There is no way I’m doing that!’ Kathy pressed her nose to the window of the workshop. It was late – after 7pm – and there were a dozen workers still bent over cutting tables and sewing machines.
Jack shrugged. ‘It’s hard work but they’re nice people.’
Bill shook his head. ‘I never agree with Kathy, on principle, but this time she’s right. It’s a sweatshop! We trained to be designers, and I am not getting stuck in there!’
‘There’ was a couture house in London’s fashion district. Kathy, Bill and Jack had recently graduated from fashion college, but only Jack was working, making up other people’s creations.
‘I won’t work for nine shillings an hour,’ Kathy said.
‘You’re idiots,’ Jack said, ‘and I have to get back in or my boss will kill me.’
Kathy and Bill walked off towards Oxford Street.
‘It’s the system I hate,’ Bill grumbled. ‘A cartel of powerful designers are keeping us down.’
‘I’m going to be big,’ Kathy said. ‘But not by making tea for Mary Quant or Ossie Clark.’
‘Aren’t you
