Dedicated Followers Of Fashion

OUR FINAL OF SERIAL 1960s PART CONCLUDING CHAPTER: Mia is a cover girl, opportunity knocks for Frankie, but is Sandra’s star on the wane?

when I was on all the covers, remember.”

“I’d hate anything to stop us being friends,” Mia said earnestly. “It’s only work, after all.”

“You used to say that about boys,” Sandra said, though she was touched that their friendship meant so much to her pal.

“Speaking of which,” Mia’s excitement returned, “Tarquin’s invited me to his family pile – an actual stately home! I think a proposal could be on the cards!”

“Oh, Mia.” Sandra couldn’t keep the concern from her voice. “Are you sure he’s right for you?”

“I know you don’t like him, because he made a pass at you,” Mia said defensively. “Not only me,” Sandra murmured.

“He sees me differently to the other girls,” Mia insisted.

“Don’t you ever think that you might be happier with someone like Frankie?” Sandra pressed. “You know how much he loves you.”

“I know. But I’m on eighty pounds an hour now. It’s more than my dad earns in a month! I couldn’t marry a flower seller.” photographic model, but it was still modelling.

“Sorry, Sandra, my lovely.” Everard held up his palms, his face etched with sympathy. “We’re only showing the Twiggy-line dresses.”

At lunchtime, Sandra headed along the King’s Road to Carlo’s Coffee Bar. As she passed Mary Quant’s Bazaar, she pulled a Filbert’s chocolate bar from her handbag and bit off the first segment for consolation.

Her dress felt a bit tight, but she was starting to wonder if she had a future in modelling anyway. If Mia married Tarquin and moved out of the flat, there wouldn’t be much to keep her in London. Perhaps it was time to go home.

Up ahead, Frankie sang from his flower stall in his distinctive Cockney accent: “Beautiful roses for beautiful girls! Come on, fellas, show her you love her!”

The sun shone on his shock of blond curls as he turned, rose in hand.

“Wotcher, Sandra! Guess what happened to me this morning.”

“I hope you weren’t arrested,” she only half joked.

“Nothing like that.” He chuckled. “This posh bloke came up and bought a rose. Then he said, ‘Do you know any songs?’

“I said, ‘Ain’t a rose enough for you? You want me to sing as well?’

“He said he liked my flower cry and asked if I’d ever been on stage. Well, as you know, I used to sing the odd number at the holiday camp.

“Turns out he was a TV producer called Harry Ross and he’s going to try me out on that show, Fab,Cool,Groovy! He reckons I’ve got boy-next-door appeal, he does.”

“You’ve certainly got that, Frankie!” Sandra beamed. She glanced over her shoulder, then gripped his elbow and leaned close. “What about that other business?” she hissed.

It was Frankie’s turn to check over his shoulder and lower his voice.

“I took your advice, Sandra. I gave the

necklace back to Mr Feathers and told him I’ll keep running the flower stall, but I don’t want to do anymore dodgy deliveries for him. It’s not worth the risk, even to impress Mia.”

“How did Billy take it?” Sandra asked worriedly.

“Oh, he was really understanding,” Frankie said airily. “People talk about him breaking people’s legs, but as I told you before, I think he sees me like a son.”

“I really don’t think you can trust him,” Sandra warned.

“Well, if Harry Ross turns me into a pop star, I won’t even have to work on the flower stall, will I?”

“I’m so pleased for you, Frankie.” Impulsively, she gave him a hug.

As she did so, a black cab drove past. Her heart stopped as she met the eyes of its passenger.

It was the young man with glossy, collar-length chestnut hair with whom she’d first locked eyes through the window of Carlo’s Coffee Bar.

On that day, she’d thought it was love at first sight – until he stepped into a taxi, seemingly never to be seen again.

A few days later, she’d seen him stepping out of another cab. She’d been convinced he’d come back to find her and was about to ask her out – until he saw Frankie showing her a gold necklace and presumably assumed that Frankie was her boyfriend.

Now there he was, just feet away – and she was hugging Frankie!

To her horror, she saw him dip his eyes, his face creasing with sadness, as the cab sped on past.

She wanted to run after him and tell him that Frankie was just a friend, but he’d think she was a mad woman. She didn’t know him, after all. Perhaps his interest in her was all in her imagination.

Besides, the taxi was moving out of sight and he wasn’t even looking back.

“Oh, no, not again!” She stamped her foot in frustration.

Sandra wore her favourite dalmatianspot mini dress to the taping of Fab, Cool,Groovy. It was her last night out in London and she was determined to make the most of it.

She screamed wildly with all the other girls in the studio audience as Frankie skipped onto the little stage, surrounded by psychedelic scenery, lights and TV cameras.

