London, January 1993

Katrina didn't know if Dee's TV production company was typical or if the way they worked was what always went on in telly-land. If it was... well.

Well, indeed. When she got back after her first day there, Daisy pounced. Not just Daisy to be honest. The entire Walker family insisted on dragging her into their kitchen, forcing her onto a chair, thrusting a cup of tea into her hands and demanding she talk.

Really, she would have preferred to have sneaked up to her room, unobserved, so she could mull over the events of the last few hours. It felt weirdly confusing, and she wanted to sort it out in her mind first before she gave her experiences air time.

"So, tell us what happened??" Daisy wasn't going to allow her any peace and quiet. What was Katrina supposed to have witnessed? Numerous stars coming and going, helicopters landing as they casually spilled out, demanding packets of M&Ms with all the yellow ones removed or something?

"It was dead boring," she said eventually, pushing the cup of tea back. In truth, she was exhausted. You wouldn't believe how dull it was to hang around a TV set all day while camera men and the most diva-like director in the entire world (it was only a cooking programme, FFS!) argued over each tiny milli-second of what they were filming.

Glamorous, it was not.

Debbie stood up. "Do you want something to eat, Katrina? You look worn out."

Katrina nodded gratefully, blinking back tears quickly before anyone noticed. Debbie caught her off-guard occasionally. Those little caring touches her own mother never bothered with. The kitchen still smelled of whatever the Walkers had eaten for dinner, and Katrina crossed her fingers that there was some of whatever it was left.

The microwave pinged, and a heaped-up plate of veggie lasagne generously covered in melted cheese was put in front of her. She dug in gratefully. Eating gave her time to gather her thoughts too.

The Walkers allowed her to eat four ginormous mouthfuls before they resumed their attack.

"Start at the beginning," Daisy said. "What happened when you arrived?"

Dee's first summons had come last-minute. That's how it was in TV world. They asked, you jumped. Rick only accepted holiday requests weeks in advance, so she'd been forced to call in sick to Chevelure Chic. Or rather, Daisy had done it for her, pretending to be Debbie and using her poshest voice.

"Good morning, my name is Deborah Walker. I'm phoning on behalf of my ward, Katrina Burnett. I'm afraid she won't be able to come in to work today as she has caught this ghastly stomach bug that's doing the rounds, and the poor soul has been vomiting all night. I'm sure you wouldn't want to put your customers at risk? I did hear a story recently about a customer who sued a business when he caught the Novovirus."

Much harder to accuse the upper middle-classes of lying, right?

The studio had been in an old warehouse near the docks. When Katrina arrived, minions were running around trying to recreate a flat—the kind of modern, trendy place a Rock 'n' Roll chef would live and cook in.

They'd done well, she had to admit. A spiral staircase had been placed it in the middle of the building. One of the minions was sliding down the rail, gliding floor-wards, racing up the steps and doing it again, while the others applauded.

To the right, there was the kitchen—a huge island set up with a wooden chopping board and a set of knives so lethal-looking Katrina wondered that anyone dared lift them up. Around the island were cabinets, a fridge and range sporting five hobs. All on its own, it looked weird, but she could tell that when the cameras zoomed in, the fake furniture would look exactly like a modern kitchen in a des-res place.

She heard a loud wolf whistle. Mick stood at the top of the spiral staircase, grinning at her. He didn't drop his gaze as he placed a hand behind him, tilted his butt so he leant against the railing and slid neatly to the bottom.

"Catty! Good to see you!"

He did that kiss to one cheek and then the other. Obviously, he'd been mixing with the rich and famous for too long already. No one Katrina knew did that, not even the Walkers and they had spent a lot of time in France.

"You badly need my services," she said when he let her go, his attention already distracted by some action going on behind them—a group of young women and men who weren't part of Dee's team, and milling about the area.

All of them looked as if they had just stepped out of the pages of a magazine.

Dee was making her way towards them, her brow furrowed and her hands tightly clutching a clipboard.

