Let them think I’ve been unbelievably lucky in life.
Emily couldn’t stand her name, and her surname—Foxley—was even worse. Kids, as you know, can be merciless. From primary school, they’d branded her “Foxy,” and it stuck like glue.
She’d stare at herself in the mirror, wishing for blonde, flowing hair like Victoria Dawson, legs as long as Lucy Shaw’s, or at least parents half as cool as plain-Jane underachiever Natalie Bishop, whose dad picked her up from school in a Range Rover. “Why did Mum have to marry someone with such an awful surname?” she’d fume. “I’ll only marry someone with a normal name—something posh, maybe even foreign.”
Her dark, curly hair never stayed put, always escaping from hats and clips. Her grey-green eyes against olive skin looked striking, almost mysterious—but Emily 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, hoarding every penny like a dragon guarding its gold. “No point dressing up when we’re skint,” he’d grumble if he noticed her in something new. Most of her clothes were hand-me-downs from her cousin, only getting new things if they didn’t fit her. It was exhausting. If only her parents were better off—no one would’ve called her Foxy.
Just before her A-levels, Dad’s sister, Aunt Nora, visited. She worked as a housekeeper for a wealthy family in Italy.
“Fancy coming over there?” she whispered one night as they shared Emily’s bedroom.
“God, yes!” Emily lit up.
“Keep it down. Your dad won’t like it. You’re eighteen, right?”
“Turned in January,” Emily said, pulse racing.
“Perfect. No need to ask your parents then. Do as I say, and you’ll be sorted. Your dad’s always been tight-fisted anyway.”
Aunt Nora looked every bit the elegant Italian signora—no one would guess she was just a housekeeper. “Money’s money, love. Who cares how you get it?”
Emily became obsessed. Aunt Nora lent her some cash—”pay me back when you’re earning,” she said—and Emily followed her instructions to the letter. To keep her parents off her back, she enrolled in a hairdressing course, but the second her Italian visa came through, she dropped out, packed her bags, left a note, and fled.
In Milan, Aunt Nora met her and whisked her off to a grand villa on the outskirts, where Emily was to care for an elderly, bedridden woman.
“Don’t mess this up. No stealing. I’ve vouched for you,” Aunt Nora warned the nervous, runaway Emily.
The sprawling villa left the modest girl speechless. 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. Italy, for her, was just those villa walls and the manicured lawn outside her window—but she didn’t mind. A year would fly by, she’d save up, learn Italian, and figure the rest out later.
Like her dad, she became a saver—nowhere to spend money, anyway. When the family was out, she’d snap selfies in their lavish living room and post them online. “Let everyone think I’m living the dream.”
Ex-classmates liked and envied her. No one called her Foxy anymore—they used her name, asking how she’d ended up there. Emily kept her answers vague.
Then one day, an old schoolmate, James, commented on her photos. They started messaging. He was sparing with details—just said he worked at his dad’s garage, earned decently, and had recently bought an Audi. Posted a pic leaning against a sleek red car.
But soon, his messages turned romantic. He wished they weren’t so far apart, asked when she was coming home. Emily dodged, saying she wasn’t planning to—life in Italy was brilliant. She knew her “glamorous” expat story was part of why he liked her now. But James insisted he’d fancied her since Year 7. She remembered catching his glances in class. Part of her wanted to believe him. So she did.
One night, the family went to a gala. The old woman was asleep. Emily sneaked into the hostess’s wardrobe, trying on dresses. A sleek red one with thin straps fit like it was made for her—the Italian woman was all angles, while Emily had curves in all the right places. For the first time, she liked what she saw in the mirror.
She poured herself wine, snapped selfies on the fancy sofa against oil paintings, posted them with captions like, “Just back from a gala… too tired to change… wine to unwind…”
She drank. Then more. And passed out in the dress.
She woke to shrieking. The hostess was yelling rapid-fire Italian—Emily caught none of it till a bony finger jabbed toward the door. She was being thrown out. The woman even stormed to Emily’s room, flung her clothes at her feet.
Packing under screams of “Vai via!” (no translation needed), Emily stole a glance in the hall mirror—smug she still wore the dress. Too soon. At the last second, the hostess dragged her back.
Emily slowly peeled the dress off—just knickers underneath. The husband’s greasy stare crawled over her bare skin as she pulled on jeans and a jumper. He yammered urgently at his wife, probably begging her to keep “the pretty English girl.” The wife screeched back.
Emily shook her wild curls, smirked, and walked out mid-row. Strolling Milan’s streets, she replayed the man’s hungry gaze. “Should’ve ditched the hag sooner. I’d have made a better signora.”
No language skills, no references—job hunting was pointless. Aunt Nora was away. “Wait a week,” she said. But where? Before the police took notice, Emily booked a flight home. Nearly a year abroad, savings in hand—if Dad hadn’t bought his car yet, she’d help. Stay a week, then maybe Aunt Nora would have a new plan.
Stepping off the train, Emily faced cracked pavements and grimy buildings—reality clashed with memories of pristine Italy. Regret gnawed at her. Only hearing English again offered relief.
Taxis and minicabs lined the station. One driver was James. He flushed, then grinned.
“Why didn’t you say you were coming? I’d have picked you up in style.”
“Where’s the Audi? You lied?”
“Guilty. You’d have ghosted me if I’d said I’m just a mechanic post-army, still dreaming of one. So I… embellished. This? Just side gigs when I’m free.”
“Right.” Emily eyed his sharper jawline. “You’ve changed.”
“You’re even prettier.” He couldn’t look away. “Visiting or back for good?”
“We’ll see,” she hedged.
“Hop in. Just…” He hesitated.
“What? Something I don’t know?”
She’d skimped on calls home.
“Your mum left your dad. Shacked up with some bloke. Dad hit the bottle.” Emily’s face fell.
“Mum still at the hospital? Take me there.”
Silent, Emily watched her once-familiar town blur past—now cramped, foreign. “At least he owned up about the car, the garage. I can’t. Ashamed they’ll know Italy was just me wiping an old woman’s bum, getting sacked… I’ll spin it later.”
“If you’ve nowhere to stay, come to mine. My folks are sound. They’ll get it,” James offered.
“Thanks. We’ll see.”
Mum cried, hugging her—but didn’t invite her home.
“Look, Vova’s ten years younger. You’re so gorgeous now… I’m scared we’d end up rivals. Sorry. Try your dad? Hide any cash—he’ll drink it. I couldn’t take his nagging over every quid. Vova brings me flowers just because.”
“It’s fine, Mum.”
She visited Dad—gave him booze money but didn’t stay. Pity for him warred with resentment. His penny-pinching had driven her away in the first place. She crashed with her cousin till Aunt Nora called—she’d snagged Emily a hotel maid job.
“Sure you won’t stay? Anyone waiting back there?” James drove her to the airport.
“No one. Just work. Aunt Nora got me a hotel gig. Last year? Elderly care. Photos were in the owners’ house when they were out. But at least no one calls me Foxy now.” She laughed bitterly.
“The girls were proper jealous,” James admitted.
“I lied. To you, to everyone—to seem better than I was. Get it? I tricked you.” She braced for anger.
“Blimey. Thought I’d no chance with you. But you’re just like me.” He exhaledShe boarded the plane, still clinging to the fantasy that one day, she wouldn’t need to lie to feel like she belonged.
