I Did Warn Her: A Novel

Prologue

The body lies face down in the water, blonde hair fanning outward. The backs of her arms and legs are visible. Barely, I can make out the glittering silver of her nail varnish.

She’s still wearing the coat. Once red and fluffy, it is now sodden and limp, the collar stained dark with blood. The back of her head must have been sticky and wet with it, because a large area has now dried and become encrusted with the stuff.

Was death instant, or a slow suffering? A struggle to breathe as water gathered in her lungs and drowned her?

It is better this way, no matter how much I wanted to see the life leave her eyes.

Well. We have our confirmation now, don’t we? The bitch is definitely dead.

I did warn her.

Part One

Chapter One

Sasha

I don’t deserve it: the sparkling sea lapping against the pier, the smell of salt and petrol, the freedom that awaits me. I don’t deserve any of it.

But I’m here now, and I’m not looking back.

The name, Ophelia, is the first thing I see, spread across the sixty-meter superyacht in huge letters. White and sleek, the bow sharpens to a point and gives the entire vessel a predatory, sharklike quality. A strip of black across the port side makes the white sparkle, each window placed to maximize aesthetics above all else. Even though there are other boats close by in the marina, they don’t compare. If the name wasn’t displayed so proudly, I’d be sure I was stepping onto the wrong one.

My greatest example of luxury travel is the time I got upgraded to a first-class train ticket back in the UK. I’ve never even flown extended legroom.

How the other half live. Except this is more like the other 0.1 percent.

It’s a baking-hot morning, the sky a clear blue. Even though I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, dragging my suitcase straight from my flight on barely any sleep has meant I’m both exhausted and sweating buckets. Any makeup that was once on has long since melted away. Hopefully, I’m still as presentable as always. Ophelia and I have that in common: I stand out in a crowd too.

Not that I should be thinking about that. My looks are what got me in trouble before.

This is what I need. Something entirely unlike the life I left behind. Even if Dr. Martin did give me the idea to do this in the first place.

For a second I’m back there, the memory hitting like the heat and salty air. It’s that moment. The one I keep trying to forget—I’m crying, holding my hands out, gasping at the blood.

Sasha Quill?

Everything comes back into focus. A woman is standing on the gangplank between the yacht and quay, arms folded.

She’s obscured by the shadow of the boat, so I step forward and offer my hand for her to shake. That’s me.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Eagerness, perhaps? Maybe even for her to be impressed. I’d have thought someone like me would be an asset to a boat like this.

Instead, she merely looks me up and down. I’m Jade. Chief stewardess and your boss. Is it true this is your first charter?

Yes, I say, cringing when she gives a disappointed sigh. But I’m here to make a change, and I’m good with—

To my astonishment, she raises a finger to silence me. I don’t require your life story. We needed someone to fill in on this last charter, and a newbie like you is the best we could get on such short notice. You’re at least aware that your hair should be tied into a neat bun?

I touch my hair, conscious of it hanging in a low ponytail, scraped back more out of necessity due to the heat than anything else. Normally, my hair is my best asset. It has a shininess to it only otherwise achieved in hair adverts. People reach out and run their fingers through it of their own accord, as if they can’t help it, and tell me they wish it was theirs. Yes. I knew that. I thought, because I was arriving when there weren’t any guests—

It’s better to be prepared, isn’t it? Jade says. I haven’t come and greeted you looking like I rolled out of bed, have I?

She hasn’t. It’s at this point, finally, that she steps back and allows me onto the yacht, and I get my first proper look at her.

And now I can see why she wasn’t bowled over by me.

Jade is intimidatingly pretty, and this is coming from someone who rates herself an easy nine out of ten. I think my scales have been off. She’s model tall like I am and looks like one, wispy blonde hair pulled into the most perfect high bun I’ve ever seen, not a single strand out of place, a pen tucked behind her ear. Her figure is incredible, like a dancer’s. She stands with the same poise and posture as one too, shoulders back and chin up as if she could take off at any moment into a spin.

It’s unnerving. We could be sisters.

But Jade doesn’t have the same disconcerted reaction.

At least you’re on time, she concedes, checking her watch. "Even if your overall appearance leaves much to be desired. You’ll see soon enough that sloppy standards won’t cut it on this boat. Leave your suitcase by the entrance. I’ll give you a tour of Ophelia."

