when the call came from Italy, she dropped out, packed her bags, left a note, and fled.
In Milan, Beatrice met her and drove her to a grand villa on the outskirts, where Emily would care for an ailing eighty-year-old woman.
“Don’t mess this up. No stealing. I vouched for you,” Beatrice warned the trembling, runaway girl.
The opulent house overwhelmed her. She got a tiny room next to the old woman’s. At least she didn’t have to pay rent. For extra cash, she cleaned twice a week. She barely left the estate—Italy existed only within those walls, the view of manicured lawns from her window. But it didn’t matter. A year would fly by. She’d save, learn the language, and figure things out.
Like her father, she hoarded every pound. Nowhere to spend it, anyway. She took selfies in the lavish sitting room when the owners were out, posting them online. “Let them think I’ve won the lottery in life.”
Old classmates liked and envied her. No one called her Ferret anymore—they used her name, asking how she’d ended up there. Emily was vague.
Then Daniel, a former classmate, commented on her photos. They started messaging. He was sparing with details—worked at his dad’s garage, made good money, recently bought an Audi. He posted a picture beside a sleek red car.
But soon, his messages turned romantic. He regretted the distance, asked when she’d return. Emily dodged—she wasn’t coming back, Italy was brilliant. She knew her “Italian adventure” was part of his sudden affection. But Daniel swore he’d always liked her, since Year Seven. She remembered his lingering looks in class. She wanted to believe him. So she did.
One night, the owners left for a gala. The old woman was asleep. Emily sneaked into the wardrobe, trying on the lady’s dresses. A red one with delicate straps fit perfectly. The Italian woman was slender, flat-chested. Emily had curves—youthful breasts, a narrow waist, shapely hips. For the first time, she liked what she saw.
She poured wine, posed before the mirror in the sitting room, snapping selfies against landscapes. “Back from a gala… too tired to change… just unwinding.” She drank. More. Then passed out in the dress on the sofa.
She woke to screaming. The lady ranted in rapid Italian—Emily caught nothing until a bony finger jabbed toward the door. She was being thrown out. The woman even stormed to Emily’s room, hurling her belongings at her feet.
Emily stuffed clothes into her suitcase under a barrage of “Vai via!” That needed no translation. At the door, she caught her reflection—still in the red dress. A petty victory. Too soon. The woman yanked her back.
Slowly, Emily undressed (just knickers beneath). The bald, paunchy husband stared. As she pulled on jeans, he muttered urgently to his wife—pleading for mercy, maybe. The lady shrieked at him.
Emily tossed her wild curls, smirked, and left mid-row. Walking Milan’s midnight streets, she recalled the husband’s greedy gaze. “Should’ve kicked out his hag wife. I’d be the lady of the house.”
If she spoke Italian, she could find another job. But no language, no references—hopeless. She called Beatrice, who wasn’t in Milan. “Wait a week,” she said. Wait where? Before the police noticed her, Emily decided to go home. A year abroad, some savings. If Dad hadn’t bought a car yet, she’d help. Stay a week, then maybe Beatrice would sort something.
Stepping off the train, she faced grimy pavements, cracked asphalt, peeling buildings—far from Italy’s pristine streets. She already regretted coming back. Only overhearing English voices soothed her—no more straining to decipher rapid Italian.
Taxis and unlicensed cabs idled outside. Drivers hawked rides. In one, she spotted Daniel. 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 wouldn’t have replied if I’d said I’m just a mechanic, dreaming of an Audi. So I… embellished. Cab’s just a side gig.”
Emily studied him—older, handsomer. “You’ve changed.”
“You’re even prettier.” His eyes never left her. “Visiting or staying?”
“We’ll see.”
“Hop in. Just… there’s something.” He hesitated.
“What? What don’t I know?”
She’d been stingy with calls home.
“Your mum left your dad. Lives with some bloke now. Dad’s drinking.” Emily’s face fell.
“Mum still at the hospital? Take me there.”
Silent, she watched her hometown blur past—smaller, stranger now. “At least he’s honest about lying. I can’t be. Ashamed they kicked me out, that I wiped an old woman’s bum for cash… I’ll think of something.”
“If you need a place, come to mine. My parents are decent.”
“Thanks. We’ll see.”
Her mum was relieved she was safe—but didn’t invite her in.
“Look, Will’s ten years younger. You’re so pretty now… I’m afraid we’d be rivals. Sorry. Your dad’s? Be careful—if you’ve got money, leave it with me. He’ll take it. I couldn’t stand his penny-pinching. Will buys me flowers just because.”
“It’s fine, Mum.”
She visited her father but didn’t stay. Gave him booze money—pity, not love. His frugality had driven her away. She crashed with her cousin until Beatrice called: a hotel in Italy needed a maid.
“Sure you won’t stay? Someone waiting?” Daniel drove her to the airport.
“No one. Just work. Beatrice got me a hotel job. Last year I was a carer. My photos? All fakes. But at least no one calls me Ferret now.” A bitter laugh.
“Girls were jealous. Talked about you nonstop.”
“I lied. To you, everyone. To seem better. Understand? I tricked you.” She braced for anger.
“Phew. Thought you were out of my league. But you’re just like me,” he sighed, relieved.
“You’re not mad?”
“Nah. Listen, why go back? Work here. Or let’s try London! Stay. Marry me.” He stopped the car, facing her.
“Daniel…” She hesitated. “No. I like you. But your last name…”
“What’s wrong with mine?”
“Puddifoot. Our kids would be called Puddles. IShe turned and walked toward the terminal, the weight of her name—and his—already fading into the hum of departures, the promise of a life unshackled from the past.
