The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ

Coming Up With Your USP

London, 1992

Another day, another postcard.

Stood in the hallway of the Walkers' house, Katrina turned the card over in her hand, glad this time that she'd got to the post before Daisy. This one was delicate.

The postcard was one of those ironically shit ones—a cartoon of two sheep stood in a field huddled under a tree while the rain bucketed down, and captioned 'Scotland in summer. Wish you were here!' Kippy had doodled on it, adding in a male figure stopped under the tree, a coat pulled over his head.

'Doesnae rain in London, does it?'' he'd written. 'So I heard. Any chance of a bed for the night?'

He'd scribbled down the number of the payphone in his halls so she could ring and confirm. Katrina had given him her phone number when she moved down to London. And she knew Daisy had definitely passed it on aeons ago too, but it looked like he was either too skint to pay for a call, or he'd done the typical lads thing and lost the bit of paper with the number on it as soon as she'd given it to him. Certainly, it was the first time he'd contacted her in ages.

The postcard was scant on detail. Like, why did Kippy suddenly want to come to London? Why did he think it was a good idea to stay with her? She lived with Daisy, and that little re-encounter was going to be 100 percent awkward.

Plus, she'd need to run the idea past Debbie and Tony. They were remarkably open about Kippy. Hell, Tony had financed her cousin's art school career after all, even if it was with stolen money. But playing house to the guy who had broken their daughter's heart... That might be acceptance too far.

She walked into the kitchen. Tony was sat at the table.

"I've been thinking about that idea you had, Katrina love," he said. In front of him, there was a notepad and a pen.

You couldn't accuse Tony of lacking energy and enthusiasm. Send the man to jail, let him return and find that his once former friends scattered to the winds, and still he smiled and got on with it.

She gave the notepad a cursory glance. He'd written a list.

Yellow Pages was open in front of him. Its hugeness always impressed Katrina. Kirkcudbright's Yellow Pages was less than a tenth of the size.

"I should approach them, these small businesses," he said. "Smartly dressed, of course, and offer my book-keeping services. I could risk telling them I'm a convicted criminal, and I'm a fully qualified accountant, but as I've been struck off," at that he paused, and Katrina heard a whole world of pain, "I can no longer practise as such, but I can provide them with exemplary book-keeping. I thought that might be my USP."

Ooh-ess-pee. He exaggerated it, but Katrina knew he meant what he said. She could tell Tony had imagined himself endless times walking into a small business premises—a tanning salon, a flower seller, a garage—and making himself say, "I'm a convicted criminal, but I'm a qualified accountant and I can..."

Behind him, Debbie had come into the room. She shook her head imperceptibly.

"Aye, that might work, Tony," emphasis on the 'might', "but I think you should concentrate on what you can give them. Like, you can save them money and all that shit? Dinnae lie to them, but mebbe don't mention your conviction. They might ask, but bet you they won't."

Debbie gave her a thumbs up.

"Tea, coffee anyone?"

Tony looked over his shoulder.

"Ah, Debbie love! I was just talking about what I could do next, work-wise. Katrina suggested book-keeping. It won't pay as well as accountancy, but if I put in the hours, I reckon I could make enough to contribute my fair share."

Debbie had switched on the kettle. She took a few seconds to answer as she took out mugs, teabags, sugar and milk.

"I'll make a pot, shall I? Tony, the mortgage is paid off. I've got my job. Katrina contributes rent. We're okay."

Oops. Katrina recognised an uncomfortable moment when she saw it. Tony was an old-fashioned bloke. His generation had been raised to look after their women and kids. Maybe things were okay, but Tony needed to feel needed. Hell, it was something she knew. Her whole friendship with Daisy started because Katrina saw this young, clumsy, shy kid who needed to be shown how you survive in this world.

"Wee bit of extra money would be good, though?" she said. "Chevelure Chic's actually looking for a new bookkeeper. The last one wasnae very good."

Shit. And double shit. Now, she was promising what she couldn't deliver. She'd have to go into the boss, grovel to the ghastly Rick and convince him that Tony could provide much better book-keeping services than his brother-in-law did.

Having told Tony that his ooh-ess-pee didn't need to be his criminal background, this situation might work in his favour. Rick often told his staff that he was 'connected' (pish, Katrina said to Alfie the first time she heard it), so maybe this was the one time Tony's jailbird time would count in his favour.

A year ago, Katrina had told two of Daisy's dreadful ex-school friends that Tony was doing fine inside. He was friends with Big Donnie, a London mob boss, and when he came out, he was never going to have to worry about anything again. It was a pile of made-up keek, but Daisy's dumb friends had swallowed it.

Rick was probably just as gullible.