A fitting BEQUEST
Annie Bailey was never one for superstitions. Tarot and crossing your palm with silver and all that voodoo-hoodoo malarkey? She didn’t believe in any of it. You made your own luck in this life, good or bad.
She turned 20 in 1962 and she knew she was dazzling. Strolling up Carnaby Street in her second-hand purple minidress, her leaky white PVC boots showing off her seemingly endless legs, window-shopping in Quant and Biba and Chelsea Girl, she was always aware of attention coming her way. She was tall, slender, with a long bouffant of chocolate-brown hair and a face that could easily launch a fleet of ships. She had eyes as dark green as tourmalines, a wide mouth and an attitude that said ‘don’t you dare mess with me’.
Annie was tough. She hadn’t ever