Overall appearance leaves much to be desired? I have the desperate urge to check a mirror, but refrain from dipping my fingers into my handbag and focus on trying to make small talk instead.

Bit of an unlucky name, isn’t it? I say, thinking of Hamlet.

It is the owner’s mother’s name. Another thing you’ll learn—keep your mouth shut unless you’ve got something worthwhile to say.

I’m not a stranger to biting, bitchy remarks. I got enough of them in my last job. But at least then the nurses had the sense to whisper behind my back and I wasn’t meant to hear. Jade is direct.

I head through the entrance, stepping over the precipice between land and sea, shoes off at Jade’s command, and take in a marble spiral staircase. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and all around are mirrors and expensive-looking paintings.

Incredible, isn’t it? she says. We won’t be using the toys on this charter, so I won’t bother taking you down into the water garage, but we have several items that the guests enjoy. The Jet Skis, the slide, and we have two sets of inflatables too. One large enough for eight people, the other for five.

It’s wild what being rich affords someone.

We’ll start at the top, Jade pronounces, and we go up two flights, feet sinking into the plush cream carpet. Gorgeous wood banisters snake their way up and around to an open-plan living area. This is the sky lounge. She begins pointing things out, but I’m too dazed by everything to take it in. This whole level is for guest leisure.

The lounge is enormous, sweeping at least a quarter of the length of the boat, light pouring in from windows on either side. A bar sits tucked in one corner, plush stools a grey velvet to match the grey-painted walls. In front is a pool table—designed by Porsche, Jade informs me—and in the corner a grand piano. A huge flat-screen television rests against a metallic pillar, and there are even drinks stored within the sofas, as Jade bends down to demonstrate. In the opposite corner to the bar is a dining area. Outside is a swimming pool, hot tub, and cabin. The cabin, Jade explains, is the sauna.

Of course. Heaven forbid we are on a yacht without a sauna!

Moving back past the stairs reveals a large gym with state-of-the-art equipment I’m not sure even professional athletes could afford. There are iPads hooked up to everything, in case the gorgeous view outside isn’t enough.

There is still one more floor above, but Jade takes us down again, shaking her head. "The owner’s suite is upstairs. No one is allowed there while they aren’t on board. Even I haven’t met them."

She moves swiftly, not giving me a chance to process it all, and brings me to the main salon, where a huge table with twelve chairs takes up most of the room. Another bar area leads out to a terrace, with more dining space.

This is where the guests eat, Jade explains. If the weather is bad, they eat inside. Back across the hall is the galley.

It’s almost as big as the salon, with a huge array of cabinets and appliances. A door at the back must lead to a pantry of some kind, because it swings open and a woman walks through carrying leeks. Her dark hair is pinned into a similar high bun, thick eyebrows her best feature, but she keeps twisting her mouth and making her face pinched as a result.

Yes, Your Majesty? she growls, attention focused on Jade. What could possibly be wrong now?

Jade narrows her eyes. Sasha, this is Runa, the chef. Runa, this is Sasha. She’s our new stewardess. Have you packed away the provisions we brought up?

No, I thought I’d kick them into the sea, one by one. Runa steps forward, dropping the vegetables on the counter, then wraps me in an embrace, kissing both cheeks. I’m not sure if this is a friendly gesture or a territorial one. Jade thinks she is head chef, she explains when she releases me. She thinks she can order me about like you dear little stewardesses.

I chuckle nervously, but neither laugh with me.

Anything to get work done on time, Jade mutters.

Darling, it is not your job to worry about me. Runa’s voice is light, but there’s something about the way she says it that puts me on edge. You are the one who has lost a stewardess and had to replace her. And after what happened last year as well, my, my. Worry about your own role.

Jade folds her arms. Come on, Sasha. You’ll be seeing the galley enough times.

What happened to the stewardess before me? I ask once we leave. The agency said I was lucky to get a position so late. They said they couldn’t give any details.

Nor would I give the agency any details about why I, on the other hand, was even trying so late in the season. I just gave them the same spiel I tried to give Jade: I want a change. I want to see the world. It’s not technically a lie.

It’s just not the whole truth either.

Well, neither can I, Jade snaps. What have I told you about speaking out of turn?

