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

They Ask. You Jump

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.