The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (10 page)

— Anyway, carry on at your convenience, the Master Chef said briskly, — or should I say our convenience, he added, looking over at two kitchen porters who were standing by a trolley, — BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT THIS FUCKING TOILET IS LIKE! GENTLEMEN! PLEASE!

The two men scrambled into action while Kibby, going diligently through his checklist, observed the full bins, the boxes
of stock and produce piled up in the gangways. The kitchen was so hot now: a sapping, baking heat, blasting out from the ovens. No matter how often you experienced it, you were always forceably reminded that nothing prepared a visitor for the temperature and bustle of a busy restaurant kitchen. It was that extreme heat that made working in a kitchen one of the hardest jobs around. And the bodies, anonymous in their overalls: moving around like ants, shouting instructions at each other. The first orders were in, the big party outside, from the nearby Scottish Parliament, had taken their places for lunch.

Suddenly Kibby felt strong fingers grappling him in an almost shocking intimacy. De Fretais had his hands around the young officer’s waist. He commenced pulling him into corners and across walkways in a crazed, violent dance, as the cooks brought their stuff together and waiters passed to pick up orders; jostling him with rib-bruising power across the floor in a flimsy guise of benevolence.

And throughout this harassment, Brian Kibby was trying to look out for the signs, attempting to do his job.

To thine own self be true.

I DID A
stupid thing at the Housing Department party. It was normal office party stuff: a big, open-plan gaff, dealing with rent, housing benefits and the like, tons of booze flying around, amateur drinkers throwing up, people vanishing into storerooms for stolen moments of soon-to-be-regretted carnal lust.

I was talking to Shannon, getting a bit maudlin about life, and she was too, me mentioning Kay, her Kevin. Then some drunken lassie stuck some mistletoe over our heads. A peck became a snog, which lasted all night as we held on to each other like orphaned baby monkeys, whose worlds were crumbling around them. Mine certainly was and it seemed that she was in the same boat.

The next day I went up to Samuel’s in St James’s Centre and bought a diamond engagement ring. It cost nearly four hundred quid. I took Kay to the Derby match at Tynecastle, and we saw the bells in at her mother’s. I took it easy on the drink – not much option in that house. All the pictures of Kay, everywhere; a wee lassie in ballerina costume, a high-kicking
Guys and Dolls
amateur production teenager, her first real job in some experimental dance troupe. I darkly saw in the fussing of the aunties, uncles and gran, and her taking it as her effortless lot in life, just how all the lassies in her school must have secretly hated her. That slender, toned body, shiny hair and perfect white teeth, her boundless, enthusiastic smiles, the can-do attitude; all the things I loved simply because she gave them to me. And I will marry this girl.

I didn’t give her the ring though. I resolved that when I
went down on the bended knee, it would be her and me, alone, and I would be totally, utterly, perfectly sober.

Now it’s business as usual. No gradual phasing in after the festive period; for some cunts in the office it’s like Christmas and New Year never even happened. I heard that old wanker Aitken going on about how he hates the festive holiday, and how it’s great to get back to the usual.

The usual.

Foy had put my report on to the second inspection roster, in the anticipation that Aitken or one of his other arse-crawlers would do the cover-up job. Invoking this procedure, a stage two, meant that it wouldn’t need to be referred to the next tier, namely that humourless cunt Cooper up the stairs.

Now chubby boy Foy is emerging from his office, crazy with rage, and not only is he going to tear that sneaky wee fandan Kibby apart, he’s going to do it in front of us all as an example. That’s just the good news. The totally excellent news is that I’m ringside!

He throws the report down on Kibby’s desk and that motion, before he even opens his mouth, has made the sad wee cunt go all eppy. Then Foy snarls, — What the fuck is this garbage? Do you realise that this is a stage two and it leaves this office? he hisses, jabbing his thumb ceilingward.

— But his kitchen was really dirty, that dippit wee fucker Kibby goes, and it’s unbelievable watching Foy almost having a heart attack, seeing that old spunk-bag wonder how he’s gaunnae square that yin with fat boy De Fretais. No more discounts at Le Petit Jardin, no more fussy service and best tables!

