Shirley was not impressed when Irish brought in the new waitress costumes for them all to try on. On the pink velvet dressing room chair was what looked like a pile of nurse uniforms – cotton fabric with a pink and brown check running through it – like something you might find on a man’s jacket. She couldn’t really see how this Irish girl was going to produce something sexy enough to keep them all happy. But Shirley had agreed with Coleman that she would give Lara a chance. Besides, the old uniforms were looking shabby and the girls were constantly complaining.

Standing now in front of the mirror, she had to admit Irish had done a good job. Even though Shirley was an old-fashioned girl, with bouffants, pencil skirts and stilettoes, she could see that she actually looked cool. And she liked it.

The skirt was A-line and so short that it barely skimmed her buttock cheeks. At the same time, miraculously, you could not see her panties, no matter which way she moved in it, they remained hidden beneath the artfully tailored hem. The sleeves were to the elbow and were loose enough around the top to give plenty of movement. The neck had a round lace collar that gave an old-fashioned feminine touch to an otherwise thoroughly modern outfit. The dress was London cool. And every girl, even kitty-costume waitresses, wanted to look cool these days. It was also extremely comfortable, going in and out in all the right places and somehow, making Shirley’s figure do the same.

Lara watched with bated breath as Shirley rubbed the fabric on her sleeve between finger and thumb.

‘It’s treated cotton,’ she explained. ‘It’s not completely waterproof but it will repel drinks and small spills. If you get to it quickly enough it won’t stain.’

‘Black doesn’t stain at all,’ Shirley said. ‘I thought we were sticking with a dark colour.’

Lara wanted to tell her to get off her high horse, but didn’t dare. She needed Shirley’s approval to get these uniforms.

‘Oh come on Shirl,’ said Ethel, ‘don’t be so miserable.’ When Shirley glared at her, the sidekick quickly added, ‘You look gorgeous. Your legs go on forever.’

Shirley, despite herself, had to admit that whatever miracle Irish had worked with her cutting design, this plain-looking baby-doll was an absolute dream to wear. Reluctantly, she nodded her approval at the pile and the waitresses dived in, pulling off blouses and skirts, stripping down to their panties with the uninhibited speed of strippers.

Five minutes later Lara was looking at seven young women of various shapes and sizes each wearing her design.

‘You look boss, Ethel.’

‘Hot to trot, Kitty.’

‘Boss, baby!’

As the girls preened and pranced in front of their dressing room mirrors Lara was so excited she started to laugh. This was the first time she had seen anyone wearing her designs other than herself, aside from the free bits she had made for Annie. Seeing the waitresses, en masse, wearing something she had designed made it real. She was a proper designer. Plus, they all looked amazing. Even Shirley, with a grumpy head on her, couldn’t take her eyes off herself in the mirror.

‘Hey, Irish – where’s your uniform?’ one of the girls asked.

‘Oh Jesus, I forgot to make one for myself!’

‘Aaah Jaysus…’ one of the girls mimicked, and they all started laughing.

‘Well, you better get your Paddy arse in gear ’cos we’re launching them tonight,’ screeched Ethel, then remembered herself and looked at Shirley, ‘if that’s alright?’

Shirley was annoyed, she could tell, but at the same time, Ethel knew she wouldn’t say no. There would be war with the girls over this, and she wasn’t an idiot. Although, Ethel could tell that Shirley did not like Lara and she could be a vindictive bitch when she wanted to be.

‘If Coleman approves,’ she said, ‘I suppose we can wear them tonight.’

The girls cheered. They all knew the boss couldn’t give a monkey’s what they wore, as long as they were happy and worked hard.

Later that night, on the floor, the buzz about the place was tangible. The girls were flying about, delighted with their new comfy, cool costumes.

At one point, Lara was standing at the bar, waiting for Brian to prepare a tray of drinks when Coleman came up behind her. ‘Well done,’ he said, into her ear, although it registered at her neck. She nearly jumped out of her skin and was glad she wasn’t holding the drinks tray.

‘Sorry,’ he said stepping in front of her, ‘I just wanted to say well done on the uniforms, and thank you. The girls seem really happy.’