Even when the other nurses turned against me, in their jealousy, they still wouldn’t have dreamed of talking to me this way. Who does she think she is?

We pass by the front entrance again and head down a corridor. These are the guest cabins. You’ll be here a lot. Cleaning, preparing the beds.

The guest rooms are as I expect, an endless array of luxurious white marble bathrooms and king-size beds staring at flat-screen televisions. There are four in total, each in its own style and theme to not look like clones of one another. I can’t help finding this ironic when Jade and I look the same.

Across the lobby (I am never going to remember this layout), where Jade points out an office and even a massage parlor, we come to a short hallway that leads to another row of doors. Someone is heading out as we come in, a man in a deckhand uniform, the red shirt a contrast to all the muted colors.

Is this the new stewardess, then? He’s quite short, but broad-shouldered and smiling, with shining eyes and freckled cheeks. He offers me his hand. Drew. Nice to meet you.

I shake it; his skin is rough, calluses grown in the grooves of his palm. Sasha.

He’s eyeing me appreciatively enough, but again I feel wrong-footed, like I’m missing something.

She can meet you later, Jade says. You’ve got things to be getting on with. I think Chief was looking for you.

Yeah, yeah, on my way. He walks past, but when Jade’s back is turned, looks round at me and pulls a funny face, miming slitting his throat. It makes me grin as widely as he is.

This is the bridge deck, Jade says, with a deep sigh, as if the thirty-second inconvenience has ruined her day. The captain’s quarters are through that door. There is also Chief’s quarters, but she brings us her linen and doesn’t like us going in her room. Which suits me fine, as it’s one less item on the list. And through that door at the end is the bridge, where you’ll speak to the captain.

The captain? I echo, mouth dry, as we head toward the bridge.

Jade knocks on the door. He’s expecting you. I’ll wait here. You can go straight in.

Is he not too busy to see me?

Probably. She sighs again. You’ll have to do. Though really, could you not have freshened up after your flight? I’m about to open my mouth to protest when she carries on. This trip is very important to him. It’s Captain Howard’s last charter. Now, hurry up, I haven’t got all day to be standing around. You haven’t even met the other stewardesses yet.

I haven’t even had the chance to breathe since arriving.

There’s no point arguing with her, though, so I go inside while she impatiently waits outside the door.

You must be Sasha Quill!

Captain Howard Asteridge looks to be in his late fifties. He reminds me of men from the fifties too—very upright, military and old-fashioned, especially in his pristine uniform and hat. But there are wrinkles around his eyes, signs of smiling too much, and he greets me warmly, shaking my hand and clapping me on the back. There’s no lingering touch on my shoulder, no kisses on the cheek just to get close. He’s a consummate professional. He returns to his desk, gathering some papers together—a file on one of the stewardesses (squinting gives me the name Euphemia Brentwood, a name I’m pretty sure should only exist in Victorian novels)—and, catching me staring, quickly puts them all in a drawer.

He’s nothing like Dr. Martin. I can relax somewhat, take in my surroundings.

The bridge, the navigational command center, is impressive. I need to try and remember all the technical terms for everything. The marble theme continues here, sleek grey across the ceiling with dark wooden panels that lead down the walls and showcase the huge windows. A door to the left exits onto the terrace, and I can see a couple more deckhands. Beneath the windows are a row of six screens, each displaying a different tracking system. Two comfortable leather swivel chairs sit behind them.

Interested? Captain Howard asks. There’s lots to keep track of. GPS, engine parameters, communications, observations. It isn’t all serving drinks and looking pretty.

His patronizing tone makes my smile strained. When you’re blonde and beautiful, you’re assumed to be an idiot.

The owner will be pleased with you, he says. Once you’ve cleaned yourself up.

I ignore the implied insult. Will they be on board?

Not this time.

Well, thank you for the job, I say. I’m aware the stewardess I’m replacing had to leave unexpectedly.

The captain shrugs. These things happen. We run a tight ship, as the saying goes. I’m just glad you’re here and the charter can continue as planned.

There’s a knock at the exterior door, and a man wearing the red uniform comes in. He looks as if he’s stepped straight from the pages of a magazine: all muscle, bleached hair, and tanned skin. He towers over us both, even the captain, who must be at least six feet, and winks when he sees me, making me blush. I’ve never seen a man so attractive, not since . . .

