Lara tripped, sending two glasses flying and right into her manager, Brian.

‘Jesus Christ!’ he spluttered, under his breath but just loud enough for her to hear. ‘Clumsy bitch.’

‘Sorry!’ She grimaced, flinging the silver cocktail tray down on the counter and crouching behind the bar to pick up the pieces. Lara’s teeth were gritted as Shirley appeared behind her. Picking up Lara’s tray from the bar, the curvaceous blonde arched her eyebrow.

Lara had never tripped in her life before starting work here. She had a straight back and an elegant demeanour, drummed into her by being made to walk with books on her head by nuns in deportment classes. All the girls commented that ‘Irish’ glided more than walked. Lara had always been very steady on her feet, even in heels. She could have sworn somebody had deliberately tripped her up, and it didn’t take much imagination to figure out who that was.

‘Oops-a-daisy, Irish! I’ll tidy this up for you shall I?’

This was Lara’s third ‘dropped’ tray in as many shifts. Ethel had been shamelessly sabotaging her all week, sticking out her foot at any chance she had to trip Lara up. At first, Lara thought the cheap, black stilettoes that they had to wear as part of the uniform were to blame, catching on cigarette burn holes in the worn carpet. But, as Ethel sashayed away to take another order, her full bottom wriggling perfectly in the all-in-one kitty costume of Chevrons and the stupid, cheap pink fur tail swaying just as it should be, Lara knew, without a doubt, that it was her. Later that shift, after Ethel had gone home, one of the younger girls turned to her.

‘I see Ethel had you again earlier?’

Lara’s anger rose.

‘If that bitch trips me up one more time,’ she said, ‘I swear, I’ll pull that tail and fling her out of the window by it!’

Ethel was close with Shirley (the waitress’s manager), practically her right-hand woman, and did not like Lara for any other reason than she was Irish. It certainly wasn’t jealousy. Lara was taller than all the other girls, hair recently cut into an asymmetric bob she knew she cut a rather manly figure next to her small, curvaceous workmates.

The younger waitresses were sweet, but they were all afraid of both Ethel and Shirley. Nonetheless they decided to fill Lara in.

‘Ethel finks you’re uppity.’

‘And she says that the Irish ain’t got no right to be uppity because they’re… you know?’

‘Irish?’

‘Bogtrotters. A bit fick.’

‘My dad’s Irish and he’s really fick,’ said one of them, trying to console her.

‘Not saying you’re fick, like, it’s just, you know… the Irish? Anyway, Effil can be a bit of a bully sometimes.’

‘Don’t take no notice of her. She’ll calm dan once she knows she can’t hurt ya.’

Their prejudice was shocking but not entirely unexpected. Lara was what her parents rather loftily described as Educated Irish. Despite the derogatory ‘Irish’ brush the girls swept her with, Lara thought they were probably only picking up on what was there. Lara had to admit to herself that maybe she was a bit uppity. She did consider herself a cut above Ethel and Shirley, with their coarse language and outdated bleached blonde bouffants. The younger ones weren’t being cruel, they were just young and indiscreet and, probably, in their own words, a bit fick.

Many times, over the past ten days, Lara thought about leaving. Perhaps she could have another go at the boutiques, or even waitressing in Fred’s cafe. That would be easier work than this. Her hands were already scratched from picking up broken glass from dropped trays, and her bottom was pinched red raw from ‘fruity’ customers. However, when Shirley realised she was straight off the boat, she had let Lara stay in the flat over the club.

‘That’s very decent of you,’ Lara said, impressed by the kindness.

But Shirley had given her a withering look. ‘I’m not being decent – I’m just desperate. Make sure you do a good job. You lose the job, you lose the bed.’

The flat was as close to derelict as it could be, but it was also large, way too big for one person, in fact. There were three bedrooms off a large living area with a small kitchenette through a counter arch. The kitchen had a sink and a small gas stove that the last tenant had obviously never cleaned. It looked like somebody had died in the place and the bed was damp and smelly, but Lara had it all to herself. That first night, exhausted though she was, Lara took the carpet up in the biggest of the bedrooms. It had six-foot-tall windows and looked out onto World’s End and Fred’s cafe. The light was perfect and the buzz of the city outside would give Lara just the atmosphere she needed to be creative. After her first shift in the club she gathered odds and ends of furniture from the rest of the flat, and propped an unhinged bedroom door over the top of two chairs, turning it into a cutting table. With the kitchen table commandeered for her sewing machine, Lara frantically began drawing. Over the following few days she had already almost covered the mouldy walls in swatches of fabric and sketches. With the urgent desire to create, Lara had turned the space into a working studio any designer would want within her first week in London. She spent every penny she earned from her first weekend on fabrics, patterns and haberdashery. She was determined to get her first collection started as soon as possible. How she was going to sell it and who she was going to sell it to, were questions that she must ask herself later. When her time came, Lara wanted to be ready. If she left, or lost her job in Chevrons, she would have to leave the makeshift studio and who knew when she would find a place that could accommodate her work this well again? So she would put up with Ethel’s bullying and Shirley’s bitchiness for the sake of her future collection. After all, it really was a very small price to pay.