‘They are,’ she said, beaming. When she smiled, like that, Coleman felt his heart might explode. He considered smiling back, but smiling wasn’t his thing. It made him look like an idiot. Shirley walked past and shot them a poisonous glare. ‘At least, I think most of them are.’

‘Don’t worry about Shirley,’ he said. ‘I’ve known her a long time. She’s a good person.’

Lara smiled again, but tightly this time, and raised her eyebrows so that her face said ‘Really?’

It was disloyal of him to entertain this kind of banter with one of the floor girls but he just wanted to be near her.

‘Leave Shirley to me. She’ll come round.’

Lara had heard that Coleman got around Shirley quite a lot in the past. It put her off him a little bit. Coleman was only in his mid-thirties but he seemed much older to Lara, almost from another generation. He was handsome and enigmatic which made him attractive, but something made Lara nervous around him. Coleman was secretive and cagey and lived on the edge of the law, although he had been good to her, fixing up the flat upstairs and giving it to her at a peppercorn rent. Lara could see why the other girls swooned over him but he was certainly not her type. Lara was an artist, a designer, a beatnik. She could never, truly, be part of that outdated gangster scene, where men were men and women were there just to serve them.

‘Well, the main thing is that she looks gorgeous in my design.’

Not as gorgeous as you. Coleman felt cheap even thinking it.

That night, watching the girls enjoying themselves in her dresses, Lara felt the beginning of her design career open up. She spent the evening basking in the glory of her work, then, when her shift was finished, ran straight up to her studio and frantically started sewing. By dawn she had made a sample of a baby-doll dress, the first of many she planned to sell in Kensington Market, starting that very Saturday.

Over the next few weeks, Lara fell into a routine.

She worked all night, and sewed all day. On Mondays she took the bus to Berwick Street in Soho and haggled with the fancy haberdashery shops and street traders alike for the best prices on the finest materials she could afford.

On her way back to Piccadilly Circus Lara would walk through Carnaby Street, visiting each shop, picking through the rails end to end, reassuring herself that her own designs were unique, more special than the grooviest gear on offer in the coolest shops in London.

With two hours sleep, and putting in a nine-to-five working day, Lara was able to make fifteen dresses a week. On Saturday mornings, she got up at five, boxed up her week’s work and was down at her stall in Kensington Market. Her first stall was tucked away in a corner at the back. This crammed shopping emporium was the epitome of London cool and was jammed every Saturday with young hipsters. It seemed that everybody knew everybody else, and, at first, nobody paid any attention to the Irish new girl in the corner with her dozen minidresses. On the first week Lara sold three baby-dolls and a blouse. The stall was cheap, but she still made a loss. But two of the three girls she sold to came back the following week with three friends. They all bought a dress each and she broke even. The following week she had sold all of her stock by lunchtime, snapped up by friends of the girls from the previous week.

She ran back to the flat and immediately started sewing to catch up for the following Saturday.

‘You look terrible,’ Annie said when she found her that evening in her studio. ‘Let me get you something to eat – then you need to get some sleep.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Well at least go to bed for a few hours.’

‘I need to get this one finished before nine when my shift starts.’

‘You can’t work again tonight, Lara, you haven’t had a break for…’

‘Just leave me alone, Annie,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not a child! Stop fussing over me!’

Annie was thick skinned when it came to being snapped at. She knew Lara was just overwrought and tired, and didn’t mean it. Only those who have experienced genuine cruelty can be that magnanimous.

After two months selling in the market, Lara had built a reputation. She was selling out every week. People started asking, ‘Who’s that girl in the corner stall?’

Lara put the prices of her dresses up to a hefty £15 to slow sales, but she was still selling out each week. She got to know a few of the other designers and their photographer boyfriends and model friends. Fascinated that the enigmatic Irish girl worked nights in the infamous Chevrons, they followed her down there. Men in frilly pink blouses and girls in jeans, the gangster crowd didn’t know what hit them, but before long, the hip street crowd were bringing in a smattering of pop singers and everybody loved a bit of celebrity. Coleman, noticing that Lara was at the forefront of this change, promoted her from floor girl to a hostess. This meant she didn’t have to wear a uniform, and she looked after a roped-off area of the room dedicated to the hip crowd. Shirley, of course, was not happy about the change, but Coleman reminded her that fashion-crowd money was as good as anybody else’s.