You must be the new girl, he says, in the most stereotypical American accent I’ve ever heard. I’m Axel.

Axel? This guy can’t be serious.

Axel is our bosun, the captain says. Axel, this is Sasha, junior stewardess. Why don’t you take her down to the crew mess so she can get settled in?

Jade is waiting for me outside. I open the interior door, but Jade has disappeared.

Axel laughs. As if our chief stew would ever wait around. Let’s go, Junior.

Welcome aboard, Sasha, Captain Howard calls after us as we leave. I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.

Once we’re back out in the corridor, Axel grabs my arm so we’re linked and leans in close while we walk. So who have you seen so far, then? Have you met our chief officer and engineer Melinda yet? he asks. She’s a character. Dying for Captain Howard’s job.

She must be the Chief Jade was referring to. I shake my head. Just Jade, the chef, someone called Drew, and the captain. And now you.

Drew’s met you! Trying to get in there before me, I see.

He was nice, I say.

"Oh, he’s very nice. Be careful with that one."

More like be careful with you, I think.

He insists on carrying my suitcase, which has remained languishing by the front entrance, and I finally get to see where I’ll be sleeping. Axel explains the lowest level of the yacht contains the engine rooms, but the penultimate one is our crew mess.

The decoration budget has run out. Plain white walls and a linoleum floor greet me, with basic cupboards, a couple of small fridges, a microwave, and a sink. Over one wall is a pinboard, covered with various notes and shift patterns. Half of the room is taken up with a Formica table, reminding me of an American diner, and a long bench has been built into the wall. Three women are eating lunch.

I bring you your new stew, girls, Axel says to them. This is Sasha.

They move in eerie unison, three blonde heads turning toward me. Three pairs of eyes, narrowing to take in my every feature. Three mouths, pink and glossy, stretching into easy smiles—or smirks. Three women, and they look exactly the same. Not just the uniform, though that exaggerates it. Crisp white shirts, buttons strained at their chests, cinched at their waists. But also their hair in the same style. Their nails painted the same baby blue. Their actions too, assuming the same inquisitive expressions, straightening their posture (for me or for Axel, I’m not sure), turning in the same way to face me.

When I say they look exactly the same, I mean exactly the same.

And now I know why Jade, why Drew and the captain and Axel, weren’t taken aback at my appearance. Normally I walk into a room and I’m the one being looked at.

I walk into this room and it’s like walking into a house of mirrors.

Because they don’t just all look like each other. They all look like me.

I could handle Jade. It’s a coincidence, but two similar-looking blonde women working on a superyacht? It’s hardly stretching the realms of the imagination.

But five stewardesses? All of us?

We’re identical.

All blonde, all tanned skin, all high cheekbones. Same height, practically the same weight. It’s disorienting. Put us in a lineup and turn us around, and I’m not sure our own mothers could tell us apart.

What’s worse, they can see it in my face: my discomfort, my shock. They’re prepared for this—whatever the hell this is. They knew I would be another one of them. They knew I would be like a lamb fed to the wolves.

And like prey, there’s a primal urge in me to run. Get out. These women feast on me, one by one, wearing the same grin, the same gleeful expression, and I’ve never felt so exposed and unremarkable all at once.

This was meant to be my escape. Getting away from what happened before.

Not another nightmare.

Chapter Two

Jade

The first thing you have to understand is the rules.

I’ve worked on many boats, and all have their own ways of doing things. Some are more relaxed. Some are incredibly strict. I prefer the latter. I like knowing exactly what’s expected of me, and how then to direct the stewardesses I’m in charge of. There’s not an official rulebook, per se, beyond the formal qualifications required and health and safety training. But there is an unofficial one.

Rule Number One: Discretion. What happens on superyachts stays on superyachts (and perhaps a trip to the pharmacist afterward). You walk in with eyes that cannot see and ears that cannot hear. You might have perfectly well-behaved guests. You also might be a unicorn. The odds are about as likely.

Which brings me to Rule Number Two: You don’t have any kind of relationship with guests. No touching, no kissing, certainly no sleeping with. We are staff. We are here to please and cater to their every whim, but not that one. Guests can be very insistent. Very persuasive. I know a stewardess who was offered a nose job and a holiday to a destination of her choosing if she joined a guest in his room for the night.