Wearing dazzling white hip-hugging flares and a hooped navy blue and white T-shirt, he had a rose in his hand as he began to sing the lilting ballad Harry Ross had written around his chirpy flower stall cry: “Beautifulrosesforbeautifulgirls…”

He certainly had boy-next-door appeal, Sandra decided. By the end of the song, she bet every girl in the audience was wishing they lived next door to the cheery Cockney.

She wondered if Mia, watching from the VIP seats, would see him differently now. He was such a warm-hearted man and so in love with Mia that it broke her heart to see her friend all but ignore him while she chased after a rat like Tarquin.

As screams and applause filled the studio, Frankie took a bow. He looked stunned by the reception. Sandra was proud to see him shine.

She couldn’t help feeling sad for herself, though. With Mia at the top of the modelling tree and Frankie’s star in the ascendent, it was time to give up her dream of a career comeback. She’d had her turn; fashion had moved on and so should she. Besides that, after the phone call she’d made earlier, she reckoned it was safer to slip quietly out of London and lay low for a while.

As she and the rest of the audience left at the end of the show, a man’s voice said, “You must be proud of him.”

She turned – and froze, her mouth hanging open. It was the chestnut-haired man from the taxi. Wearing a trendy maroon waistcoat over a white openneck shirt, he looked even more gorgeous up close than he did from a distance.

“Your boyfriend, I mean.” He gestured towards the now empty stage.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Sandra managed to squeak.

“He’s not?” The man’s smile brightened.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she blurted.

“You don’t?” His smile became a grin. “Well, this is going to sound like the most corny line, but I saw you in the King’s Road and from the moment our eyes met… It’s going to make me blush to say this… but do you believe in love at first sight?”

Her throat too dry to speak, Sandra could only nod.

“I haven’t been able to sleep for thinking about you,” the man continued, his cheeks glowing. “Will you join me for a drink in the VIP lounge?”

He held out his hand, and when Sandra wrapped her fingers around his, she felt like never letting go.

The VIP lounge was buzzing with chatter and there were famous faces everywhere Sandra looked: Mick Jagger, Marianne Faithful, Michael Caine. The whole of swinging London was there.

The veteran TV pop show producer Harry Ross was chatting over cocktails with Mia, who was wearing a tubular lime mini dress, and her photographer boyfriend Tarquin, who was wearing a shiny purple snakeskin jacket and his trademark white cheesecutter cap.

Sandra’s new companion squeezed her hand in a way that made her racing heart skip a beat.

“Come on, let me introduce you to the producer, Harry Ross,” he said. “Harry’s a friend of my father’s.”

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constables. “I’m sure once Mr Feathers is safely behind bars, plenty of witnesses will come forward to expose some of the other rackets he’s been getting away with for years.”

As the police led Tarquin and Billy away, the roomful of celebrities erupted into a babble of shocked conversation. Sandra burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Mia, you must hate me!” “What do you mean?”

“I asked around among the other models and when I realised what Tarquin was up to, I had to report him. Those poor girls he took advantage of. It could have been any of us.”

“Don’t cry, Sandra.” Mia hugged her. “You saved me, too, by showing me that Tarquin was the rat you always warned me he was.”

Frankie put a tentative hand on Mia’s shoulder. “I’m sorry he turned out to be a bad ‘un,” he said gently.

“Oh, Frankie, you must think I’m so shallow,” Mia sobbed. “I knew Tarquin would never love me like you do, but I wanted the cars, the glamour, the stately home. Fool’s gold – and I’m the fool.”

“We all make mistakes,” Frankie said, his eyes full of love.

The double wedding was the celebrity event of the year. It seemed as though the whole of Swinging London crammed into the Chelsea church to see supermodel Mia marry pop star Frankie, and Sandra wed chocolate millionaire Edward Filbert.

As the two matching white Rolls

Royce limousines swung out of the churchyard and onto the King’s Road, Sandra clutched her husband’s hand and felt happier than she’d ever been.

“Look, there’s Mia!” She pointed to a billboard from which her best friend’s heart-shaped face smiled prettily, advertising the latest edition of Britain’s top fashion magazine.

“And Frankie!” The former flower seller grinned from the next billboard, rose in hand, to promote his hit single.

“And you, my darling!” Edward pointed. “The nationally famous face of Filbert’s chocolate!”

On the third hoarding Sandra raised a chocolate bar to her lips and gave her real-life self a satisfied wink.

BY JUDY PUNCH

NEXT WEEK: Don’t miss our new serial TheRosesOfHalloranHall, a romantic time-slip tale that will warm your heart.