❊

Annie persisted in looking after Lara as if, along with Fred and Giuliana, she was her family. Lara had saved Annie’s life on that first day and now, as the designer worked herself into a state of ill health, Annie insisted on doing the same for her.

She pressured Lara to eat, leaving food out for her while she was at work. Sometimes she made Lara sit on the sofa while she served her, then watched as she fell asleep over the plate. Annie would arrange her on the cushions and put a blanket over her. Lara was always cross at her when she woke up, but was usually better for a few days. Nonetheless, as the weeks past, Annie began to really worry about her.

Lara was so determined to succeed she was putting her own health at risk. Compounding this, things had not been working out as Lara had planned. In fact, far from being separated from each other, Lara’s worlds were feeding into one another. She was selling plenty of dresses and garnering a fine reputation, fast. However, this was not enough to set up on her own. Lara knew she would never be able to grow her business, buy fabric in bulk, or employ seamstresses, as long as she was working as a waitress. On the other hand, her Chevrons wages were the only thing enabling her to continue making clothes. Plus, as long as she stayed working there, Lara had a free place to live. The only way that Lara could see of opening her own boutique was to work every hour that God gave her. So that’s what she did. Until, one night, she couldn’t.

Chevrons late evening shift started at 9 p.m. Lara had worked straight through for forty-eight hours. Annie had been keeping different shifts at the cafe and had not been at home to stuff food into her or arrange naps.

Lara was out on the floor serving a gang of regulars who were hanging on from the lunchtime stripper shift. Even by her own standards, Lara was exhausted. Most days, she ran on pure adrenalin, fizzing and buzzing. One of the girls had given her a blue diet pill to try one day, but Lara found that it made her nauseous and her heartbeat sped up too much. Work was usually enough in itself to keep her going. But this evening her limbs felt like lead. She decided, as she was carrying a tray of pints across the floor, that perhaps Annie was right and that she needed a proper night’s sleep. As soon as this shift was over, Lara decided, she would take herself home to bed. At the corner of the stripper’s floor stage, she passed Shirley and a couple of the girls on their way to the dressing room and she tripped. Except, this time, it wasn’t them. This was off her own bat.

As she fell to the ground Lara felt a strange relief wash over her that at least she could lie down. The last thing she heard before her head clipped the side of the stage and she fell asleep was Shirley shouting, ‘Stupid bitch! Ethel, get the mop!’

Coleman came out of his office just in time to see Shirley give Lara’s unconscious body a nudge with the tip of her stiletto.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ he said. For an awful moment he thought there had been a fight. He knew Shirley could be a bit rough.

‘She tripped up then just – collapsed,’ Shirley said, adding, quite matter-of-factly, ‘I don’t think she’s dead,’ as she nonchalantly lit a cigarette.

Coleman’s stomach lurched. He knelt down beside Lara to check she was alive. As he felt her breath on his ear and saw her chest rise he felt a mixture of relief and arousal. Strange though it was, she was simply asleep. By now the girls had gathered around them.

‘You,’ he said to Ethel, ‘go across to Fred’s and get Annie. The rest of you,’ and he looked pointedly at Shirley, who was watching him with hawkish eyes from behind her cigarette, ‘get back to work.’

Shirley shrugged, giving him a nasty look as she dropped and ground her cigarette into the lino as close to Lara’s head as she dared. Turning towards the bar, she saw Coleman pick up Lara’s body with careful tenderness and carry her towards his office. She felt a pang of bitter jealousy.

When she woke Lara was lying on the sofa in Coleman’s office. Annie was on the edge of the arm and Coleman was sitting at his desk. Part of her knew she should sit up, but her body simply would not let her. Her limbs were made of iron and her eyelids, lead. Every part of her was screaming to be left alone. So Lara kept her eyes closed and listened to them talk in low concerned voices.

‘She’s exhausted. I’m worried about her, Coleman.’

‘Why is she like this?’

‘She’s working, selling her clothes in Kensington Market every Saturday.’

‘I know that.’ Coleman was privately jealous of Lara’s fashionable friends. They reminded him of how far away he was of ever getting near her.

