London, June 1993
Silly to pretend her day hadn't been spent imagining, dreaming, fantasising about what was going to happen that night
She'd cut two clients' hair that day. Luckily, they were Debbie's friends. If they'd been strangers, they might have expected more. The distracted hairdresser who didn't even bother to ask them where they going on holiday this year (Tuscany, of course! Also, Cape Cod!) as she styled them was a bit shit.
Luckily, her not really there in the moment manner didn't extend to how she did their hair. Both women stared at their reflections afterwards, awed.
"How much," woman number two said idly, trying to pretend it didn't matter that much, "would you charge to style my hair every day?"
Katrina named a price, three times what she really wanted, and the woman's eyes met hers in the mirror with a "fuck off, chancer" look.
She grinned back at her. The game was on.
In the end, they agreed on a price one and a half times what Katrina would have settled for. Every day meant Monday to Friday. Janine was a lady who lunched, and lunches tended to be working week days only. She wanted to dazzle Lucy, Marion, Rachel and Sarah with her immaculate grooming. "Always make me look better than them," she said, and pulled at her hair. She was going grey prematurely and thinning at the temples.
Katrina stuck her fingers on the sides of the woman's head, holding her hair out so that it looked fuller, and nodded solemnly. "I promise."
Back in her room, she stripped off. The wee room didn't have a full-length mirror, only a half-size one on the back wall, so she had to stand on the bed and move about to get an idea of her overall appearance.
Breasts? Too small. Hips? Too narrow. Legs? Too bony. Well, it wasnae like she could do anything about it. She patted foundation on to her face, and dressed in stuff that flattered skinny freaks. Straight leg jeans, the pockets embellished with sequins, a camisole top and wedge heels—the kind of outfit guaranteed to make Debbie squeal, "Will you be warm enough?" as she left the house.
Mick wolf-whistled when he met her. In yet another out-of-the-way place where no-one would recognise the Rock 'n' Roll chef.
It was a tiny wee dive of a club. You walked down stairs to get in it, and inside the music boom-banged off the walls, far too noisy for conversation. Mick and Katrina did what they had always done best: the dancing.
He bought her an overpriced bottle of beer, and they moved past the little groups standing at the railings that ran around the top floor, separating it from the level below.
People moved away from them instinctively. Katrina raised her arms, and Mick tossed back his head. He recognised the move, an imprint of the way they had communicated with their bodies for years and years.
I move to ye, ye step the same way, I move back.
Different this time. This time, the ending was guaranteed where once it had been only speculation. Silly to dance like this, extended foreplay when the be all and end all, Mick's cock inside her, dangled in front of them.
She danced anyway. Weird, this sudden feeling. Had it only ever been about Mick and his cock? It was for him. She fast-forwarded. Maybe she had built herself up for disappointment. There was a saying about good-looking men. They made no effort in bed.
Maybe her face showed something. Mick bent in slightly towards her, sticking out a tongue and licking her ear lobe.
"Ah've an empty," he said, words loud and clear despite the loud throb of the boom-bang. "C'mon."
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The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ
RomanceMATURE READERS ONLY - CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT It's the 1990s, and 21-year-old Alan Kirkpatrick (aka Kippy) is starting art school and his new life away from the small town he grew up in where no-one knew he was gay. Art school in Glasgow offers ple...
