Disclaimer: I don't own Skins. Or much else to be fair.

Author's Note: This is my first ever story, so I decided to use an obsession of mine, the 60's, as the focus. I think this is going to be a slow burner but I'm going to see how things pan out. This chapter and Chapter 2 will be firs person and after that I may switch to third person. I'm not keen on this chapter, it's a bit slow paced, but things will definitely speed up later on.

A Day In The Life

I was not a happy young lady. I don't mean that I was unhappy at a specific event; I was just generally not a happy person. Not in an angry way though. No, I don't think I had ever been angry, or shouted at someone, or even taken control of a situation. Sometimes I thought I had, but I soon realised that it was in my mind that I had snapped and hit my mother for belittling me, or told my twin that I was a human being, not her fashion accessory. No, I just drifted through life with a blank expression on my face and a heavy heart, knowing that things would never change.

This morning, like every morning, began with the same soul-destroying monotony that I had become accustomed to.

I raised my head from my pillow slowly, and I didn't need to even glance at the clock on the wall to know that it was quarter to seven exactly. That was the time that my mother, the Genghis Khan of all mothers, had drilled into my skull, so that was the precise time that my inner body clock threw a bucket of cold water over my brain, every morning without fail. I slid my legs to the side, stretched my arms and glanced over to my sister, Katie, on the opposite side of the room. She was sleeping soundly, like always. I often found it curious the way she slept, flat on her back with her arms by hersides and completely rigid, as if sleep were some disgusting thing that she just wanted to get over and done with. Personally I craved sleep, it was my favourite pastime. Well one of my favourites, but that's a different story.

Knowing it would be another hour before Katie deemed the realm of the living worthy of her presence, I eased myself into a dressing gown and, making sure I was completely covered, padded across the landing and down the stairs.

Sliding the chain from the front door as softly as possible, I quietly opened it, wincing at every squeak and shudder that escaped. I quickly grabbed the milk and paper from the porch and chanced a glance at the summer sun, already warm in the sky. Big mistake. Blinded, I swung my head back instinctively, and collided with the door frame. Things got worse, however when a crash on the stone floor was followed by a searing pain on my shin. Yep, I'd only gone and thrown the milk bottle at myself in shock. Blood trickled from a gash on my lower leg. "Fantastic." I muttered to myself as I clutched my leg, hissing as it stung.

But the sound of someone approaching from the dining room made my blood run cold. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise as I detected the unmistakable pressure change of someone behind me. Suddenly a hand was on my shoulder, clawing me back into the house. I raised my sight to come face to face with my mother, Jenna Fitch.

For a split second a part of me thought she was going to pity and, well, mother, me and my injured limb. But that thought was quickly and quietly strangled in the alleyways of my mind as I looked upon a glare that would have made Jack the Ripper beg for mercy. My common sense kicked in as I realised that she only dragged me inside to prevent the neighbours from seeing me slouched in the doorway.

"EMILY JANE FITCH!" I heard "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING, YOU IDIOT CHILD? WHAT WILL THE NEIGHBOURHOOD THINK?" Bingo. "SEEING YOU SITTING THERE, BOLD AS BRASS, BLEEDING IN OUR FRONT GARDEN! IN YOUR NIGHTWEAR! THEY'LL THINK I'VE LOST CONTROL, THAT I'VE RAISED SOME SORT OF HOODLUM!"

The tirade continued as a lone tear crept down my cheek in silence. She wasn't even shouting. No, the bloody neighbours might hear that, so instead this whole Nuremburg Rally of a speech was a hissing, spitting affair, like a cat with learning difficulties. That thought nearly made me smile, but I reigned in the urge, not wanting to risk my life to the Iron Lady.

I forced my eyes from the very interesting point on the carpet where they were currently focused and looked up. Apparently my mother had the same thought, she was now raising her face and hands to the sky, unable to bring herself to look at me, seemingly beseeching the gods to take away the disappointing excuse for a daughter at her feet. Suddenly the paint-stripping glare skewered me as she growled, "Clean that up, then clean yourself up! And don't even think of bleeding on my carpet." With that she whirled around, a blur of plaid, and disappeared down the hall and through to the kitchen.