"Katrina!" she barked. "There's an area over there you can use. Get yourself set up. We need to get going as soon as possible."

She thrust a hand in the air and waggled it vaguely at a space behind her, and Katrina headed there. It wasn't ideal. There was only one miniscule sink, and one plug point. At least she'd had the foresight to bring her own hairdryer and straighteners. The sink and the mirror were the only things Dee's production company had given any thought to.

Katrina didn't trust other people's make-up either and had come armed with her full kit. Industrial-strength foundation, bronzer, powders, anti-shine creams and the rest. Who was to be her first victim?

Three hours later, and she still hadn't done anything. The minions were still running around, moving bits of furniture one millimetre to the left, and then one to the right again. Dee kept conferring with various people and shaking her head, then some tiny movement would happen, then another.

Mick was moved about various place and filmed. Then, more conferring, more filming and the whole cycle stuck on endless repeat. Next time she came to one of these things, Katrina promised herself she would bring a stack of magazines. She could read all the articles and cut out the bits that Daisy might like, seeing as her friend viewed their advice about relationships as biblical pronouncements.

Never trust a producer who says the words "get going as soon as possible".

Finally, finally, people were sent her way and she was told to make them up. Dee thrust a laminated piece of card at her. Katrina noted a list of the do's and don'ts for TV make-up and hair.

"Just in case you don't know," Dee said, wheeling in a light that was similar to the one that would be used in filming, and switching it on so it cast a white-yellowy glow to the space. She also plugged it into the only power point.

Stick to a foundation shade similar to the subject's skin, the card pronounced. Eliminate ALL shine. Use powder eye shadow. Try eyelash curlers. Outline lips with a pencil or a brush. Be careful with the shade of red you choose.

"Over and out," Katrina mocked a fake salute, then dropped her hand quickly in embarrassment as Mick appeared in front of her.

"As you said," he sat down on the stool in front of the mirror. "I need your services the most."

The eyes danced. When you stood behind someone, both of you looking at your reflections, it allowed... something. She moved her hands to his face, placing finger tips on either cheek bone.

"We've gottae do something about your zits," she said, dotting her forefingers over imaginary spots.

He smirked at that, leaning back onto her so his shoulder blades pressed into her breasts. She slid an arm out, reaching for the foundation so that she didn't move from behind him. They both watched as she squeezed out a pea-sized amount onto the top side of her hand and spread the liquid evenly. She took the brush, dipped it in the yellowy-pink puddle and held it in front of Mick's face.

"Do your worst," he said. And she began, dabbling tiny bits of foundation onto his face and allowing the brush to move lightly over the cheekbones, then his chin and onto his forehead.

Eliminate all shine, the rules said, so she dusted powder over him, the tiniest, lightest movement. His eyes closed in response as the powder puff moved onto his forehead, nose and chin.

The laminated card also specified how the hair should be. Bouffant. Light and airy looking, and clean of course. She pressed the card into Mick's hand, and asked him if this was how he wanted to look. He looked up quickly, catching her eye in the mirror. "No!"

She stuck her fingers in his hair, something she'd first done all those years ago when she'd first met him. It felt exactly the same, thick and soft, the skull smooth beneath it. Reassuring for him, she supposed, that if or when he went bald, the emerging scalp wouldn't be lumpy.

"It could do with cutting," she said. Mick's white-ish blonde hair currently touched his shoulders. Men's hairstyles didn't offer up nearly as many choices as women's, but she knew the short back and sides would really suit him. He'd never let her cut his hair before, perhaps fearing that she might take revenge for all those sarky comments over the years, but he nodded now.

They were still caught in the weird reflective intimacy. Around them, the noise and bustle of the crew preparing the set continued, frequent outbursts of cursing and the thumps and bumps of moving furniture. No matter. Katrina was deaf to it, her ears only attuned to the sound of Mick's voice and his breathing. Slow, regular, even; it was difficult to stop herself matching her own to his.