Cocktail waitressing in a gangster nightclub was not exactly Lara’s style, but then, neither had been dropping out of college and leaving the life she had so carefully built. The running away had certainly worked. Lara had been so busy surviving Chevrons and using every spare moment to pursue her dreams, that she had barely remembered the broken heart that brought her here in the first place.

‘Shit! It ripped again!’

Flossy, a pretty, plump girl was pulling on her kitty costume, when she felt a tear along the buttock seam. Tears were threatening to spill when Lara whipped a black needle and thread out of her cosmetic bag.

‘Give it to me,’ she said.

Flossy began to peel the costume off, wailing. ‘It keeps ripping.’

‘What do you expect if you keep eating dinners in Fred’s the middle of the day?’ one of the girls snapped.

‘Dinner…’ another sighed wistfully. ‘I ain’t eaten a proper dinner in six months.’

‘Roast chicken and gravy…’ another one said.

‘Stop it,’ another chimed in. ‘This is my third costume this year. I worked a full week last month ’cos it tore right along the side seam.’

‘I hate these stupid cat costumes. I’m on a permanent diet just to stay in the wretched thing.’

‘They’re too tight.’

‘There’s no give in them.’

‘And they itch like hell. I wish they’d change them.’

‘Shirley picked them out.’ One of the older girls frowned.

‘She doesn’t have to wear it.’

‘But she likes them, there’s no way she’s gonna change them.’

Lara fingered the cheap fabric. They were cheap – nylon – and completely impractical. They didn’t do the girls any favours either.

‘I’ll design you something,’ she said.

The girls went silent.

‘No, really, I will. I know about clothes. I’ve studied fashion. Leave it to me.’

All of them continued to eye her in silence. They were young, they didn’t understand. Shirley might be a bitch but she was also a manager, Lara reasoned to herself, a working woman. Surely, she would understand the benefit to her business in having the girls wearing uniforms they were happy with.

So, when her shift was over, Lara went in search of her boss. She found her in the back office, behind the bar, smoking with Brian, the bar manager.

‘May I have a word please, Shirley?’

Shirley ignored her but when Lara hovered beside her instead of going away, she stubbed out her cigarette and rolled her eyes.

‘What is it?’

‘I was wondering if I might have a word with you about the uniforms.’

Shirley smirked. ‘No, you may not. In fact, I wanted to have a word with you. I believe you dropped another tray earlier?’

‘Ah, yes. I’m sorry but…’ Lara trailed off. There was no sense in explaining that Ethel had tripped her. ‘I’m happy to pay for the glasses out of my wages.’

‘Oh really?’ Shirley was losing patience already. Lara needed to steer the conversation back to where she wanted.

‘It’s just that I was talking to some of the girls earlier and they’re not happy with the uniform.’

‘Which girls?’

Oh God. She didn’t want to get them into trouble.

‘Well, um, me. I’m not happy with the uniform.’ Shirley was glaring at her now. Lara needed to get it all out, explain herself as quickly as possible. ‘I’m a dress designer and I was wondering if I made up a few designs you might consider—’

‘No,’ Shirley said. ‘And if you drop one more tray you’re out by the end of the week.’

Lara took a deep breath.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She left quickly before her mouth got the better of her.

It was dawn outside; everything was closed up. Lara went back up to the flat but she was too furious to sleep. She took out her sketchpad but all she could think about designing were new waitress costumes for Chevrons. Once she got a creative idea in her head, she could not rest until it was out. Her head was a mash of ideas straining to come out. But what was the point? Shirley had made it quite clear she would not even consider looking at them. In fact, Lara didn’t even want to show them to her now. The worst thing she could do was give the woman another opportunity to undermine her. Frustrated, Lara paced about the flat until the sun rose and Fred’s cafe, across the road, opened for breakfast. Lara was hungry and, having not yet got the kitchen in the flat into a fit state to prepare food, had been eating nearly all of her meals in Fred’s.

