The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (24 page)

The two young girls, sunbed-tanned limbs protruding from tight, short summer dresses, exited from the taxi as the lights of Lothian Road glowed thinly. Disembarking from his own cab outside the Shakespeare pub, squaring the driver, Skinner
caught a brief glimpse of one girl’s white knickers as she slid out the cab. He met her eye with a rakish grin and was rewarded with a half-smile back.

Fucking fanny city here. Should follow these wee rides . . . naw . . . head down to the Slutland, then maybe over to Rose Street. End up in George Street. It’s fuckin hotchin doon thaire these days.

But tonight he had an important engagement to keep.

Rick’s Bar was a basement watering hole that had gained national fame from a Condé Nast feature where it was dubbed one of the coolest and most fashionable places in the UK. It never really recovered from that setback, but still enjoyed popularity with some local footballers and the girls who pursued them, as well as a few Scottish media types who believed in hype that wasn’t their own.

This evening, Alan De Fretais had booked it for a special drink he had arranged to celebrate his birthday. Danny Skinner, delighted to be invited, was the sole council representative as Bob Foy had flown out to the Algarve for a week’s golfing.

For a while Skinner had been thinking about De Fretais, anticipating his return from Spain.

We shared one crucial thing: an instinctive dislike of Kibby. Could this chef be my old boy, right enough?

Skinner felt his blood thicken in his veins and his heartbeat race as De Fretais saw him enter and immediately beckoned him over. It’s got to be that fat cunt, he thought in a kind of gleeful disgust as he headed towards the bar where the birthday boy chef and his hangers-on had set up camp.

— Mr Daniel Skinner, Edinburgh Council, the Master Chef announced theatrically, to his appreciative company. Skinner let his head wobble and eyes flicker in some sort of half-acknowledgement to the suits and dresses present.

— Hi, Alan, thanks for the invite. I’ve been reading your book.

— Enjoying it? De Fretais searchingly asked.

— Very much . . . very much . . . funny, cause I ran into that
old boy you wrote about, old Sandy. Still drinks in the Archangel.

— Does he really, De Fretais said frostily, then demurred slightly: — A brilliant chef, and a real character. The man had a remarkable flair for cooking. Could have gone on to do great things, but, well, I expect you saw the condition of him, De Fretais looked worryingly across the room. — He’s not here tonight, is he?

— No, I don’t think so.

— Good. I do owe him a lot, of which he’s always quick to remind me. But sadly, there does come a time with alcoholics when you have to cut them out of your life. It’s always the way.

Skinner felt suddenly uncomfortable under the Master Chef’s searching gaze. Wondered what De Fretais knew about his drinking habits.
Cut them out of your life
. It seemed too easy to him.

Sensing Skinner’s discomfort, he explained, — Unfortunately, it’s the scourge of the catering industry and chefs are very prone to it.

Skinner nodded to the glass of wine in his hand. — Hasn’t stopped you drinking though.

— It did for a while, De Fretais contended, forcing a parsimonious smile. His skin was tanned. Skinner wondered if it was Spain, or a sunbed. — I had a problem with it, and I abstained for years. Then I realised that I could drink safely. It wasn’t the alcohol that was the problem, he said with a smile, sipping the wine, — it was the self-obsession. Alcohol is just the self-obsessive’s medicine.

— But surely we’re all self-obsessed, Skinner said in a sudden rising panic. — I mean, you’re still . . . well, you’re no the sort of person who lacks self-esteem!

— Oh, but it’s nothing to do with self-regard. That’s not what being self-obsessed is about. De Fretais shook his head.

— The biggest egotist need not see every single thing only in regard to themselves, while the most self-effacing, timid or even
downright nice person can see everything completely in that way, he continued, his eyes scanning the occupants of the room.

— We may feel more sorry for the sad, self-loathing alcoholic than the bombastic one who thinks the whole world is out of step bar him, but by and large they’re the same creature.

Skinner nodded thoughtfully, then regaining his composure contended, — I’ve got to say that with the book, it was the shagging bits that interested me most.

He watched De Fretais laugh heartily and then regard him with more interest, raising his eyebrows to encourage Skinner to continue.

