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.
15
Coleman adjusted his tie and ran his finger under his crisp white spread collar so that it sat neatly just inside the lapel of his grey worsted suit. The shirt was homage to his new position as a fashion impresario. The infinitesimal nod to changing fashions was unlikely to impress Lara, but there was only so much he could do.
Coleman did not like change.
He was often courted by rival gangs; some said he was a fool to stay working for Chevron. Coleman was the one with the smarts and the natural authority. Bobby was a nutter. He should go out on his own. But he was loyal. Coleman carried Molly Chevron’s coffin shoulder to shoulder with her son when she died three years ago.
Bobby had turned nasty after his mother passed. Beat Maureen so badly he put her in hospital, twice. He was sorry afterwards. Chevron was always very sorry. Coleman could not turn away from him. The Chevrons had given Coleman stability and he had come to value that above all else. Coleman kept things the same. He slept in his office in the same spirit with which he had slept in Molly’s kitchen; it kept him alert, watchful.
No. Coleman did not like change.
Finding true love with Irish Lara would be the biggest change of his life. He could not let himself fall.
Coleman had been fighting back the impulse to take Irish Lara into his arms and hold her there forever for the last six months. But even if he had the courage, he didn’t have the will. Lara was educated, beautiful – she was no gangster’s moll. She deserved better than him. Once, he had heard, she had been engaged to a priest. Even if he could find the courage within himself to make a move, she would never consider loving a man like him. It would be wrong to even try.
And so, Coleman kept his feelings under wraps. In her company, Coleman showed no signs of having any feelings for her whatsoever.
He took a last drag of his cigarette and, grinding it under his Grenson brogue, was opening the door to go in when he heard a call from behind him.
‘Coleman!’
Ethel and one of the younger girls were running up the road, their high shoes clicking on the pavement, making a beeline for him.
Both women sighed inwardly as they saw their handsome boss wait – chin set, eyes narrowed against the smoke of his cigarette, an impervious rock of be-suited masculinity outside the frivolous, pink-fronted shop front. The words ‘That Girl’, in large, italic type sat directly above his head like an invitation.
Ethel was glad Shirley wasn’t here to see this. As soon as news hit that Coleman was opening the boutique with Lara, Shirley booked a holiday. She didn’t bother telling Ethel where she was going. She hardly told her anything any more. Ethel had been on Shirley’s side for ages after Coleman dumped her. She felt so sorry for Shirley married to that brute of a husband, coming into work with bruises, always covering them up and smiling for the punters. Even though all the girls fancied Coleman, she had been glad when Shirley hooked up with him. However, the affair had only lasted a few weeks. That was a shame but, afterwards, Shirley just would not let it go. She kept blaming ‘that Irish bitch,’ saying she was trying to get Coleman off her, when she never really had him in the first place. Not that Ethel would ever say that to her face. Shirley could be as dangerous as any man if she had a few drinks and a broken glass in her hand. Ethel got sick of Shirley’s complaining about the same time Shirley started to pull back from everyone. She went pure hard at work. Came in, did her job and that was it. The only person she spoke to at work was Brian. That suited Ethel. She would never be stupid enough to go near Coleman herself and if he fancied Lara? So what. Lara was all right. And her clothes were great.
‘Ladies,’ Coleman said to them, treating them to a rare smile. Both women shivered with desire, then they took an arm each and marched him into the shop.
Once inside, Coleman let go of the girls’ arms, delivering them chivalrously to the racks and rails of clothes. He looked around the room. Coleman could speed read a room in one sweep. He was anxious to check that Bobby Chevron had not heard about the party from his holiday villa in Spain and turned up, unexpectedly. This was Lara’s night and Chevrons larger-than-life owner had a way taking over. Although, Coleman had other more serious reasons for not wanting Bobby here tonight. Coleman had negotiated a cut of the shop from Lara and given her the impression they were partners; Chevron had provided the setup money and the building. Technically, Bobby Chevron owned That Girl. There was no other way Lara would ever be able to afford a shop on the Kings Road. So, Coleman had approached Bobby. He did not think of it as a lie. He had simply seen a way of making Lara’s dream happen for her and gone for it. There was nothing wrong with subterfuge when your motives were clean. Coleman had made Lara happy and that made him pleased. She need never know any different.