Throwing a cardigan on over her shift dress, she made it just before the rain started. She was about to sit down when she realised that a beautiful girl with long auburn hair and pale, pale skin was sitting in her usual spot. She had to be Irish. Sad and lost, she reminded Lara of herself, just a couple of weeks ago when she was fresh off the boat, running from heartache and humiliation. The raw pain revisited her in the girl’s face. It had been the loneliest Lara had felt in her life and yet, less than a fortnight later, she was busy in her new life. The last thing Lara needed was somebody else’s problems but, instead of walking away, she found herself walking over and touching the seat opposite. The girl nodded, so Lara sat down.

‘You Irish?’ she asked.

The girl looked slightly panicked.

‘The red hair and milk-bottle skin.’ Lara smiled, shrugging off her cardigan to show her own pale arm. The girl nodded, obviously relieved. They introduced themselves and ordered breakfast. Straight away, it was clear they liked each other, agreeing with one another that Irish sausages were better than English ones. Annie had a refined accent – middle class – like somebody who had been to elocution lessons. Lara couldn’t place her county in Ireland and when Annie didn’t offer the information, she didn’t ask. Like herself, Annie was obviously running from something. She didn’t want to talk about what had brought Annie to London any more than she wanted to talk about why she was here herself. Lara had come to London seeking anonymity and found it – so it was her duty to help Annie find it too. They were both running and that was all they needed to know about each other. Ireland was in the past – today was where it was at. They were London girls now, part of the new, modern generation. They were the ‘now’ people. Coming from nowhere but going everywhere, never looking back.

Their breakfasts arrived and as Lara buttered the mountain of white toast in front of her, she felt, for a moment, as if she was back home at her mother’s kitchen table.

‘Is this your first time in England?’

‘Yes.’ Annie, despite being as thin as a whip, was stuffing the food down as if she hadn’t eaten for days. Lara liked that.

‘Me too, I’ve only been here a couple of weeks.’

‘You seem like you’ve been here for ages,’ Annie said. Then added shyly, ‘You look like a London girl.’

Lara was flattered but demurred, ‘Well, the girls in work don’t think so. They nicknamed me “Irish”.’

‘That’s not very nice,’ Annie said.

‘They’re not very nice,’ Lara said. ‘At least, one of them isn’t. Ethel is a dreadful cow. Keeps tripping me up. Some of the others are OK, but the English are different to us. Harder. Straight to the point.’

Annie looked slightly alarmed.

‘Oh I don’t want to put you off… it’s great here, really.’

Annie smiled, self-consciously, though she hadn’t smiled in that natural ordinary way for quite a long time.

‘Don’t worry, I don’t scare easily. I’m not as delicate as I look.’

Lara thought she liked this girl very much indeed. She hadn’t realised how lonely she had been, surrounded only by English girls that she had nothing in common with.

‘Where do you work?’

‘In a nightclub – well, it’s a sort of joint you could call it.’

‘Sounds like fun.’

‘Hmmm – sometimes. But most of the time it’s just very hard work in a short skirt.’

‘Tell me about it, will you?’ Annie said, refilling their teacups.

Lara confided in her new friend about all her problems in the club and Annie drank in every word of her story. Annie was happy to have something else to focus on bar her own, sordid reasons for being here. Getting involved in Lara’s life felt like a relief.

‘If this Shirley won’t listen to you maybe you should go to her boss?’ Annie suggested. Lara considered it, then agreed. It was a good idea. Lara liked this girl. And talking to her about work, she realised she needed a friend.

‘Have you got a job yet, Annie?’

Annie shook her head.

‘A place to stay?’

The beautiful green eyes began to fill with tears and Annie tried to apologise, hastily wiping them away. Lara knew the feeling.

‘Why don’t you come back and stay with me? It’s not much. In fact it’s a horrible place, virtually derelict. But it’s home. Actually, it’s not even that, not yet. I’ve only been there less than two weeks myself but it’s a place to stay and you’re very welcome.’

Annie did start crying fully then. Lara, tired and emotional could not steel herself, and joined her, until the two of them started laughing.

As soon as Annie got into the flat she went straight to the kitchen and started cleaning.

‘Leave that!’ Lara said, embarrassed.

But Annie had already located a filthy cloth, a scrubbing brush and a tin of Ajax under the kitchen sink.

‘Tell you what, I’ll leave this kitchen as soon as you have some uniform designs drawn up for that club of yours.’

Lara smiled and wrinkled her nose.

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ said Annie.

‘You think I should?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Right. I will!’

In that small, certain exchange with a girl she had just met, Lara got a warm feeling in her heart that she thought might be happiness.