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

Screamin' Queen, Though...

London, December 1992

The Kippy and Alfie meet-up went much better than the Mick/Alfie version that had happened earlier that year.

Needless to say, the days leading up to Christmas had been super busy in Chevelure Chic. Everyone saw Christmas as THE time to get their hair done. "It's party season, so London ladies want their hair to look its best. We are there to facilitate that," Rick told them earnestly before the madness began.

Katrina always reckoned you could tell when Rick had been away on some pish management course. He came back brimming with a sincere belief in the power of big words and motivational speeches. She and Alfie would nudge each other surreptitiously as he droned on and on about the importance of working as a team or providing excellent customer services.

The salon dealt with wealthy people in the main, thanks to its prices and central London location. Rich women, in turn, sent their spoilt daughters there. Katrina wondered at them, those girls in their late teens and early twenties who took a £100 haircut and colour for granted. Not for them the cheap packets of super stinky hair dyes she'd made do with as an experimental fifteen-year-old. One of them had sat in front of her this morning, tutting in exasperation when she had to put her mobile phone down while Katrina combed out her wet hair.

Mobile phones were everywhere in London these days. You were only 'it' if you had one. Naturally, Rick did. He almost always came into the salon with it glued to his ear and a loud conversation going on.

Kippy came into the salon just before it shut on the Tuesday night. Christmas over and done with, the glamorous and the good were revving up for their New Year parties. If Christmas hair was styled to be soft and touchable looking, New Year hair had a spikier, gutsier feel to it.

Katrina had seen him approach the glass-fronted building, a tall, lanky stranger who looked vaguely familiar before she realised who he was. Recognition made her squeal, causing Mrs Dreyfus (fabulously wealthy, but kind too and who always insisted on Katrina cutting her hair as she said no-one else could do curls as well as she could) to start and glance behind her.

"Kippy!"

He looked different. The last time she'd seen him, he'd looked gaunt, his eyes restless and weary at the same time. He'd filled out a little, she could tell, but the biggest change was in the way he carried himself. The new Kippy walked into the salon as if he belonged there.

Alfie glanced around from his spot beside Katrina, where he was applying foil highlights to Mrs Dreyfus's friend.

"Hiya. Thought I'd see where you worked."

She wasn't used to the Scottish accent anymore. His had broadened slightly, and the words sounded out of place in the refined, hyper-femininity of the salon.

"You never told me you were definitely coming." She managed not to make the words sound resentful. If there was anything she'd ever learned about the men in her life, it was that they never bothered with ordinary courtesies.

"Wee surprise! A good one, aye?" He hugged her. He felt different too. Kippy had been ribby-thin for years. He was still lean, but he felt more powerful now. Amused, she noted that Chevelure Chic's other female stylists were gawking, scissors, hair-dryers and brushes held an inch or so in suspense above the clients' heads. Natalie's tongue was practically hanging out.

"I haven't said anything to Tony and Debbie," she said muttered. Great. What a surprise to spring on them, and worse, Daisy.

He shook his head. "S'okay. I've got digs. I'm staying with a pal of mine."