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

Bringing in the New Year With a Bang

London, December 1992

They'd agreed to meet Alfie at Camden Town tube station. He was kicking his heel against the wall as he waited for them. Katrina found herself regarding him fondly.

Nice to have a trusted friend, right?

The second he spotted them, he straightened up.

"Alright, Daisy. Didn't know you was comin'. Already, this night is a lot better."

Daisy preened at his words. Katrina knew she didn't fall for that kind of shit any more than she did, but Alfie and Daisy had this special relationship—the one where they ganged up on Katrina and pretended they loved each other more than they actually did.

"Wow, gels! You look..." he let his voice peter out, comedy-drama.

Katrina had insisted they pull out all the stops. Daisy was wearing a puffa skirt, deeming it just back in even though Katrina would have argued that the fashion went out years ago. She'd matched it with ripped tights, a beaded camisole and a silver crochet cardigan. She'd also allowed Katrina to backcomb her hair, so it stood out, a massive halo around her head. The result was something of a Rocky Horror meets Punk clash.

Alfie made her stand in front of him and do a twirl.

"Fuck!" His hands went to her hair. Stiffened thanks to industrial quantities to hairspray, it didn't move.

"Don't smoke anywhere near me! I'll go up in flames," she said. "though if there's a joint going, I'll take it."

Daisy didn't do alcohol. It interfered too much with her diabetes, so weed was her vice of choice.

Alfie turned his attention to Katrina. "Bit too much gel, gel!"

Gel, gel. It was an in-joke they did. In the 1980s, the Robert Palmer Addicted to Love video featured women with their hair slicked back with gel. These days, gel was shorthand in hairdressing circles for naffness.

She poked her tongue out at him. She knew she'd not overdone it. Her hair was carefully styled the long flop of it falling over one ear. Ruffle it, and you could feel still softness and not the sticky slick of gel. It went perfectly with her vest top, the ripped skinny jeans and the bomber jacket. Katrina hadn't bothered with heels either, electing for biker boots instead. One of her boot-clad feet kicked Alfie now.

"Time to party," she pointed to the Tube entrance.

An hour later—the first, second and third trains had been impossibly crowded, so they'd chosen to wait—they arrived at Primrose Hill. London was really weird, Katrina thought. It wasn't the first time she'd reckoned on this. You could jump on the Tube at one part of the city, go somewhere else and feel as if you were in an entirely different part of the world. Primrose Hill, New Year, was quiet and busy at the same time.

They emerged with crowds who quickly dispersed people crisscrossing in front of them and being swallowed up in the darkness. Then, they walked past pubs and clubs where people spilt out onto the pavements. Katrina blinked a few times. Wasn't that Callie Pearce, the one-time model and now film actress, she'd just seen? Whoever she was, she was arguing furiously with the man beside her, insisting she didn't want to go home and that there was a party not far from here they should go to.

Kippy had given her the directions. The house was a ten-minute walk from the Tube station, a large town house set back from the road. Disco lights flashing on and off in the downstairs rooms and loud music made it clear they'd found the right address.

Nerves were making her stomach flip and gurgle. She pushed a hand in there in annoyance. Why was this bothering her? Over the years, Katrina had been a legendary party goer. She'd been going to wild parties since she was thirteen years of age—it was what you did when you grew up in a small town without cinemas, shopping malls, leisure centres or any form of entertainment. She'd drank, smoked, passed around joints, taken 'E's, had sex and everything. There was nothing this party would have that she hadn't done before. Nerves were for eejits.