I remained on the floor and counted to ten to compose myself, letting out a shaky breath. With yet another sigh I heaved myself up and hobbled to the pantry to grab some cloth, my eyes fixed on the cut on my leg, vigilant for any of my life blood that seemed to want to betray me and anger Jenna further by settling on the floor. Once I had returned to the scene of my crime, I began placing the glass inside one cloth, and used another to mop up the milk.

Once that was cleared away I limped back up the stairs and into the bathroom after stopping in my room, sorry, Katie and Emily's room, to fetch my outfit for the day, one I knew my mother approved of: a plain white blouse, brown tweed skirt and a brown cardigan, topped off with long brown socks. Not one bright colour or large expanse of skin; Jenna would love it. I made sure the bleeding had stopped and that the socks covered the wound.

I headed back to the ground floor, hesitating slightly as I passed the dining room, the sound of rustling papers alerting me to my mother's presence. I helped myself to a biscuit and a glass of water from the kitchen, eating and disposing of the evidence quickly. Not that she minded me eating. She just didn't want to see me eating.

I was readying things for my family's breakfast as stealthily as I could, when she re-entered still glaring. "That's it," I told myself, "She's no longer my mother and I'll tell her that".

"Once you have this ready I expect to see you at the shop within the hour, understood? No stopping at the library." she said, emotionless yet patronising.

"Yes Mum." I murmured, all fight leaving me when I remembered that I never fought back. I just wasn't that sort of person.

She turned to leave, but she suddenly spun back round.
"WHAT are you wearing?" she barked. I froze and looked at her. "Ummmm..." was all I managed to get out before she hissed, "How long is that skirt?" I glanced down at the skirt brushing my knees. "KNEEL" she sneered. I quickly did as I was told. Disgust flashed across her face, "Just as I thought, it barely reaches the floor".

Scissors seemed to grow out of her sleeve as she advanced on me and my breathing all but stopped. The scissors demolished the stitches holding the hem of my skirt, therefore lengthening it by about a quarter of an inch. "No daughter of mine is going to go about dressed like some foreign whore" she announced as if to an audience, before strutting out of the door.

I fingered the edge of my new, longer attire, at a loss to see a discernible difference. It was hard having a tailor as a parent in the Age of Ever-Changing Fashion. I heard the grinding of gears as Jenna manoeuvred the car down the street. I let out a breath and swept my gaze around the kitchen, checking for anything I missed.

Once I was satisfied I put on my flat, buckle-topped shoes and took a step outside the house, savouring the contrast between the warm sun and the chilly air that I breathed. I trudged down the path to the wrought iron gate before grinding to halt, dashing back inside and grabbing my satchel. I then continued my journey, head bowed. I waved and smiled at Alan, the milkman, at the end of the next street before hopping across the road and continuing to the shop, chin back on my chest.

The shop in question was the family business; a formal tailor's bearing the family name. It was dark, foreboding, overpriced, bourgeois and old fashioned, yet still made a fair amount of money by appealing to overpaid, bourgeois and old fashioned people. My work there consisted of cleaning, sucking up to clients, and sucking up to my mother. I was given a small wage, heavily reduced by so-called 'housekeeping contributions' that Jenna awarded herself on my behalf. I don't know why, I did all the housekeeping anyway.

Katie also had a job at the shop, but her far more strenuous labour consisted of turning up when she felt like it, giving an opinion on an item or two, then buggering off to God knows where with an advancement on her wages and my mother's approval. Two things I never received.

I often used to theorise as to why Katie got such drastic preferential treatment, until I came to the conclusion that it's due to the fact that I wasn't really a daughter in my mother's eyes. Katie was planned. James (my younger brother) was planned. She could have the perfect family, one son, one daughter, that would go to university and do well, visit her often when she retired, get married, have kids and start the cycle all over again. But I, ungrateful cow that I am, didn't even have the common courtesy to have my own pregnancy, I just hitched a lift on someone else's, popping out and surprising everyone whilst they fawned over six minute-old Katie, like someone bursting out of an oversized cake at the wrong party.

Ironically that happened at our 14th birthday. We got a lady dressed as a French maid and the local rugby club got Uncle Steven dressed as Paddington Bear.