— You know, I liked all that stuff about the Archangel Tavern. That must have been some scene back then. Anthony Bourdain wrote about how punk attitudes influenced the development of cuisine in America, but this is the first time I’d heard it about the UK. Do you mind of Bev Skinner? She worked waitressing there at that time. My mother, he added.

De Fretais smiled and nodded, but he wasn’t giving anything away. Skinner considered that if there was any emotional connection with his mother, it had long since dissipated. There was evidence of neither animosity nor fondness. —That’s one name I do remember. She used to hang around with that local band, the Old Boys. Not a bad band as I recall, but they never got the profile they deserved.

— Aye . . . Wes Pilton, the singer, he’s no got a bad voice, Skinner lied. The Old Boys were a band his mother used to inflict on him from time to time.

— So how is your mother?

— Oh, she’s fine. Still goes on about punk like music just died after it.

— I soon got sick of punk myself. That sort of thing was an education for six months, but if you didn’t tire of it after that, you were a bit of a numpty, he said, then looked hesitant, as if realising that Bev Skinner might still be a hard-core punk. — But give your mum my regards. These were good times.

— She didn’t, eh; she and you were never . . . you know? Skinner smiled, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible, although kernels of anxiety were now burning slowly in his chest.

— What
are
you implying, Mr Skinner? De Fretais asked, rolling his eyes playfully.

— Well, you do have a reputation . . . from the book, and I was just wondering . . . Skinner smirked complicitly.

— Hand on heart, no, De Fretais said, and he seemed sincere, adding, — It probably wasn’t for want of trying. Even under all the unflattering make-up and dodgy gear, your mum was a looker as I recall. But she only had eyes for this other guy. For some reason it was all very clandestine stuff as I remember, but I think it was another chef, I don’t know which one. It was probably that Yankee pal of mine, Greg Tomlin. Overpaid, oversexed and over here, De Fretais laughed, regarding Skinner and venturing, — But your mother was a one-man gal, she was besotted with this guy. Yes, definitely a one-man woman, but you seem to be a wee bit more adventurous by nature.

— I’ll try anything once, and if it’s good, more than once, Skinner quipped.

— A man after my own heart, De Fretais said, looking around and dropping his voice. — Some of us are going on to a little private club later. A party
in extremis
situ, no holds barred. Interested?

— Too right, gie’s a shout when you’re ready, Skinner said eagerly.

Fuck knows where the fuck this is gaun, but I’ve got Kibby tae take the negative shit.

The locusts of the city ligging circuit had soon done their work, devouring everything behind the complimentary bar. It was apparent that very few would be staying on to buy rounds. Although the champagne wasn’t of great quality, it was free and Skinner had got a taste for it.

A middle-aged woman in fake fur appeared and threw her hands ceilingwards. — Alan! Darling, that book of yours is
amazing. Tried the asparagus recipe on old Conrad and it was better than Viagra! I was planning to thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I’m thinking a little further down might be more appropriate.

— Delighted to be of service, Eilidh, De Fretais smiled, kissing the woman on both cheeks.

Skinner was finding the exchanges wearisome. This was obvious to De Fretais’s company, and they responded by keeping him at arm’s length. However, they seemed as irked as he did that the free drink was gone. Soon De Fretais caught his eye and they headed for the exit. Climbing the steps to street level, two taxis were waiting. Skinner followed De Fretais, two other men and a woman, into one of them. One of the men was Asian. He was small, but attired in an expensive-looking suede jacket. The woman, who seemed to Skinner to be in her mid-thirties, was well dressed, wearing a tailored suit that he took to be Prada.

The make-up is a wee bit heavy but she looks in no bad nick for her age.

Dinnae fancy the odds but: four guys and only one bird. Dinnae say we’re all on a line-up with this old boiler!

The other man had been looking intently at Skinner. He had dark hair and gaunt features with incongruously bulging eyes. With his taut, stingy lips, this gave him a permanently scandalised air. He and De Fretais were discussing food, as the car cruised the cobbled New Town streets.

— I’m prepared to bow to your expertise on this subject, Alan, but one would have thought that the French –

— All derived from the Greeks and Romans, De Fretais intervened. — Keep cutting back to the three main culinary traditions: Chinese, Roman and Greek. The Greeks and the Romans invented our Western way of eating, the ritual and the feast, the games. The idea that every sensual pleasure had to be explored, he said, turning again to Skinner who was now feeling a little unsettled.