Once he established the coast was clear, Coleman’s eyes searched for Lara. She was standing by the back wall, surrounded by people. He barely had the chance to appraise her when Lara looked towards the door and their eyes locked. He read her expression and saw that there was something wrong. Coleman’s stomach tightened as he immediately set off across the room towards her. Had someone said something to her? Despite his worry, Coleman felt a tinge of satisfaction that, despite the crowds hanging off her tonight, Lara had been looking out for him.
When Lara saw her old friend Noreen standing in the door of her new shop, she froze. Worlds collided; the grey, black and white world of her past, her ordinary childhood in Cork, her first kiss, with Matthew, at the Town Hall dance, college in Dublin all led to that awful evening, with Matthew standing on the steps of her student hostel. In that moment of seeing Noreen in her drab, brown coat, the technicoloured joy of Lara’s sparkling new life seemed to drain out of her.
But then a most unexpected thing happened. As larger-than-life Noreen launched herself across the room and hugged Lara, lifting her slightly off the ground, the painful memory evaporated as quickly as it had come.
‘Yay – Missis – it’s good to see you!’
‘Noreen.’ Lara tried not to sound shocked or look too upset then remembered, with a smile, that it didn’t matter. Noreen had skin as thick as a bull’s hide. ‘What are you doing here?’
Noreen looked fit to explode.
‘I’ve moved to London! Can you BELIEVE IT?’
‘How did you find me?’
‘With your address, stupid! Actually, I called into Chevrons,’ Noreen said it like she had lived here all her life. ‘A man with a face like a spanner told me about the party.’
Ironing Board Arthur. It felt strange hearing Noreen reference her world. Funny, outspoken, resolutely Irish and deeply unfashionable Noreen was really here. In London. Smack, bang in the middle of her new life. This was the thing she had most dreaded and yet, it didn’t feel as bad as she had feared it would. Still, Lara and Noreen had not seen each other since before she and Matthew broke up. They exchanged letters but their deep friendship seemed to dissolve in the back draft of Lara’s heartbreak. What was she doing here?
Noreen noticed Penelope Podmore who was standing with her arms crossed, smoking intently, eyes narrowed as she looked Noreen and Lara up and down, drinking it all in. Lara grimaced inwardly. She had forgotten where she was. This was why she had wanted to keep the past at bay. Before she had the chance to re
ctify the situation Noreen stepped in.
‘I’m Noreen,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘this wan’s oldest friend. Who are you?’
Penelope raised her eyebrows in answer.
‘This is Ms Podmore,’ Lara said. Penelope’s haughty expression glittered with furious shock as Noreen vigorously shook her manicured hand. ‘Penelope is the fashion editor of the Daily Mail,’ Lara added hopefully, trying to keep the note of desperation out of her voice.
That meant nothing to Noreen. This was a disaster, after all.
‘Well, if it’s fashion you’re after, Lara here is yer only woman. What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here? I don’t suppose there’s any grub to be had. I’m famished. All I got was a pork pie on the boat and it was red-rotten.’
Penelope bared her teeth in an attempt at a smile and was clearly about to move on. She didn’t ‘do’ gauche and she certainly didn’t ‘do’ gauche Irish.
Lara looked around desperately for a distraction and saw the answer walk in the door. Coleman had just arrived. Lara felt a snap of irritation tinged with an irrational feeling of disappointment as his eyes scanned past her across the room, before resting back on her face again. He acknowledged her signal and by the time Lara had said, ‘Ah, Penelope. I’d love you to meet my business partner,’ he was already walking across the room towards them.
‘Hot to trot!’ Noreen said, barely under her breath, but Penelope didn’t notice. She was already adjusting herself. Her hands raised to smooth the hair at her ears, her lips parted, her back straightened and the fashion editor’s eyes widened with flirtatious delight as Coleman joined their company.
‘Coleman, this is Penelope Podmore from the Daily Mail.’
‘Please to meet you, Penelope,’ he said. Unsmiling but not unfriendly.
‘So, Coleman, tell me,’ Penelope leaned into him, blowing a stream of smoke just past his ear, ‘are you the rich Paddy daddy behind That Girl? You’re certainly not Irish in a suit like that.’
That Girl Page 11