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.

"You've time to eat, madam. And I've made you something, so it would be rude and ungrateful of you to refuse."

The Walkers' kitchen was something else. Katrina reckoned Alfie had grown up in similar circumstances to her. His family home wouldn't contain what estate agents called a dining kitchen, where the family had enough room to put in a table so they could gather there to eat. Katrina had never eaten anything in the kitchen with her mother.

Debbie had plonked down two plates—bacon and scrambled eggs on toast—in front of them, along with a bottle of HP sauce. Alfie thanked her profusely and proceeded to empty almost half the bottle over his plate.

"Thanks, Mrs Double-U!" he beamed up at her, and Debbie turned to look at Katrina, her gaze sardonic. Mrs Double-U was Katrina's name for Debbie. She must have figured out she'd been talked about.

Katrina managed one slice of toast and about a third of the bacon and eggs before giving up. Her stomach was in knots. Adding digestion into the mix was too much to ask of it. She mimed rubbing her stomach, and Debbie whisked the plate away. Alfie's was empty anyway.

He grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. "Let's go!"

Outside, he beamed at her. She couldn't help it. A smile cracked out. Despite the nerves, the anticipation won through. This was her first big job. Beside her, she had someone she knew was reliable and trustworthy, and he was...

Funny. Interesting. Bit hard. Great hair.

She batted the thoughts out of her head. There was a wedding to do, FFS.

The bride-to-be was at her family home, a sprawling fake Tudor monstrosity of a place in Sussex. Thankfully, the roads were quiet enough for the journey not to take too long. Alfie had borrowed his mate Darren's van, and he drove them there in time for them to arrive half an hour early.

Nevertheless, Lydia yanked the front door open with the air of one who'd been stood at the window waiting for their arrival.

"At last. Come in, we're all upstairs."

Tea, coffee or anything else wasn't offered but Katrina was mostly relieved. The house was carpeted throughout in thick cream-coloured wool. Imagine if she spilt her drink because of nerves.

Upstairs, the bridal party in various states of readiness, were in the main bedroom. Katrina ordered those who were dressed to take their clothes off, which set off a flurry of moans. She pointed out that there was too much of a risk that make-up would spill onto the dresses, deepening her Scottish accent to add additional menace to the threat.

It worked, and everyone began to disrobe, not even bothering to cover up in front of Alfie, who winked at her and pretended to gawp at the bridesmaid with the biggest boobs.

They set up a factory line. Thankfully, everyone had washed their hair beforehand, so Alfie was able to start blow-drying and setting the hair. Alicia had specified that her bridesmaids were all to wear their chignon-style, with Swarovski crystal studded clips holding them in place.

It was one of the first things you learnt as a hairdresser, and much easier than it looked. It was also one of those styles that wasn't that easy to do yourself.

Katrina worked on the make-up. Again, Alicia had precise instructions. Her attendants were to be made up in English rose fashion—pink blusher and lipstick, blue kohl. Katrina took no notice. It was a look that didn't suit many. She adapted the make-up for each woman, and kept it light so that Lydia wouldn't necessarily notice her instructions had been ignored.

She left Lydia till last, figuring she should stretch that make-over out so that it looked as if she was getting the most attention. Again, the English rose look wasn't one she would have suited, so Katrina used red-brown blusher and lipstick and a purple eyeliner that suited her olive skin much more. By the time her thick, dark hair had been neatly wrapped in its chignon and crowned with a tiara, she looked stunning.

Her wedding dress was obscenely tight, a clingy, sleeveless and strapless number that fanned out, fish-tail style at the bottom. It was too flashy for Katrina--all those crystals around the bodice were OTT--but there was no chance any of the wedding guests would look other than at the bride.

Lydia's mum grasped hold of Katrina's arm, her eyes wet and shiny. "Oh! You've done such an incredible job! Would you and Alfie like a glass of champagne before you head off?"

Alfie stepped in once more with a fervent yes. Katrina had been going to say no, as she felt it might not be professional, and as this was her first job she needed to look as good as possible.

By this point, it was clear the bride and her bridesmaids had been imbibing most of the morning. They chorused that Katrina and Alfie must have a drink.

As it turned out, with a few glasses of fizz in her, Lydia was okay. As she wanted her wedding night to be special, she'd imposed a sex ban for the past two weeks and she told everyone in graphic detail just what was going to happen that night. She'd promised her hubbie-to-be anal. Apparently, he'd always wanted that.

Her mother looked horrified, and Alfie blushed bright red, but Katrina joined in with the laughter.

The limousine arrived, and she and Alfie waved the bride and her father off. The bridesmaids and Lydia's mum left shortly after that in another stretch limo.

"Arseholes," she said as she watched them go, but the words were fond, and Alfie nodded.

"Bit trusting, eh?" he held out the key Lydia's mum had given him, along with orders to lock up after themselves and post the key through the front door.

It didn't take them long to clear up, Alfie joking that they made a good team and when would they work together again.

Katrina shrugged. "Soon, hopefully. Lydia and her mum better spread the word about me. Mebbe you could leave Chevelure Chic too, come and work for me."

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. It was too much to ask someone, and it sounded a bit...well, as if she was asking for something else too.

Alfie had stilled, pausing in his wrapping of cable around the hair driers.

"Yeah? We'll see. How's the Rock 'n' Roll chef, by the way? Got a date for his programme goin' out yet? I keep seeing those bloody posters every time I go on the Tube."

Oof. Not friendly at all.

"Early July, I think. Can you drop me at Sally's? I need to pick up hair dye."