She squirted his hair with water, and flashed the scissors in front of him, eyes asking if he was still sure. A nod again, and she began to cut, large hanks of it coming away and dropping to the floor. Close to his head at the back, the hair was slightly darker, a sandy blonde, but she left enough of it at the top for the white blonde to dominate how he looked.

She finished it off with her hair clippers, running them up the back and sides. Mick tipped his head to allow her to do so, shutting his eyes at the same time. His lips were parted, and Katrina fought the temptation to place her fingers on them, push against the bottom lip and feel his mouth fasten around her.

The haircut made her oddly triumphant. She'd been right all along. Mick, long-haired, was Viking like (and god-like), but Mick short-haired... That was something else. The cut emphasised his jawline and those big blue eyes.

"Oh my fucking god!"

Dee was behind them, her hand clamped in front of her mouth and her eyes wide open.

Katrina turned, almost dropping the scissors in fright. Had she just done something that was totally verboten? Maybe they'd already filmed Mick for the beginning with his longer hair.

Dee stooped, picking up some of the hair that lay on the floor. "I wonder if I should save this and offer it to fans in a few months' time?"

She folded her arms and regarded them both. "Okay, I hadn't planned on giving young Lochinvar here a haircut, but it works really well. It's super macho anyway."

Phew. Katrina felt her heart slow down again. She'd thought Dee was about to sack her.

She re-did Mick's make-up, dusting more powder across his cheekbones. Dee had left them alone again, but the earlier mood had gone, evaporating with Dee.

Fully made-up, he got up from the stool and opened his arms. "Thanks Catty, you're no' bad with the scissors."

She accepted his hug, amused to note that Mick had an erection he was doing nothing to hide. Fair enough. It could be her, it could be the haircut. Alfie had told her that lots of men found a woman running her hands through their hair and the feel of an electric razor on the back of the head a turn-on.

But she wasn't going to chase Mick. That had always been her rule. When so many women did, she had no intention of adding to their numbers.

"Mick! We're ready to start!"

Whatever, then. The demands of the TV filming schedule beckoned. He winked at her, and pulled his shirt out over his jeans to hide the bump there.

The rest of the day was as tedious as the first part had been. Out of curiosity, she watched the first take, but by the sixth she was well and truly fed-up, and knew all Mick's words off by heart. What was semi-interesting, was how off-the-cuff it was meant to look. An off-camera voice would ask the odd question here and there, and Mick would look surprised and say something.

Every single word and look was rehearsed. Hence, the hundreds of takes for each tiny scene. Nothing was spontaneous, and everything had to be perfect.

Her day perked up a little towards the end when the young and glamorous crowd she'd noted earlier were all hustled into her space and she was ordered to make them up. One of them, Dina, told her they all worked for an agency that supplied people for events. They were there to add glamour. Usually, she said, she had to do boxing matches or corporate events where dodging gropers was the norm. This was far more entertaining, and a step closer to her real goal—to be an actress.

It was eight o'clock by the time Dee declared herself finally happy with the results. Katrina had been there since seven am. Same time tomorrow, people, Dee told them. A ghastly stomach bug could last all week. Katrina must remember to thank Daisy later. She'd not thought this through, imagining Dee would just want her for one day.

She gave the Walkers an edited version of the day, missing out the intimate bits. It didn't matter anyway, they were still thrilled. "They always look so natural," Tony mused, "these TV programmes, but now we have our insider knowledge and we know better!"

He clapped her on the back as he stood up, offering everyone another round of teas.

Upstairs in her room, having used her crippling exhaustion as an excuse to be on her own, Katrina got into bed and sipped her tea. Oh, today had been boring. Mindlessly, numb-skullingly so, but it had also been special. And she was going to do the same for the next five or so days, running her hands through Mick's hair as she set it with mousse and dotting her fingers over his skin.

"I have you in my sights," she whispered to herself, hugging the delightful thought of it close. Playing the long game was bound to deliver up results eventually, wasn't it?