Lara Collins looked around her shop. Her shop. It was the opening of That Girl, the Kings Road’s latest and, she hoped, hippest fashion boutique. People would be arriving in less than an hour and everything had to be perfect.

Hip-skimming miniskirts in brightly coloured leatherette were arranged on a pegboard display at the door, pages torn from Vogue magazine scattered between them. In front were rails, neatly hung with her designs – brightly coloured floral and sexy baby-doll micro dresses. There were a dozen pairs of white and yellow ankle boots that she had to have shipped over from Italy, and a long wooden table piled with candy coloured twinsets and jazzy hand-printed silk scarves neatly folded into their necklines. On another rail she had set up twenty see-through plastic mac coats which had a customised That Girl logo emblazoned across the back.

Lara felt confident that her relationship with Coleman was on firm, business grounds. In providing backing for this Kings Road boutique venture, he was her business partner. The deal worked both ways. Coleman was not a fool who would give money to a girl because he fancied her. Lara knew he felt he was lucky to have her to run this business for him. She had brought the fashion crowd into his club. The designers, photographers and models had given Chevrons the kind of clean, glamorous image that its grubby gangster notoriety needed. Now Coleman was going to make plenty of money out of her shop with his and Chevron’s 70 per cent cut. Lara had been delighted with the offer at the time, but now that the novelty had worn off and after a few months of putting in such gruelling work, it was beginning to smart that two men who had contributed, essentially, nothing (except money) owned such a big part of That Girl. Regardless of that, it was still her shop. Right now, her pipe dream was finally becoming a reality. And dreams, she was discovering, lost their soft edges when reality hit.

Lara’s large eyes narrowed in concentration as they ran across every inch of the freshly polished linoleum floor, checking for stray sleeves, dropped hangers or fallen labels. Everything was riding on the next few hours. The broken heart she had left behind in Ireland, the promise she had made to herself never to fall so hard or to love like that again – led her to this moment. Everything had to be perfect.

Lara walked to the back of the shop, where she had hung up a selection of exquisite bouclé suits in shades of candy pink and green. While she was confident that her groovy, eye-catching window display would bring customers in the door it was also important that the more sedate, conventional women were catered for. Not all women wanted to show off their bodies or be so overtly mod, and having been raised an Irish Catholic, she understood that better than anyone. Some women wanted to be Jackie Kennedy. She had decided that some of the shop should reflect that vibe, and so the dressing room was deliberately old-fashioned in a lavish Hollywood style, with gilt mirrors, silk curtains and chaise longues. It was deliberately anti-unisex hip.

The sixties had heralded a trend in fashion which allowed women to show off their bodies. They were no longer expected to look demure and sophisticated, but could be young, sexy and free. Lara enjoyed the freedom that gave her as a designer but she also saw a harsher side emerging through Chevrons. While the waitresses enjoyed wearing the short sexy costumes she had designed, they were no less susceptible to the gropes and leering of the men. If anything, short skirts were giving a certain type of man permission to take any girl he fancied. Unisex boutiques were currently all the rage, and with so many tailors in the area it would have made sense to go down that route. But Lara wanted That Girl to be a place of glamorous refuge as well as an up-to-date boutique. A place where women, whether they were confident or shy, could enjoy dressing up and being ‘That Girl’ without men looking at them.

Lara moved across to a rail of her trademark miniskirts and, for the hundredth time, carefully adjusted the last hanger, checking it was exactly three finger widths apart from the one either side. As she did she spotted an infinitesimal thread from the edge of a cotton label and yanked it away. The labels had been a week late, only arriving in the workroom late yesterday afternoon. She had cut them off the roll herself and stayed up all night sewing them onto every item. Her fingers were calloused and pin-pricked to ribbons. But it had been worth it. Her brand. Her label. ‘That Girl’ it read, in flowery, italic script.

She smiled to herself. Soon, every fashionable hipster in London would be wearing a That Girl mini. She was sure of it.

She was still shocked that she had pulled it off. A girl from Cork city, who had arrived in London with nothing but broken dreams and a sewing machine. She had made it, although, admittedly, Coleman had more than helped. Still, fashion was big business these days and he would get his cut back in no time.