‘When do you think she’s making all the clothes she sells?’

Coleman muttered something conciliatory, as if this was his fault. Annie could be surprisingly strident when she was defending a friend.

‘During the day! When she’s supposed to be sleeping! Coleman, Lara’s working twenty-four hours a day. Literally getting no sleep and she eats nothing…’

‘Why?’

‘Because she wants to be a fashion designer not a…’ waitress all her life, thought Annie. Coleman knew what she was saying.

Even from her virtual coma, Lara had enough. She yawned noisily and forced herself to sit up.

‘What happened?’

‘You collapsed in the club,’ Coleman said.

‘I tripped,’ Lara said. ‘I must have banged my head.’

‘Don’t sit up,’ Annie said.

‘Stay in here for as long as you need,’ Coleman said. But it was too late. Lara was already up.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You are not fine,’ Annie insisted. ‘Coleman?’

‘Take the rest of this shift off…’

Lara began to insist.

‘…no buts. Sick leave. You still get paid.’

Annie took Lara upstairs.

When they had gone, Coleman locked the door behind them then sat at his desk for the next hour, smoking and thinking.

❊

Bobby Chevron leaned back in the booth and surveyed his domain. The club hadn’t changed much since he opened it ten years ago. The plush velvet booths had held up lovely and the little electric lights with dim bulbs in the middle – state-of-the-art they were. The purple carpet wasn’t as thick as it had been, but he reasoned that nobody in here was looking at the floor. Not unless they were in big trouble, in which case they’d be too close for comfort. No, the main thing in here was the girls. Good looking, friendly. One or two of them were new. He hadn’t been in for a few months because Maureen had dragged him off to Spain, again. There was something different in here tonight, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. A slight change of atmosphere, maybe. Whatever it was, it was working. Bobby was in a good mood. And when Bobby was in a good mood – everyone was in a good mood.

Chevron’s nightclub was a drop in the ocean now in terms of Bobby’s business portfolio but he was fond of the place. He had enough property in London and Spain to never need to work another day. Not that he had done any actual work in years – he had Coleman running the club, and loyal Arthur looking after him. Chevron didn’t really have to do anything here at all, except sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labours, as he was doing now. Maureen was tucked up safe at home so he was out for the night looking for a bit of fun. Not that there was much fun to be had out of the club these days. Coleman, if the truth be known, was a bit of a dry bastard when it came to tasting the wares.

‘I told you I wouldn’t run Chevrons as a knocking shop. If the girls make the first move, that’s fine. Just remember, Bobby, you’re a powerful man. It’s not right to put them under pressure.’ Coleman talked some right shit sometimes; he couldn’t help it if girls liked a powerful man. But for the sake of the business he was right. He knew from his early days, when he kept knocking shops in Stepney, that running girls was profitable, but it was also complicated. Boyfriends, husbands – then some Charlie would go and fall in love with one of the girls and start following them around. It could get unpleasant. Coleman persuaded him that there was plenty of money to be made out of the bar and a little bit of gambling in one of the back rooms, all very hush-hush, regulars only – no trouble. At least, no more trouble than Ironing Board Arthur could handle on his own.

‘In the long run, you’re saving money,’ Coleman said. And he was right. It just meant that Chevron found that while the girls were polite, and sometimes even flirty with their big boss, they weren’t as forthcoming as he would have liked.

Still, there was only one of them he was really interested in.

Chevron had had his eye on Shirley for years, but kept his distance after she married that north London psycho, Handsome Devers. Handsome was small time. A bully boy, flitting about doing jobs for the big boys, but no firm wanted him full time. Handsome was a nobody but he could be dangerous, and no bird was worth risking a beating for.

Coleman came over with a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He put them down in front of them, pinching the fabric on his suit trousers before sitting down.

Chevron smiled. ‘I taught you that,’ he said. ‘Bought you your first suit. Remember?’

‘Yeah,’ Coleman said, embarrassed. ‘I remember.’

Bobby would never let him forget.

