‘I don’t know.’
She would not be pressured to stay. This was her decision, her life.
‘Noreen.’
He said her name like a poem, searching her face. His eyes were begging her to stay without saying anything out loud. She could reach out, take him upstairs to the bedroom and make all this go away. But Noreen was determined.
‘I see,’ he said. She could have reassured him. But she couldn’t lie.
John stood up, put his cap on and reached the door. ‘Take care of yourself, Noreen.’
Noreen heard the subtext – ‘Because I won’t be there to take care of you’. The snide implication ignited a small spark of fury. It gave her the determination she needed to face the gruelling coach, boat and train journey that would take her to London.
❊
Noreen arrived at Euston station in the late afternoon. As she walked through the station concourse she found herself among hundreds of people rushing past each other in straight lines. Each person was different from the next: a man in a pinstripe suit with a bowler hat and briefcase, a young woman in a skirt so short it looked like she was running about in her pants, an older woman wearing a smart suit with a pillbox hat and gloves like she was going to a wedding. A cockney man was shouting, ‘Ee’ning Stannit!’ while he waved newspapers in the air at passers-by. Some handed him a shilling and snatched a paper out of his hands with scarcely an acknowledgment. A man with coal-black skin wearing a bright orange suit sauntered across to the huge clock hanging over their heads. A tall, beautiful woman with long, brown arms in a brightly printed dress ran towards a platform. Noreen stood in the middle of this extraordinary, exotic scene, astonished by the activity around her. All these people, all in a rush to get somewhere, each and every one minding their own business. None of them talking to each other. She had never seen anything like it. There she was, a suitcase at her feet, clearly a stranger in town, yet nobody stopped to ask if she was alright. The very idea was ludicrous. For the first time in her life, Noreen was invisible. Anonymous. It was a strange feeling. She wasn’t sure if she liked it.
Noreen hadn’t eaten since a rather unpleasant sandwich on the boat and was absolutely starving. She thought about finding a cafe and having a fry up but then decided against it. She had best go and find Lara first.
Noreen had not contacted Lara and told her she was coming. She was afraid Lara might have moved from the address she had from her last letter six months ago. They had been great friends while she was dating Matthew and for a while after he had let her down, Lara had stayed in touch regularly. When she arrived in London Lara had taken great care to let Noreen know how well she was doing. She wrote her long letters telling her about her exciting new life and glamorous job.
I’m working in a nightclub – can you believe it? You should come over, Noreen! Coleman is always looking for good people to work behind the bar.
Noreen had paid no notice then but the seed had been planted and now she had come to reap the harvest. Lara was always going to do well for herself, Noreen had never had any doubt about that. Lara just had that ambition in her. She always pushed Noreen as well, reading between the lines of her chirpy letters. Noreen was well aware that this was partly in hope that she relay the message to her brother; that he would know how well Lara was doing, that she was utterly over him. But Noreen could tell Lara wasn’t happy without Matthew. Not really. Because Lara had been head over heels in love with him. Literally daft about him. It was painful to watch. Publicly, Noreen crucified her brother for dumping such a brilliant, attractive woman. Privately, she knew her twin brother better than he knew himself. Lara was not his soulmate and never had been. Lara was fantastic, but she was too much for Matthew. Too passionate, too artistic, too ambitious – too much of everything. She dwarfed him. As much as it pained Noreen to admit it, the love had never been mutual. Matthew had been right to leave her when he had before getting shoehorned into a marriage that would have made him unhappy. Although the priest thing? That was something else. Matthew’s vocation was still a mystery to Noreen. In truth, it was that which had driven a wedge between them more than his leaving Lara. Noreen liked to know what was going on. She certainly didn’t like being kept out of the loop with people she was close to. Not knowing something so fundamental about her own twin, being told about his vocation alongside everyone else, had been humiliating and hurtful. She was still furious with him. Not calling Lara to tell her that she was coming was more a reflection of her estrangement from Matthew than her fear of being rejected by his ex-girlfriend.
She dug Lara’s letter out of her bag and checked the address.
Kings Road, Chelsea. She had no idea where that was and did not feel like asking anyone, so she walked out of the station and hailed down a black, London taxi.
Driving through the London streets, past the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, made Noreen feel like she was in a film. Her excitement peaked, shredding into nerves as the taxi driver let her off outside a huge, red-bricked building. A glossy, studded black leather door had a gold plate to the side of it that read CHEVRONS.
‘Do you know where you’re going from here?’ the cab driver asked. He seemed somewhat sceptical when she gave him the address. Now he seemed a little nervous about leaving her here.
Insulted by his assumption that she didn’t know where she was going, Noreen snapped, ‘Of course.’ She threw two pound notes in his tray, then said with a great flourish, ‘keep the change!’
When he drove off, she stood for a few moments outside the ridiculous-looking door looking for a bell or a knocker. She found neither. She knew that Lara lived above the club, but the building seemed vast, with dozens of windows, and she had no idea how to even get upstairs. She checked her watch and saw that it was seven o’clock. The club had to be open. Anywhere that sold alcohol would be up and running by six at the latest. So she started to bang.