— That is not the kitchen of a greasy spoon in Kirkcaldy, you stupid wee laddie, Foy roars in flesh-stripping contempt as Kibby physically cowers, sinking into the collar of his shirt. The term ‘stupid wee laddie’ is, from Foy’s lips, more wounding than any curse I’ve ever heard uttered. — That is Alan De Fretais’s kitchen! Foy booms as Kibby stands up, trying to claim
back some power, but he’s shaking on the spot, red-faced, and with tears welling up in his eyes. Foy steps closer to him, eyes chickenhawk-like, and guess who the chicken is? The fat bastard is really enjoying this. His voice falls almost to a whisper: — Do you have a television in your house?

I’m feeling fucking weird about this. Foy’s a bully, an arrogant, overbearing bastard and he’s totally out of order. Why am I
enjoying
this so much?

— Do you watch said television? he booms. I can almost see the laurels above his ears.

— Ah . . . ah . . . aye.

Foy takes his voice down even further: — Have you ever watched
The Secrets of the Master Chefs
, on Scottish Television, after the news?

— Aye . . .

— Then you will have seen Mr De Fretais from Le Petit Jardin, who presents the programme, Foy says reasonably.

— Aye . . .

— Then, Foy’s voice slows down, — you will know that he is an important man, he contends in a stagy diplomacy, lulling Kibby, who’s now starting to replicate Foy’s nod, before bellowing in his face, — AND NOT TO BE FUCKED WITH!

Kibby physically recoils and wilts further, and I am sure that boy’s white ass is shaking like Elvis’s pet jellyfish, then he rallies a wee bit and coughs out in pathetic defiance, — But . . . but . . . but . . . you sais . . . you sais . . . And I have to admit that something’s happening to me here. I’m angry, though not at Foy for his bullying, but at Kibby, for fucking well taking it.

I’m willing him: fight back, Kibby, where’s your fucking bollocks? Stick up for yourself, you daft wee cunt. C’mon, Brian . . .

— What? mocks Foy. — I sais what? And I feel my own sides convulse in a pain so fucking gleeful because I now realise that I hate this cunt Kibby, and I want him to suffer. I hate him, I really fucking do. Foy’s a buffoon, a joke, but Kibby,
there’s something sneaky about that wee cunt, something sneaky; stupid and pathetic, aye, but it’s like there’s this covert snideyness there to try and make up for it. And I realise now that I want to see Foy make that fucking insect crawl like it makes my flesh creep . . .

HATE HATE HATE
HATE HATE HATE
.

I don’t even know what’s being said now, because I can only see their faces. Kibby’s fucking silly muppet head, his eyes wide in shock; Foy’s crimson coupon, looking like a red-hot kernel of hashish ready to dissolve into his body, to melt right through that tweedy Marks & Sparks torso . . .

Fuckin dingul. How radge is he?

The fun only stops as that cunt Cooper, the big cheese, comes into the office, his presence a signal for Foy to pull himself together. A flustered Kibby goes to the toilet, no doubt to cry his daft wee girly eyes out. I’m tempted to go after him, to witness that little fag squealing like the bitch-slapped wee pussy he is, but no, I’ll chill for a bit and make some coffee. I can’t explain the rage I have against him, the impulse to precipitate and savour his annihilation, and part of me is horribly ashamed off it: the pathetic nature of it all, the raw, searing illicit pleasure this hatred of him gives me.

POST-NEW YEAR
in Edinburgh saw a smoky black city sky hanging like a pile of bricks in a flimsy net above the heads of its inhabitants. The citizenry would frequently look up in anxiety, waiting for it to drop its load on them. Yet most Burgh boys and girls still nipped around briskly: they had processed their hangovers and had yet to break their resolutions, enjoying the wave of optimism a new year brings.

One exception was a fur-headed, dry-mouthed Danny Skinner who was writing a report in earshot of a buoyant Brian Kibby, now recovered from his mauling by Foy, and enthusiastically recounting his recent adventures to Shannon McDowall. — The weekend there, Kibby said in his high, almost girlish nasal whine, — we were up in Glenshee, he explained as Shannon nodded indulgently, sipping black coffee from her Pet Shop Boys mug.

A more clued-up soul than Kibby might have suspected that Shannon was bored and humouring him, but having a massive crush on her served to obliterate his antennae somewhat. In his troubled life dealing with his father’s illness and the tensions in his family, Shannon, the video games – particularly
Harvest Moon
– the model railway and the Hyp Hykers had become his main sources of respite. Shannon and one Hyp Hyker particularly. — . . . n thir was a bunch of us; me, Kenny, that’s the guy who runs the club, he’s a great laugh but pretty mad, Brian Kibby chortled, — and Gerald, who really tries tae keep up, he let his face screw up in a slightly indulgent manner, — but we call him slowcoach, n there’s Lucy . . . Kibby was about to
expand on the main object of his desire when he was cut short by a terse intervention.

