Dark Avenging Angel by Catherine Cavendish

will.”
    I didn’t tell her about the lie. I didn’t tell her about changing my name. I just kept it all light.
    As I clambered out of the bath that night, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Disgusting paunchy stomach. I wrapped myself in a towel and knelt down in front of the toilet. My fingers did their job. I was an expert by now.
    Stomach emptied, I went to bed and dreaded the next day.
    After three hours’ fitful sleep, I hauled myself out of bed and made myself coffee. I never ate breakfast. This morning I would have to tell Stuart what I intended to call myself. I hadn’t a clue. On top of my stereo, I saw the latest Carly Simon LP— Spy . I’d bought it just before I left Leeds.
    I picked up my bag and went to catch my bus.

Chapter Six
    “Carly.” Stuart Campbell shook his head. “Sure you wouldn’t prefer Fizz?”
    “No, Fizz doesn’t feel like a proper name, and it’s not really me.”
    He frowned. “No?” He leaned back in his chair. “I used to work with a woman called Fizz. When I met you I saw a lot of her in you. She was lively, bubbly, and she went on to be my deputy ad manager. My second-in-command. At my previous paper, of course.”
    A wistful look in his eyes hinted at so much more. I squirmed. Whatever that Fizz had meant to him, I certainly wasn’t following in her footsteps. He hadn’t mentioned a wife, so I assumed he wasn’t married. Even more reason to refuse to adopt her name.
    I smiled, but said nothing. An old sales ploy. The first person to speak in that sort of situation is the one who gives ground.
    “Well okay then,” he said at last, “Carly it is. Do a memo letting everyone know. Then we need a press release for Campaign . I’ll take care of that. One of the photographers will shoot the accompanying photo. I’ll have a word with Chris.”
    Chris McKenzie was the forty-something Scottish editor of the paper. I’d met him on my first day and liked him. His handshake was warm and firm and his blue eyes sparkled. From the laughter and buzz in the newsroom, I could tell his staff enjoyed working for him. Quite a contrast to the advertising office where the exclusively female telephone-sales staff whispered in small clusters at breaktimes and clammed up every time I walked past.
    Two days later, I opened our paper to find a headline, my photograph and an accompanying work of fiction.
    Carly Powell Joins the Evening Telegraph
    Twenty-seven-year-old Carly Powell has recently been appointed Deputy Advertisement Manager with the Baileyborough Evening Telegraph . A former advertising executive for the Yorkshire Chronicle , Carly brings ten years’ experience and is looking forward to her new role.
    “I’m really excited to be here,” she said. “Baileyborough is such a vibrant and upcoming town, and I can see great times ahead for my team and for the people and businesses in the area. Everyone has been so welcoming and I’m delighted to have been given this opportunity.”
    The only thing I recognized was my photograph. He’d even managed to add two years to my age, and exaggerate the number of years of experience I brought with me.
    Stuart saw me and came out of his glass-paneled office. He sauntered over to me. “Like it?”
    “I don’t remember saying any of that.”
    “A little poetic license never did any harm.”
    I skipped over that, the inaccuracies and the downright lies. I had something much more serious on my mind. “You’ve changed my name.”
    The frown appeared again. His forehead wrinkled, and when he spoke this time, his voice had dropped a few tones and decibels, “No, Carly, you changed it.”
    “But I thought that was just for around the office. To avoid confusion, you said.”
    “Well there wouldn’t be much point in that, would there? Carly sometimes, Jane other times. People would get very confused. No, you chose Carly, so that’s who you are.” He wandered off, out of the office, leaving me staring after him.
    “Nice photo,”