Ironing Board Arthur was stuck on his own in Chevrons. All the staff, even Coleman, had gone to the opening of Lara’s new boutique. The shop was sure to be filled with beautiful women and Arthur was left behind holding the fort. As usual. The wiry, balding forty year old was Coleman’s muscle. Anyone who didn’t know him might have mistaken Arthur for a fool. He wasn’t pretty and his overly polite, convivial manner tended to earn him mockery from those who did not know him. Customs had already been in today, sniffing around, asking questions about the provenance of the whisky. Coleman was not happy – and if Bobby Chevron found out, there would be big trouble. Drawing attention to the little things was how you got caught for the big things. Coleman liked a handy price but the goods had to be above board. The bloke that had been supplying them with their cut-price spirits needed the frighteners put on him and he was due in that afternoon to get his cash. Brian, the bar manager, had been sent home. They didn’t involve him in any dirty work. That’s the way it was at Chevrons. Everything above board. Everything nice and tidy. Unless you were in the know, and then things could get a little messy. That was what Arthur was there for. Cleaning up the messy stuff.
Arthur heard a banging from upstairs. Stupid prick was early to collect his money. Quickly, he chose a cricket bat from his collection of weapons behind the door at the bottom of the maroon-carpeted staircase that led down from the club. With a bit of luck the sight of the bat, in addition to Arthur’s mad face, would be enough to get this guy to talk. He wasn’t in the mood for a fight. It was a bit early yet. Arthur did a bit of fast, shallow breathing – in out, in out – to get himself worked up. Then he ran up the stairs, pumping up the adrenalin. That fella was pounding at the door. The police would be coming if he got much louder. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ Arthur hissed as he opened the door, reached out and pulled in… a bird.
Not a bird like Shirley or Ethel either. But an actual woman-bird. Like an ordinary bird. A wife-type bird.
Arthur yelped and his hands flew off her as if she was emitting electricity. Which, with the unexpected sudden manhandling he had given her, Nore
en practically was.
‘Hey!’ she said. ‘There is no need for that!’
Arthur was speechless with embarrassment. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, angrier than he intended.
‘Well you’re a charmer aren’t you? Planning a game of cricket?’
Here was a real live cockney gangster, brandishing a cricket bat. How thrilling! It never occurred to Noreen that she should be scared. She had been manoeuvring large, gun-toting alcoholic farmers out of her father’s pub since she was fourteen. This odd-looking whippet and his cricket bat were no problem to her.
Arthur mouthed soundlessly at her. Noreen shook her head.
‘Not much of a talker, are you? Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?’
He found his tongue. ‘Don’t have a mother.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone has a mother.’ Arthur gave her a nasty, dead-eyed look then shrugged. He had torn through a man’s skull for saying less. With an ironing board in the prison laundry. It was where he got his unique handle.
‘Somebody should teach you some manners. Your father?’
‘Don’t have no father either.’
Noreen tried to look him straight in the eye. Arthur looked away and she followed his head around as he avoided her. No mother? No father?
‘Siblings?’
‘No.’ Arthur was feeling uncomfortable. What sort of a game was this?
Noreen sighed, giving him a steady gaze. ‘That is terrible.’
Arthur agreed. It was terrible. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to cry but swallowed it back instead and barked, ‘What do you want?’
‘Are you Coleman?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. Arthur felt a small delight at being mistaken for his suave boss. ‘He’s not here.’
‘Never mind. I’m actually looking for my friend rather than him. Lara?’
A friend of Lara. She must be alright then. Some of the English girls took Lara as a bit snooty, but Arthur liked her. She was posh, and Irish, which was a weird combination, but there was no point in holding either of those things against her. Also, Coleman was in love with her. He never said it, but he was. Arthur watched. He could tell. But it wasn’t fair to hold that against her either. It wasn’t like she was asking for it. Since she had started working there, about six months ago now, the place had changed. The fashion crowd had started frequenting Chevrons. Men in polo necks and brightly coloured trousers. It wasn’t Arthur’s scene but the arty crowd were no trouble and that made his job easier. Also, Lara was nice to him. She treated him like a proper person, not like some of the other girls. They knew he was a bit soft with women so they took the piss. Especially Shirley, who looked down her nose at him and made him run about, getting her fags, picking up her washing and that. Lara was running a business, making clothes as well as working in the club, and she never made him do anything for her. She even offered him cups of tea, and sometimes that nice girl she lived with, who worked in the cafe across the road, gave him free dinners. Now Coleman had given her money to open one of them fashion boutiques. Shirley was jealous but it served her right. Lara deserved some success. She was a bloody hard worker.
‘Lara’s not here either. I’d take you over to her but…’
‘You’re expecting someone.’ Noreen smiled and nodded at the cricket bat. This is so bad, Noreen thought, being thrilled by the certain knowledge that a terrible act of violence was about to be perpetrated. He ’ad it comin’ she said to herself.
Really, it was like she was in that film, The Wrong Arm of the Law, that she had seen in Carney picture house last week. This little man was a crabby version of Peter Sellers. Well. That may be a stretch – but still – she was in London! It was all so exciting.
‘Lara’s having a party down the road,’ he said. ‘I can tell you where it is but like I said…’
‘You’ve got business to attend to.’
She said it gently. Mocking him a little, but in a kind, soft way.
Arthur beamed at her, which was actually a little terrifying. He then explained how to get to Lara’s new shop, That Girl, which was just a few doors down on the Kings Road.
He noted that Lara’s friend wasn’t exactly dressed for a party but she didn’t seem to mind. The suitcase meant she would be hanging around for a while, maybe staying with Lara in the flat upstairs. Arthur didn’t know if that was a bad or a good thing. As he watched her portly frame disappear down the Kings Road, he decided on the latter.
14
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.
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