What if it is the owner of the yacht asking? An A-list celebrity? Well. Perhaps that is a judgment call. Sometimes there are very special guests. But you won’t catch me doing it.

Rule Number Three: Smile, darlings. You’re going to be happy for the entire charter. Whether a guest is yelling at you for daring to bring out the red wine instead of the white, whether a storm is raging, whether you’ve been awake for twenty-five hours straight and you think you’re going to scream, that smile never drops. Your mouth will ache. Its muscles will twitch in agony, begging for a release. But in front of guests, you are charm. You are grace. You are the perfectly amiable personal assistant and no task is too big or too much for you. In fact, you are positively delighted to agree.

I sleep with a mouth guard at night because I grind my teeth so much they’re wearing down, tiny little holes in each molar. During the day I can feel myself gritting my teeth hard to avoid saying something I’ll regret. But you can bet those teeth are bearing a gorgeous grin.

Rule Number Four: The primary comes first. Every guest is important, but the primary is on top, because they’re the one who’s going to tip you at the end of it.

And, of course, Rule Number Five: Be beautiful. Not passable. Not pretty. B-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l with a capital B. Some women are fortunate enough to be born that way, although even with plastic surgery there has to be something to begin with that just needs elevating. You can’t look too manufactured or too fake. Even with all our pristinely applied makeup it has to have a fresh, dewy quality, like you’ve just woken up to a kiss from a prince after one hundred years. Natural. Effortless.

Of course, it is anything but. The uniforms are tailored specifically to our measurements, meaning it is wise to add an inch all round for some space to breathe. White shirt, washed and ironed every morning, buttons just high enough to avoid flashing our bras but low enough to show our cleavage to its maximum potential. Epaulettes on the shoulders depicting rank. Thin black tights that show off our legs more than hide them. No shoes allowed, so even though we wear tights our feet must be immaculate. Clean, no bunions or dry skin, nails trimmed and painted a bright color so guests can see our toes if they peer closely enough (and if they’re making the effort to do that, there’s a reason). Skirt so short it just covers us decently, meaning we have to bend awkwardly with a straight back to fetch something that has fallen on the floor. Hair pulled into a tight bun, stud earrings in each ear. No visible tattoos. False eyelashes. Pale pink lipstick with a gloss over the top. No glasses—contact lenses only. Physically fit, but not too muscular. Soft. Approachable.

And then, even with all this, you must fit the particular yacht’s requirements. On this yacht, beautiful means one thing only: tall, slender blondes with big breasts and plump, pouty mouths that beg for a smooch. Beg for, but never receive. No touching, remember? Rule Number Two.

Sasha, it seems, is just discovering she no longer stands out from the crowd. I enter the crew mess carrying sheets that should have been dealt with hours ago and discover her staring, appalled, at the other three stewardesses, who are by contrast finding her reaction rather amusing. Axel is between them, oblivious as ever to the atmosphere in the room. I think I am the only woman immune to his charms; I overheard him call me Miss Trunchbull once and that turned me off for good.

Euphemia, seated on the left, rolls her eyes. What a surprise. Another blonde.

Imogen points her fork, lettuce leaf dangling, at Axel. You’ve been avoiding me all day.

Axel shrugs. I’ll see you tonight, won’t I? He turns to Sasha. We’re all heading out for a meal and drink before the last charter tomorrow. It’s mandatory that you attend.

Of course he’s trying to get with Sasha already. She’s pathetically thrilled too, enjoying being squeezed into a hug as Imogen stares daggers at her. She’s picked the wrong enemy to make there.

Axel is Captain Howard’s favorite. Scratch that, he is everyone’s favorite. The man can clear his throat and the captain will proclaim it genius while my stewardesses swoon. The other day I suggested changing how they organize the life jackets. Axel added a small point about what tool to use to hang them, and not ten minutes later Captain Howard was announcing an innovative new strategy by the bosun that he was going to implement. Axel got his job as he knew Captain Howard before—pure nepotism. Meanwhile I spent four years at university studying international relations with specialisms in Mandarin and Russian. I lived in China and Russia, learning Italian on the side, and then worked as a stewardess on yachts for years before joining this one, taking courses in medical training, computer science, accounting, and etiquette along the way so I’d be the best of the best. I’m at the top of my game and Captain Howard still calls me sweetheart and thinks my grandest achievement is how well I can make a porn-star martini.

