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

Publicity Prefers You Single

London, March 1993

And then there's the sucker punch...

"Dee doesnae want me to see anyone. Well, more like be seen with anyone if you know what I mean."

Mick's enunciation had slipped; those elocution lessons dropped for a conversation with an old friend. Just as well. If that old friend had listened to him tell her that rubbish in his new posh voice, she might have been provoked to violence.

Mick had added the secrecy clause afterwards. When he'd agreed that yes, they would be good together, and he did mean it in the traditional sense—where they go out, girlfriend and boyfriend.

To be contrary, she adopted her best middle-class Walker tones now. "No. I have no idea, Michael, what precisely you mean. Do tell."

He groaned at that, and pulled her to him, nuzzling the top of her head with his lips. This, the gentle, romantic Mick took some getting used to. At every point, she expected him to sneak a hand down her back, moving to her bottom, or for a press too close to a chest for it to be anything other than sexual.

"Publicity," he said. "S'posed to be better for the ratings of the Rock 'n' Roll Chef if ah'm single, or seem to be. Y'know, like those guys in boy bands."

He whispered then. Didn't she remember the stories about Rock Hudson (and those boy band guys), planted with all these women because the studios and management were terrified the public would find out he (and they) was/were gay (and hate him/them).

This was the same thing. Sort of.

"I didn't know you were gay," she said, tartly, and the denial was so furious, it seemed totally out of proportion.

But because he seemed so genuinely sorry about the publicity thing, she let him away with it. What did bloody Dee matter anyway. A secret was nice. You hugged it to you, and you cherished it when others made these assumptions about you. No, you're wrong. I'm a wee sexy honey, and I'm the pick of the Rock 'n' Roll chef...

Keeping it secret from Daisy was a challenge, but not that much of one these days. Daisy's mind was filled with Ghastly Graham—still, that badly needed nipping in the bud—her exams and wittering on about what she was going to do next. They hello-ed and good-bye-ed each other on the stairs, and neither noticed or accounted for the hours they spent out of the house.

Mick took the order that he take her out seriously too. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite the night Katrina imagined. Mick wanted to check out some chi-chi place in east London. Up and coming, but not yet well known enough that it was likely they would bump into any of Dee's crowd or media types who might recognise Mick in future and remember he'd been there with a bird.

The Walkers had broadened Katrina's palette, but she still thought of herself as a plain fare kind of girl. The east end place specialised in authentic Pakistani, and it was fucking hot. Three mouthfuls in, and the sweat poured off her. Mick kept shoving spoonfuls in, commenting on the cumin, or the turmeric or the sodding coriander and how fresh it all tasted.

He wanted to taste hers, and made her take a mouthful of his.

The waiter took their first course plates and smirked. Nonetheless, he returned a minute later with a glass of something ice-cold and milky-orange looking.

"Lassi," he said. At first, she thought he was taking the piss out of her Scottish-ness, but then he mimed drinking it, and she took a cautious sip. The fire in her mouth abated slightly.

"Ah'm gonnae try to do some of this in the next series," Mick said, and then Katrina felt herself fall back in love with him again.

The next series. The bloody programme was yet to go out. It might yet be a total disaster. Beyond bonkers shite.

She nodded. "Aye, good idea. Rock 'n' roll chef does curry. That would work."

Mick grinned at her. She'd done the right thing. Maybe he would now, ask her about the hairdressing lark. What's that like, cutting hair? D'ye want to do it for the rest of your life? Will the TV stuff lead on to other gigs?

Silence.

The chef approached as they tucked into their main courses, equally as hot as the first. Maybe chefs could sniff out their own.

"How're?" A dark-brown face, a broad Glasgow accent, softened by the man's native tongue. The sniff thing was obviously right.

"Good, mate, good," Mick replied, nodding far too hard. He started chef chat, knives, basil, the best fish and meat markets in London, and then neatly dodged the question about where he worked. As it happened, he was doing temping work for an agency to make some money, but he didn't want to admit it or that it was the fill-in time until his real celebrity chef life began.

After, they left, Mick surprising her by taking her hand. Maybe it was to make up for introducing her to the chef in the chi-chi place as his old pal from home, emphasis on pal.

"Is that date two then?" he asked, squeezing her fingers. "Or three? I'm counting."

She bet he was. Katrina had told him nine dates. Cosmopolitan suggested three, so she'd tripled it, figuring that Mick needed three times as much time as a normal bloke to show he was serious about her.

"It's the first," she said, pulling her toward him. "But I'm free on Friday night. And Saturday."

"So, Sunday, Catty? Then Monday or Tuesday, mebbe Wednesday?"

A full-on snog was called for; an appetiser for what was to come.

"We'll see," and with that, she stood on her tip-toes and put her arms around his neck.