— These trips you go on, Brian, they wee treks in the country, Skinner proceeded in prosecution lawyer manner, as he’d learned from Foy, — any rideable females go along?

The elicitation of Kibby’s blush had been Skinner’s sole intention and he wasn’t disappointed. Shannon rolled her eyes and tutted under her breath, busying herself in her paperwork.

— There’s some girls that go – Brian Kibby began hesitantly, looking towards Shannon, who was ignoring him, her head bent over her papers.

— Like the fucking clappers, I’ll bet, Skinner cut him off.

Kibby stammered, feeling like he’d already betrayed Lucy in some unspecific yet deep way, — Eh . . . I dinnae . . . you cannae . . .

Skinner’s mouth tightened, and from Kibby’s point of view his face took on a preternatural hue. — Bet there’s a few rides there, eh?

Shannon McDowall looked first at Kibby then at Skinner. Her glance was dismissive. Skinner caught it and gestured in appeal.

— There’s some nice lassies, aye, Brian Kibby said, quite assertively, and as a result he instantly, for a few precious seconds, felt that he had captured the moral high ground.

Skinner’s expression was stony and serious. — Rode any?

Brian Kibby looked disgusted and turned away, but Skinner saw that the attempt to construct a mature façade was a smokescreen in order to cover his virgin’s humiliation. Shannon McDowall tutted again, shook her head, rose and marched over to the bank of filing cabinets. Colin McGhee grinned over and let his brows rise, tacitly giving Skinner the audience he needed following Shannon’s departure.

— Why so coy, Bri? Skinner said matter-of-factly. — A simple question: rode any birds at this hiking club of yours?

— Nane ay your business! Kibby spat, and stormed off,
heading for the toilets, passing Shannon, who moved back to her desk.

Skinner turned to her. — Looks like I touched a nerve!

— Don’t be so fucking horrible, Danny, Shannon said. Brian Kibby could go on, but he was a nice wee guy, just a bit innocent.

Skinner winked suggestively at her, causing Shannon to feel a slow pang of desire she wished she didn’t. That drunken snog at the Housing Department party. It had just been one of those things, a piece of nonsense neither mentioned again, yet she was reminded of it every time he looked at her in a certain way. Skinner felt it too, and it shamed him. He’d been stupid. He loved Kay, although things were still pretty tense between them after his behaviour at Christmas. Kibby, though, had nobody, Skinner considered with a treacherous, gloating pity. — There’s no stigma in being a virgin at twenty-one. For most people, he grandly contended.

Skinner’s baiting of Brian Kibby was relentless enough in the office, although it was skilfully presented by its architect as just a series of light-hearted wind-ups, based on a genuine, if obviously patronising, friendship, rather than any real malice. However, at the local further education college on their day-release studies for the Certificate of Public Health Management, his viciousness came into its own. Surrounded by many of his peers, the flamboyant Danny Skinner was remorseless: heckling, abusing and humiliating the tongue-tied and socially awkward Brian Kibby at every turn. It got so that in certain places, notably the college refectory during coffee and lunch breaks, Kibby was literally scared to open his mouth, lest he draw Skinner’s attention to him. Other students became either willing accomplices or unwitting stooges, but most were happy to acquiesce rather than face the sharp end of Danny Skinner’s tongue.

That tongue, though, also had its softer side, which was envied
by Kibby, almost as much as he detested its more brutal aspect. The female workers at the council, or more often, the students in the college, were seldom spared Skinner’s verbal charms. Danny Skinner often seemed incapable of letting a girl pass him by without registering a smile, wink or comment.

The abhorrence Skinner had felt towards Brian Kibby, so deep that it often appalled and dismayed him, had grown steadily over the few months of their acquaintance. It had reached the point where he assumed it had evolved to an unsurpassable level. But one incident would elevate this animus to even greater heights.

The engagement ring intended for Kay Ballantyne had been burning a hole in Danny Skinner’s pocket. It was a raw, cold Saturday, with searing gales blasting the city from the North Sea, but the town was nonetheless busy with shoppers, taking advantage of the January sales.