‘Why don’t you call it Lara Collins Ladies’ Fashions?’ he had asked her.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she had laughed.

Coleman flinched. He didn’t like it when she stood up to him like that, but then, Lara believed, that was the only way to be treated with respect by these English tough guys. You had to put them in their place. Besides, while she dressed all the It girls in Chelsea, Lara did not want to be one herself. She was an artist, a fashion designer and now, with her own shop, a business woman.

She rearranged the price tags making sure that they were all facing outwards. £23.60. Was it too much? Everyone would be coming to this opening. Ladies from the club, models, photographers – all the fun fashion crowd she had brought to the club. Bobby Chevron would also bring the Fleet Street press in full force – hopefully a couple of fashion editors too.

She walked past the refreshments table, laden with pineapple, cheese nibbles, stuffed celery sticks and bottles of Mateus rosé, with a pyramid of TAB cans for the figure conscious. Her flatmate, Annie, had played a blinder. At least the food was a guaranteed success.

Lara walked over to the back wall. It was painted with a huge mural of semi-nude models dancing in silhouette. It was well done and a very up-to-the-minute image but for some reason, it just did not sit right with Lara. It wasn’t a proper representation of what she was trying to do with her designs. The creative part of her was so irritated by it that she actually thought of cancelling the whole event for a split second, locking the doors on everyone and starting again. But that was impossible.

‘I hate that image,’ she said to Annie, who had appeared behind her.

Annie was always as quiet as a mouse. You never heard her come into a room. In the past few months Lara had come to look on Annie as the sister she never had. Annie had created a beautiful home for them both and encouraged Lara in her fashion endeavours in a way that was selfless and sweet. Nonetheless, Lara understood why everybody else found Annie a bit odd. She was old-fashioned, secretive. Demure to the point of nunnish. Despite having the slim figure of a fashion model, she favoured frumpy, old-fashioned clothes that covered her up. She was happier in her grubby fry cook’s work tabard than any of the minidresses Lara was always trying to persuade her into.

Annie had come to the opening straight from work, through the tradesman’s entrance at the back, placing two trays of Fred’s mushroom vol-au-vents down on the refreshments table near the entrance before joining her friend.

‘I like it,’ disagreed Annie, gazing up at the dancing silhouettes.

‘You like everything.’

‘That sounds like an insult more than a compliment.’

‘It is! You’re far too nice. You should be more discerning.’

‘We can’t all be artistic and brilliant like you, Lara. Some of us have to be content with duller activities, like cooking.’

‘Alright, alright. You win. I’ll shut up about you having a career and you keep cooking my dinners.’

Annie laughed. She didn’t have confidence in many things about herself but she knew that she was one hell of a cook. Since coming to London, Annie’s cooking portfolio had expanded from traditional French and now included exotic food like curries and pasta.

‘What do you want me to wear?’

Lara looked at her, blank, before remembering that she had asked Annie to model for her that evening. Annie had such a fantastic figure – tall and slender and very much the look of the day. The problem was that she didn’t do anything with herself and had no interest in clothes and fashion. Annie’s passion was cooking and what she called homemaking. Lara continuously tried to shake her out of her old-fashioned attitude, trying to convince her that modern women didn’t cook. Although she also had to admit that it was nice living with somebody who kept the place spotless and cooked delicious meals for her.

In any case, despite having a good face and figure Annie’s personality was so awkward and shy that Lara knew she would make a dreadful model. For that reason she had already booked three smashing girls to model for the opening party. They would get paid in dresses and were currently doing their hair and makeup in a local hair salon. In the midst of the craziness over the past few days she had completely forgotten that she had asked Annie to model for her. After all it had been in a throwaway panic a couple of weeks ago.

Annie, however, had not forgotten. She had been terrified at the prospect but Lara had been so kind to her and she was prepared to make the sacrifice for her friend. She owed her that. In fact, she owed her a lot more. No amount of cooking and cleaning could ever repay Lara for the friendship she had extended to her. She had taken her into her home, got her a job and treated her with such kindness – with no questions asked.

So Annie stood expectantly while Lara felt a pang of guilt at having forgotten her offer.