Bobby Chevron found Coleman stealing from a bin in Stepney at the back of one of his knocking shops. The scrawny thirteen year old had been moved from orphanage to foster home. He was nicknamed Coleman, after the mustard, because his punch was like being hit with a hot poker. Chevron took the kid home, fed him, cleaned him up and introduced him to his mother, Molly. For the next eight years Coleman slept on a chair in Molly Chevron’s small kitchen and ran errands for Bobby. Bobby cast himself as Coleman’s hero – a father figure.

Bobby had made good on his promise that young Coleman would never go hungry or homeless again, but he was no hero. Coleman was nonetheless loyal to him, but he understood that their relationship was conditional on him staying grateful. Sometimes that was difficult. When Bobby acted like a prick, it got even harder.

Bobby lifted the glass to his fat lips, took a sip, and sighed. ‘Where’s Shirley tonight? God, I’d give that woman one if she wasn’t with that tosser Devers.’

‘They split up,’ Coleman said, looking out at the floor, always working, ever watchful for trouble.

‘Nah? Gave her one hiding too many?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Yeah, I can imagine she’s a bit feisty alright. Well, you tell her I said if she ever needs protection, or him sorting out – she only has to ask.’

Coleman nodded but said nothing. Bobby wriggled with frustration. Coleman’s enigmatic, hard-man demeanour made him an ideal club boss. He had natural authority and that kept the action down. Less action meant less mess and less cleaning up. But it didn’t always make for great conversation.

‘Well, tell Shirley I was asking for her won’t you?’

‘I will,’ said Coleman.

Bobby chewed on his cigar and let his eyes wander over the club. It was different in here tonight. A new crowd. Younger, fresher. A few women punters out there, and not just the regulars’ wives. A couple of girls in short skirts with short hair were standing at the bar, like blokes. Pretty girls always kept the punters happy, waitresses or not. He liked it. Something else had changed too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

‘These floor girls all new?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Coleman, ‘but their uniforms are.’

Bobby clicked his fingers. ‘That’s what it is.’

‘Everything all right, gentlemen?’ Kim, their youngest waitress came over with a bowl of peanuts.

‘Lovely, darling, thank you,’ said Chevron with a flourish. He could be a gentleman when he wanted to.

As she walked off he took a good look at her back and said, ‘I like them. Draws the eyes to all the right places.’

‘We had them designed especially. One offs. No other club has them.’

‘Exclusive,’ Chevron said. ‘I like it.’

‘The designer works here. She’s brought in a lot of new punters.’

Bobby perked up at the mention of business.

‘They cost a fortune?’

‘Cheaper than the bought ones, and good quality. And the girls love them.’

‘Fuck the girls, what about the punters?’

‘Look at it, Bobby,’ Coleman said, nodding out at the packed room. ‘The place is buzzing.’

‘Don’t see many of the old faces.’

As if on cue, Chevron’s old pal, Derek Malone walked past and nodded. He knew not to interrupt Bobby when he was talking business.

‘They’re all here,’ Coleman said, ‘just brought in a few new ones as well. Mixing it up a bit with Lara, and these new uniforms attract the fashion crowd in. Nobody’s complaining. Matter of fact, the books are well up on last year. It seems like everyone wants a piece of the action when it comes to fashion.’

Chevron shrugged his approval.

‘You’ve got to move with the times. I’ve always said that.’

He had never said any such thing. In fact, Chevron despised newness – men dressing like nancy boys in jeans and blouses. It was disgusting. He was pleased that Coleman was making him money but at the same time it was important that he was seen as boss. When a right-hand man got up himself and thought he was in charge… that was how trouble started.

‘Yeah.’ Coleman kept his eyes looking out at the club, into the middle distance, as if making a throwaway remark. ‘That girl Lara has got talent. A good eye. She’s hardworking. I was thinking of backing her,’ he looked over at Bobby now, right into his eyes, ‘in a shop. Starting a fashion label.’

He took a sip of his whisky. He knew Bobby wouldn’t like that. He did not like people that worked for him getting involved in other ventures. He also did not like anyone coming to him directly asking for money to back anything that was not entirely his own idea.

When Coleman said he was thinking of backing her, he knew Bobby would take it as an invitation. Coleman didn’t have the money to back her, and if he did? That meant Chevron was paying him too much.