I liked to think that I could break free of the shadow cast by my fellow female family members, and I often set myself deadlines to do so but I never did. The most recent deadline was my 18th birthday. Three weeks beforehand I decided that, on the day, I was going to quit the shop, tell my mum I was moving out and generally assert myself. The day came and I sat there clutching my new pencil and paintbrush set, watching Katie photograph the rest of the family with her brand new camera, laughing and smiling, like a proper family. The only person that said 'happy birthday' to me as an individual was Alan as I passed him on my way to work that day. Now here I am, four months down the line, in exactly the same position in life that I was at when I was 10. I guess I'm just a coward. Not even real person.

I rounded the corner of the street on which Fitch Bespoke Tailors stood and slowed myself almost to a stop. I took deep breaths and shook out my hands. "Stop it," I breathed to myself, "You know she's worse when you're upset". Finally composed, I continued, wondering why on earth a tailor's would be open so early. Are people really that desperate for cummerbunds?

I took a key from my satchel and entered the shop via the front door. As I passed the counter on my way to the back room I hung the key on a hook beside the till. Passing the large, partitioned-off area where the clothing was actually cut and stitched, I saw my mother, copying someone's measurements from a notepad into a ledger. No greeting or acknowledgment was forthcoming, so I headed into the back room proper, hanging my satchel on a hook and flicking the switches that controlled the lighting throughout the whole shop, bathing everything in a sickly orange light. I sighed (quietly though, I couldn't handle multiple wrath exposures without at least an hour's respite)

I just knew it was going to be a slow day. Hell, a fast day only meant three customers. Thinking ahead, I took the last unread book of the five in my bag and headed to the high stool behind the till, careful not to make the book apparent to my mother. Sitting down, I buried my nose in the History of British Politics 1900-1963.

By the time I raised my head, I had reached 1926 and it was time for lunch. I sidled my way past Jenna's lair and lifted a corned beef sandwich from my satchel. I ate it in the back room, knowing that if I ate at the till, with my luck the first customer of the day would arrive as I took the first bite, putting me in danger of losing a limb to Jenna's razor sharp glare as she spoke to the client. Satisfied, I headed back to the counter, hoping to pick up my book again. No such luck.

The bell jingled, cheerfully letting me know someone had entered. Looking up, I came face to face with four lads in sharp Italian suits and parkas and my happy-customer-greeting-face dropped. Christ, I knew what they were here for and they should leave for their own sake.

The first of the four wandered up to me, his eyes grazing over the various materials on the walls. Taking off his hat he leant on the counter next to it and grinned.

"'Ello love, me and the lads would like the suits taken in a bit, and Kev there would like an extra inner pocket on his jacket" he drawled in South London accent, pointing to who I assume was Kev. Wordlessly, I tried to shoo them out of the door, putting on my best frown and gesturing wildly, all to no avail, confusion obvious on their faces. But then I heard the clunk of heavy scissors being thrown down and my arms snapped to my sides. The four boys seemed to notice the sudden change in my body language and instinctively took a step back, caution replacing the confusion, as if expecting Dracula to waltz out, cape billowing. If only.

Instead Jenna Fitch rounded the corner like a Panzer tank. For a split second the Mods relaxed, and the hatless one even opened his mouth to repeat his request. But then they caught sight of her face, rage in its purest form clouding her features, and they froze in place. She stomped into the main body of the shop, snatching up the hat without looking and paused momentarily in front of them. The calm before the storm.

Jenna Fitch, you see, hated change. She hated Mods, she hated Rockers, she hated foreigners, she hated rock and roll, new cars, new clothes, the loss of the empire, youth freedom, television and music on the radio. Basically anything that wasn't the norm in Britain before the war. These lads were Mods, and they were in trouble just for existing, let alone entering her shop.

Before they knew what was happening they were being beaten out of the shop with their own hat. She was shouting too, but her Scottish accent was thicker than normal and I (and the boys too in all likelihood) could only make out the words 'scum', 'police' and 'high-class establishment'. Once they had flinched their way out of the shop she threw the hat after them and slammed the door. The whole episode took less than 20 seconds and everything was now eerily quiet, the air almost buzzing.

