The lost boy

They say everyone remembers what they were doing on the day in 1963 when President Kennedy was assassinated.

I certainly do. I was 18 and was told I was pregnant. Back then, to be an unmarried mother was utterly shameful.

I had returned to London after being a nanny in Yorkshire. My stepmother didn’t want me at home, so I moved into a flat in Earl’s Court with four other girls. They were a chilly bunch and much older than me, but the rent was low. I was extremely naive and feeling completely alone in the world when I met Brian at a party there. He was in his late 20s and very handsome. I was to find out weeks later that my flatmates dared him to seduce me, finding it funny that I was a virgin.

At the party