‘Put this on,’ she said, grabbing a bouclé suit from a nearby rail. Annie rummaged in her bag for some lipstick and Lara stiffened. With horror she realised that in the flurry of preparing the shop to perfection, she had not done the same for herself. She looked up at the large clock above the front counter – it was time! The models would be coming up the steps to the door any second, and the press would be right behind them.

She grabbed another jacket from one of the bouclé suits for herself, throwing it over her pedal pushers and sweater, quickly shaking her freshly bobbed hair into place. Then she ran to the door to open it for her first guests.

Annie watched from the dressing room, wondering at the confidence and capability of her beloved friend. Thankfully, nothing more seemed to be expected of her than to wear this lovely suit and stay in the background.

The launch went better than Lara could possibly have expected. The place was thronged with people, the models looked great and she could hear the till pinging as That Girl bags went flying out the door. For the first half hour Lara was so happy with the response and the crowd that she could not stop smiling. But as more and more people arrived she started to worry that they would run out of food – and clothes! A vague panic began to wash through her smile. She had already run out of cigarettes and now needed a drink as well. She had seen Annie passing around refreshments five minutes earlier, but she couldn’t spot her, likely hiding somewhere in the background as usual. Although it was her party, Lara suddenly started to feel alone in the big crowd. This was her night, but at the same time, it was all on her head. It was somewhat overwhelming, and there was nobody there to share that with. Of course, she and Annie would talk about it later but it wasn’t the same as having somebody there to share the moment itself. Whenever she felt alone in London, Lara’s thoughts wandered in only one direction… home. And to only one person. Matthew. ‘I love God more than I love you.’ What did that even mean? Not just pain. Rage.

But, no. Not now. This was not the time or the place for her fury at Matthew to surface. She took a deep breath, shook her head and brushed the thought aside. She would not let the past ruin her big night. She was a different person now. She had a different, better life.

Lara looked around for Coleman but he was nowhere to be seen. What kind of a useless business partner was he? He always had cigarettes on him and she was the hostess and couldn’t be seen getting her own drinks. She should have hired two more waiters. It was stupid to think Annie would be able to handle all this without more help.

As she moved towards the door, Lara noticed that the front two rails, the ones featuring her signature baby-doll dresses, were already empty.

One of them was in the bag of the woman walking towards her. With dawning fear Lara saw it was Penelope Podmore, Women’s Editor of the Daily Mail, and terror of the London fashion scene.

‘I love your work.’ Penelope Podmore held out her hand, cooing at Lara.

She was intimidating, an elegant woman well into her forties, whose weekly fashion column could make or break a designer. She had a photographer with her. A small, wiry man whose camera looked like it was weighing him down.

‘Alex is from our newsroom,’ she said with great disdain. The small man smiled at Lara and shrugged apologetically. ‘He has been going around taking shots of the models for our weekly page – but we’d like to get a picture of you as well.’

‘Of course,’ Lara said, nodding and smiling as best as she could manage. She was terrified. Utterly overawed. A picture for Penelope Podmore’s page! Was she even wearing lipstick?

‘Just let me call one of the models over to stand with me.’ Lara quickly looked around the room for Annie. She was wearing one of the pink suits – she would be perfect.

As Alex fiddled with his camera, loading film and making a great fuss of checking the lens, Penelope lit a cigarette and smoked, seemingly bored waiting.

‘I love the name – That Girl. But who is she exactly? There are a few rumours flying around about this place. About where exactly that Irish girl got the money to open a big shop like this on the Kings Road?’

Lara was only half listening, her eyes frantically scanning the room. Where was Annie? Had she gone out for more food? Lara’s eyes moved across the shop, her head craning through the crowds, then – stopping dead at the door in a sudden shock.

‘Is there a rich Paddy daddy? Or, my editor wants to know if Bobby Chevron himself is behind the whole thing?’

Penelope’s words receded into background babble. Lara didn’t hear a word. Standing at the door of That Girl, suitcase at her flat feet, plump legs poking out from the bottom of a worn, brown coat, looking around her in awed wonder was Noreen Lyons. Matthew’s twin sister.