Jenna straightened herself up and checked her hair in the full length mirror before charging back into the back room, throwing me a dirty look that seemed to suggest that I was to blame.

I stood around, unsure what to do for a minute or two before gingerly sitting back down. Jenna's lack of communication was perfectly normal for her, she often went whole weeks without saying anything to me, yet still managing to make me feel small. It would be impressive if it wasn't so vindictive and nasty.

Not one minute had passed and I had just picked up my book before the bloody overly happy bell chimed again and Mr Palmer stood in front of me, leering.

Mr Palmer was a regular of ours; he owned a successful accounting firm, held celebrated candlelit dinner parties, was a member of the golf club and most importantly, (in my view anyway, I had to measure him) looked like he'd eaten a family car. Every time he bought something we made a tidy profit just on the sheer amount of fabric that was needed to cover his girth. He was also a pervert, insisting that I measure him every time, despite the fact that we both had his details in the ledger and that Jenna preferred to take measurements herself, perfectionist that she is. You should've seen the time that Katie and I were both working when he walked in. If his eyes had lit up any more then he would've been in danger of setting his comb-over alight. Men and the twin thing, makes me feel physically ill. Jenna was unperturbed though, she was eager to serve someone so well connected, even if it meant using her daughters in a less than motherly way.

Nevertheless the happy-customer-greeting-face returned, "Hello Mr Palmer, what can we do for you today?" My voice was sickly sweet. He grinned, making his face stretch and look more and more slimy by the second.

"Emily, Emily, Emily, for the last time call me Andrew. Is your mother free? I'd like to go over some ideas with her." he said, sweat pooling beneath his thinning moustache.

"Of course, one moment" I said, turning on my heel and heading to the work room. As I went, I was sure I could feel his eyes sliding over me, making me shudder.

I poked my head round the door and cleared my throat, "Umm Mum? Mr Palmer is here to see you"

Her head snapped up and she soon followed it's lead, practically jogging to the shop floor. Like I said, she wants to butter him up; at home I was constantly reminded that "He owns a Rolls Royce you know".

"Flash car or no, he's still disgusting," I thought, "I hope he chokes on the goose at his next bloody soiree. Who eats goose anyway?" My internal monologue continued with incomprehensible muttering and grumbling as I took my place behind the counter, standing with my hands on my thighs, unconsciously smoothing my skirt again and again whilst Jenna and Mr Palmer, sorry, Andrew, greeted each other with blatantly forced enthusiasm.

The next two hours were a haze of Mr Palmer wheezing and grunting as I measured his chest and sycophantism as Jenna tried to convince him that an ultra tight set of trousers weren't the way to go without just saying "You're fat!"

Finally he slithered his way out of the door with the promise of returning in a few weeks to pick up his purchases. Jenna decided to call it a day thirty minutes after he left and I began the process of shutting up shop. I was just about to switch off the light when I noticed a heavy looking wallet on the counter. I moved over to it and checked inside, only to be confronted by a crumpled photo of Mr Palmer in a Hawaiian shirt, chest exposed; standing next to what may have been an elephant. Possibly his wife. Like I said, they eat a lot of goose.

"What have you got there Emily?" I heard from the doorway.

"Mr Palmer left his wallet Mum, should I put it in the back room?" I said.

She looked thoughtful for a while before shaking her head, an unreadable yet distinctly pleased expression on her face, "No Emily, you can take it back to him now. He'll like that, and we aim to do the best for our customers, don't we dear?" She was full-on grinning now and I felt very uncomfortable. Go to Mr Palmer's house? Alone? I was not liking her plan. Surely she's seen the way he acts around anything with a uterus?

"Besides, you can replace the milk and paper that you ruined earlier. You must still have some money left from last week's wages." The grin was gone, and a stony mask was in its place.

"Great," I thought "If I manage to survive returning the wallet of a randy walrus I have to spend the last of my wages. I was saving up for...well I was saving up. Just in case"

"Come on, get a move on!" She was stood in the street now, waiting for me to go out and lock up. I ran back, flicked off the lights and grabbed the key off the hook as I exited the shop. She tapped her foot whilst I locked the top and bottom locks, before heading to the car when I finished. I stood on the pavement as she slid in. She rolled down the window and quickly asked "Do you remember the way to Andrew's?"

