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

Saving it Up for your Wedding Night

London, June 1993

"I could help, your first gig an' all that."

She pounced on the offer. This was like an answer to prayers. Debbie had spread the word rather too well. I know this young hairdresser and she's been doing my hair for years.

Debbie's hair told the story for her. To be fair, Katrina reckoned Debbie's hair was largely thanks to great genetics, rather than any skills she had. It was very thick, even at her age, and it fell beautifully. All she needed to do was show it the scissors and it behaved beautifully.

But all Debbie's friends cooed over her hair, reaching out jealous hands to touch it. And Katrina had once done an amazing job on a friend of Debbie's not quite as follicle-y blessed, giving her a blow-dry for an occasion that had made her much thinner hair look thick and bouncy.

Mrs Dreyfus had done her bit too. She'd sought Katrina out when she'd found out about Rick firing her, insisting he hand over her home telephone number even when he'd muttered about that breaking staff privacy policies.

"You're the only one who can cut my hair!" her voice had boomed out over the phone when she finally got hold of Katrina. She forced her to tell her why she'd resigned too, tutting loudly at Rick's behaviour and telling Katrina that her idea for mobile salon services was brilliant.

The wedding gig had come through Debbie. A work colleague's daughter was getting married, and her usual hairdresser had gone bust, the owner fleeing the country under very suspicious circumstances.

Debbie had promised that her hairdressing friend was just starting out on her own, but was trust-worthy, reliable and an ace with scissors, styling and hairspray.

Katrina met the daughter at her home, a converted warehouse flat in an up-and-coming part of London. Lydia was only a couple of years older than her, she guessed, and a perfect example of the newly-coined term, Bridezilla.

Not only did she have very precise ideas of how she wanted her hair and make-up to look on the day, her bridesmaids were to follow suit too. She'd even gone as far as ordering them all to grow their hair when she'd first announced her intention of getting married a year ago.

The number of bridesmaids had dismayed Katrina too—eight of them, one super-picky bride and the bride's mother. How on earth was she going to manage to get them all ready in time?

But now Alfie had rung her and offered to help, saying Chevelure Chic owed him a lot of time off, and he'd be more than happy to lend a hand. For money, like. He wasn't that soft. They'd exchanged a little light-hearted bartering after that—40 percent?! Sod off, it's 50 percent or nothing—and he'd promised to come around on the Saturday first thing so he could help her out.

The Saturday arrived. Katrina hadn't slept well. She'd dreamt of turning up in an empty theatre. It was about to stage a play, and she was the star, but she didn't know any of her lines and the whole thing was due to start in an hour.

No prizes for being good at psychology for working that one out.

"Katrina, Alfie's here!" Daisy's voice sang out. No doubt she'd pounced on the doorbell, hoping it was ghastly Graham.

Katrina bolted down the stairs, two at a time.

Alfie was hopping from foot to foot. It was still a little chilly, even for summer, and as usual he was wearing just jeans and a tee shirt.

Debbie had opened the kitchen door. "What about breakfast, you two?"

Alfie said yes at the same time as Katrina said no. Debbie looked at her, the kind of stare she could imagine someone making the most of if they could do it over a pair of specs.