On the other hand, Bobby was no fool when it came to business. He liked money too much to look a gift horse in the mouth.

They sat, looking at each other for twenty seconds or so. Long enough for a waitress to swerve past their booth, and for Derek Malone to nudge his drink aside to look over and smell the tension.

Finally, Bobby said, ‘Talk to me.’

Coleman was prepared. He talked about how the women that worked in the club used to buy a new dress once or twice a year. Now they were buying a new outfit every week. Styles were changing so fast and people were spending their money just keeping up. They wanted the latest trend, the shortest skirt, the coolest cut of jacket. Fashion was a growing industry but you had to know what you were doing, and this girl really did. Mary Quant, Biba – these birds were making a fortune and those arty types were usually out of bounds to businessmen like them. But now, this girl was in their club. She made her scene their scene. This was their chance to cash in. Coleman told Chevron, he really believed that this chick, Lara, had what it took to make a fashion label work.

‘Now, that,’ Chevron said, pointing his cigar at Coleman’s face when he was finished, ‘is a very good idea, my son.’

Coleman nodded. Inside he was smiling. Despite himself, part of him still craved Chevron’s approval.

‘What’s it gonna cost me?’

Coleman had the whole thing worked out and ran through the figures. There was a place available on the Kings Road, a few doors down from the club. It was the wrong end of the street for fashion retail but with the right clobber, it could become the right end. He cited kids currently flocking to a far-out boutique called Granny Takes a Trip around the corner on World’s End. Bobby would come up with the start-up money for kitting it out and stock. After two years payback (quicker if they could) Bobby would own 20 per cent of all profits as a silent partner.

‘Well, I want in,’ Bobby said, smiling a broad grimace punctuated by frantic puffs of cigar smoke. ‘But you know I can’t take that deal, Coleman.’

Coleman knew Bobby would negotiate the hell out of him so he had started low. Apart from the fact that he wanted to help Lara, Coleman saw this as an opportunity for him too. He had been running Chevrons for ten years. Bobby spent most of his time in Spain these days. He didn’t need the club or its money any more. But, equally, Coleman knew he wouldn’t let it, or Coleman, go out of sentiment or stubbornness. At least if Coleman could carve out a business interest of his own, it might give him a better chance of breaking free. He might even earn a bit of Chevron’s respect, which, despite everything, was still important to him.

‘The way it is, Coleman, is this. I put in 100 per cent backing, I own 100 per cent of the business, I take 100 per cent of the profits.’

He was stabbing the dead cigar across the table at him. Coleman felt bile rose in his throat.

‘You get a salary and so does your…’ He was going to say ‘slag’. He felt like shouting it. SLAAAAAG! See how Coleman liked his new girlfriend being called that? Chevron took a deep breath and calmed himself down. There was no point in getting upset – this was business and there was money to be made. No sense in losing the rag. Not with Coleman. Not with his boy.

‘Your designer lady. Big salaries, Coleman. You name your price. Whatever you like. I won’t quibble.’

Coleman felt sick. Sicker than he had ever felt in his life. If he had felt trapped by Chevron before, he had tightened the chain himself. Worse, he had made Lara a part of it.

‘You know me, son. I don’t do partnerships. Never have. Never will.’

Chevron’s tone was conciliatory, almost apologetic.

‘I’m a lone wolf. I can’t help it. But, if I was ever to go into partnership with anyone, my son,’ and in the moment he said it, Bobby’s voice softened as if he believed what he was saying, ‘it would be you.’

‘Maybe we should forget the whole thing,’ Coleman said. The thought of Lara being implicated so thoroughly into Chevron’s grubby world was too much. This had been a bad idea; he should have foreseen it. He should have known better than to ask.

‘No, no, son,’ Chevron reassured him. ‘It’s a good idea. Plus, it’s good to diversify, you know? You go ahead. Set it up. Good lad.’

The partnership suggestion was forgotten. Coleman had found a way of making him more money; all was good in Chevron’s world again. He relit his cigar, poured himself another whisky, then picked up the bowl of peanuts and poured them directly into his mouth.

‘Call that sexy blonde bit over again. Tell her I need some more nuts.’

Business always gave Bobby an appetite. For everything.