The rain stopped as quickly as it had begun. A sudden thunderstorm in January wasn’t unusual, and Sydneysiders were used to it. On the corner of Mayfair and Third streets the white facade of number one gleamed in the sunshine, a beacon of brightness among the dull greys and terracotta colours of the old terrace houses stretching away on either side. Shoppers were out again, stepping over the puddles, and two joggers pounded around the corner, nearly colliding with a delivery woman who pushed open the door to number one.

A bell tinkled, and the courier paused to take in the decor. The room’s discreet lighting added to the sunshine coming in through the large plate-glass windows. The walls were lined with racks of chic dresses, tailored jackets and stylish skirts, perhaps a little too crowded to show off their quality. Another circular rack in the middle of the room drooped under the weight of formal wear – long dresses, silk creations, laces and chiffons in colours from the brightest scarlet to the softest blue. The delivery woman strode forward.

The young assistant at the counter looked up expectantly, her ready smile creasing into a frown as she noted the wet footprints being left across the whitewashed wooden floor of the main entrance to Ketty Clift Couture.

“Deliveries at the side entrance.”

The courier plonked a small box on the counter. “I was told this was urgent.”

The assistant’s eyes widened when she saw the name of the sender. She signed for the package, scooped it up and, with only a quick thought to retrieving the mop on her way back, she hurried past the heavy linen drapes of the fitting rooms, through the client lounge and out into the brightly lit work area.

Neither the woman bent over the large cutting table nor the other two focused on their sewing machines paid her any attention. The warm tones of jazz could be heard each time the machines paused. Six women worked here and they took turns to select the background music of the day. Today it was Miss Ketty’s choice and she always went for jazz.

In the back corner of the workshop she caught a glimpse of her employer’s now chin-length grey hair. It was swept back from her forehead in a look that might be harsh on some but was softened by the waves of hair that curled back and around to her cheeks. It was a crowning glory above the elegant but simple black shirt and pants the older woman favoured. She was bent over a drafting table with her manager, both engrossed in what they were doing. The assistant hurried in their direction.

Ketty Clift adjusted her reading glasses on her nose with one hand while the pencil in her other swept over the paper, adding lines to the sketch. She was acutely aware of Judith Pettigrew’s sharp gaze following every mark.