I simply nodded, and she pulled away without so much as a goodbye. I sighed and ran my hands through my hair, noticing that the summer sun had done little to lighten the dark brown locks. I pivoted and headed down the street, away from my home and deeper into London.

I was deep in my thoughts, trying not to depress myself even further and failing, so I was surprised to find myself on the steps to the Palmer household a lot sooner than anticipated. I hesitated, before knocking on the door with the heavy brass knocker. It was then that I realised the door had been mocked up to look like the door of Number 10. "Egotistical much?" I thought, waiting impatiently on the large stone steps. Suddenly the door flew open and the sweating face of Andrew Palmer came into view. His expression went from surprised to smug in the blink of an eye. "Well, well, well, Emily Fitch, here to see little old me," he wheezed. "What does he mean, little?" "How can I help you Emily?"

"Err... well Mr Palmer, umm...my mother sent me here, you left your wallet at the shop and well...I...err...brought it back" I tried a tiny smile at the end, offering his wallet to him and taking a step back. He took the wallet slowly, and he looked at it briefly before looking back at me, all smugness gone. "Why, what did he think I came here for? Unless...ugh no! He didn't...that's just...ugh! He thought I came over for THAT? He's more deluded than I thought. Ugh. I'm going to have nightmares for weeks." Fighting back a fit of retching I waited for him to react so that I could leave.

"Oh...uh...thank you Emily. Do you...uh...want to come in? For a bit?" The glint was back in his eyes, and I hastily informed him of my errands before making an equally hasty retreat down the road. I checked back over my shoulder and saw him watching me down the road. I sped up.

I checked the time on a church that I passed and was pleasantly surprised that it was only a quarter past four. "Plenty of time" I thought as I meandered through the streets. The happiness lasted a measly ten minutes though, when I realised that I was lost.

I rounded a corner and found myself in a wide, busy street, filled with shops, cafes and people. But the majority of the people weren't walking around, instead they were grouped round tables or stood in yet more groups, talking, laughing, drinking and eating. It was then that my ears seemed to catch up with my eyes and I was hit by a wall of music all at once, dozens of styles, all coming from a radio or record player that seemed to be on every table, all on full volume. This place was so alive! We didn't have music much at home, Jenna didn't like it so, through logical deduction, the whole family must surely hate it too.I regained control of my limbs and slowly advanced down the street, examining everyone that passed. There were so many colours and fashion styles that my eyes began to blur; there were Mods leaning on their scooters, comparing shoes, Rockers loudly boasting about their bikes and telling jokes, people with long hair and mismatched clothing that seemed off in a dream world, girls dancing and giggling and then there were massive groups that defied classification, taking all the styles around and sitting them at one table to have fun.

I began to smile, the happiness here was infectious, and there was an extra spring in my step. I didn't want to leave this place. Ever.

I was snatched out my wide eyed reverie however, by a hand roughly grabbing my arm and wrenching me around. I gasped involuntarily and looked at whoever it was hurting me. I found myself inches away from the Mod that my mother had kicked out earlier, he and his friends wore matching grins. I was dragged to the side of the street and he was there again, right in my personal space.

"'Ello again, little one. Your mummy made me look right knob earlier in front of me mates. And just look at what she did to me hat!" He spat, gesturing at the tattered lump of cloth in his other hand. "Two fuckin' quid that cost me! It was Italian! I think that I should take some compensation, don't you!"

I couldn't breathe let alone answer, my eyes wouldn't focus and my head was spinning. I couldn't believe that this was going to happen in broad daylight in such a busy, happy place. I had changed my mind; I DID want to leave this place. Now.

"What's in the bag!" he growled from in front of me, but he suddenly sounded very far away. I began to hyperventilate, eyes flicking to nearby tables, begging them to notice. My bag was ripped away from me, my fingers twitching after it half-heartedly.

Tears pricked in my eyes and I choked. Suddenly a warm arm wrapped around my shoulders and a voice started from behind me.

"PETE, GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY COUSIN!" The soft arm tightened in a protective manner.

"Cous-...what?" I thought. I twisted my neck around and there, protecting me, rescuing me, were the bluest, brightest eyes I'd ever seen.

"Oh."