They entered a basement building, after De Fretais had rung the bell, barking his name into the intercom. A tall, tanned man greeted them. He had hard brown eyes and short, curling brown hair, greying at the temples. — Alan, Roger . . . you’ve brought some friends along . . . he purred, looking Skinner up and down.

— Graeme . . . good to see you, De Fretais beamed. — You’ve met Anwar.

The Asian man extended his hand and the man called Graeme shook it.

— This is Clarissa, and this is Danny.

Graeme then took the woman’s hand and kissed her on both cheeks, before shaking hands firmly with Skinner. There was something harsh and predatory in his stare and Skinner felt the power in his grip. Though middle-aged, he looked in good physical condition. Skinner felt uneasy and for some reason kept thinking about Kibby.

De Fretais and Graeme led them into a large room. It was painted white and sparsely decorated, with huge ceilings, impressive cornices, a marble fireplace and an ornate brass and crystal chandelier. There was a long oak table adorned with some plates of food; smoked salmon, diced chicken, rice, various salads and antipasti and the like. Intriguingly for Skinner, he noted oysters, which he had yet to try, lying on beds of crushed ice in several large silver platters. Even more interesting were the copious quantities of champagne, some of it already bubbling in flutes. Beyond the table, the only other contents of the room were a big mattress with a dark purple drape across it, several cushions and a chaise longue. — We have to serve ourselves, unfortunately, Graeme boomed, and nobody was shy in coming forward. Skinner took an oyster for the first time and was instructed in how to eat it by De Fretais, letting it slide slowly down his gullet. — It’s . . . I think I like it, he said hesitantly.

— Remind you of something? De Fretais purred.

Skinner smiled wanly, before considering the other chef De
Fretais had mentioned in the context of his mother. — That American boy who contributes one of the recipes, I think it’s the chocolate dessert one, is he doing alright?

— Greg. Yes, he’s Exec Chef and part owner of a highly-rated San Francisco eatery. Alas, he’s another one of us who has sold his soul to television and publishing.

Skinner was emboldened now by the drink and ready to ask more about Greg Tomlin, but Graeme came forward holding a plate, which he thrust in front of him. —
Escargots
?

— I’m not so sure about snails. Skinner screwed his face up doubtfully.

— Maybe it’s time you tried, Graeme said coldly.

Skinner shrugged and speared one, immersing it further into its garlic sauce before eating it. It looked like a mushroom and didn’t taste that different, he thought. The second taxi arrived; in it were two guys and three young women who weren’t at the do and whom Skinner reckoned were prostitutes.

— How do you feel about the national question, Mr Skinner? Roger asked him, in an accent Skinner could detect little Scots in.

— I think we Scots have done okay out of the union, he said, thinking that he was in safe territory in a New Town drawing room, a bastion of Unionist sentiment surely. — We give everybody the sob story about how we’re the last colony of the British Empire, but we played a big part in it with the development of slavery, racism and the Ku Klux Klan.

— I think it’s a little bit more complicated than that, Clarissa sneered, turning away from him.

Graeme, still hovering close, smiled tightly at him, — Yes, not views that will find much favour in this company.

Skinner suddenly felt like addressing one of the girls, to see if they had any positions on the issue, and tried to catch the eye of one who wore a tight blue blouse and whose bare arm was being stroked by one of the men, but Roger shuffled closer to him. — How old are you, Mr Skinner?

— Twenty-five, Skinner said, anticipating that he was about to be patronised and reasoning that an added couple of years might cushion the blow somewhat.

— Hmm, Roger doubtfully mused.

Clarissa turned to them both, addressing Roger, — Have you read Gregor’s paper in the latest
Modern Edina Bulletin
? I think it thoroughly debunks some of the crass generalisations, and she glanced at Skinner, briefly flickering her eyes at him, — that have been somewhat blithely made.

— Well, that’s me telt, Skinner smiled cheerfully, waltzing over to the table where he refilled his glass with more champagne. Who pays the piper calls the tune, he thought with satisfaction.