Thank goodness for our Hollywood-hero-can-do-no-wrong bosun. The yacht would truly fall apart without him.

Still. At least Captain Howard hired me again after what happened last year. I was terrified he wouldn’t, even after all I’ve done for him. But he said as long as I kept quiet about it things could go back to normal.

Prick, Imogen says as Axel heads back up the stairs. She turns to Sasha. You seem to have made yourself comfortable already. Not even opened your suitcase yet and you’re ready to open your legs.

Typical Imogen diatribe. Sasha’s face falls.

Imogen, I snap. Euphemia and Lola, on either side of her, can’t hide their smiles.

My stewardesses—infuriating at the best of times. Euphemia, second stewardess, only in this position because she fluttered her stupidly long eyelashes at the captain and has modeled in the past. She prefers to be called Effie; that’s not my problem. Let me be clear: I could have been a model, but I’d never empty my brain with something so vapid. Euphemia is definitely after my job. She can’t stand me. And if I were anything but a professional, I’d admit I can’t stand her either. Imogen, third stewardess, unfriendly to the core but at least she’s useful as she can speak French. Shame about her Geordie twang and resting bitch face. And then Lola, fourth stewardess, too young to take seriously and a tragic drip of a thing, constantly coming to me with issues about the other two that could be settled by her developing a spine.

What will Sasha be like? She’s not as young as Lola, thankfully, but seems equally as stupid. Her CV said she was a nurse, which I find hard to believe. Why on earth is she here if that’s the case?

I focus my venom on her first. There you are, Sasha. I was beginning to think you’d got lost. Why didn’t you wait for me by the bridge? She opens her mouth to reply, but I look past her. And ladies, why were these sheets left in a pile upstairs and not brought straight down? They could have been washing while you were eating your lunch. Oh, before I forget. I reach behind and detach a radio from my belt, handing it to Sasha. Your radio. It’s already switched on. Please respond any and every time I call you. You’ve met the other stewardesses? Euphemia is the second stew, Imogen the third, and Lola the fourth. You listen to them in that order.

Wait—Euphemia is . . . who is who? We all look the same.

Like cards in a pack. Imogen grins. Some better than others.

Is that some insecurity I see behind the new girl’s eyes, as they flick from one of us to the other? No doubt she’s trying to compare, weigh us up, make some kind of judgment that means she still comes out on top. I remember my first day as a stewardess. I’d lived my whole life being told how beautiful I was, and all of a sudden there I was on a boat with other gorgeous women.

But this yacht is particular in its tastes. Where before you could rationalize it with oh, she’s a redhead, she’s curvier, therefore different enough from me—this is a direct contest. We’re all beautiful in the same way. So who’s the best?

One thing you don’t want to do is tell a woman she’s stunning her whole life then stick her with a bunch of women who look like the upgraded version. That will never do for her self-esteem.

Nor for building friendships.

I’m used to it now. Though I did ask Captain Howard if the owner’s tastes had changed at all after what happened last season and was told no. It wasn’t great meeting Euphemia, Imogen, Zara, and Lola and seeing her in each of their faces. And now Sasha probably looks like her most of all.

If I’m being strictly truthful, Euphemia is probably the best-looking. Not that I’d ever let her know that. The first time I met her I made sure to give her whitening toothpaste and a pair of tweezers and said in warm tones, You’ll be sorted soon enough.

I’m old, by stewardess standards. Thirty-three, soon to be thirty-four. I lie about my age to guests. I have frown lines between my brows and around my mouth, and no amount of coverage will hide them. I’ve never wanted to admit I might need Botox, but I think it could be time if I want to stay in this industry. Sometimes I look at Lola with her youthful, rounded cheeks and want to tear them from her face to add to my own.

The owner likes us this way, I explain to Sasha now, as though it’s not bizarre at all to conform to the beauty standard of someone we’ve never met.

As ridiculous as it is, Euphemia mutters. Isn’t variety the spice of life and all that?

Not on this boat, Imogen says. Identical quintuplets only.

Sasha shakes her head in disbelief. "But—we’re so similar. It’s not just like we’re all blonde. It’s everything. Is it not . . . strange?"

Oh, definitely, Imogen says. "When we all look the same, it’s easy to think certain men might be interested in you too