The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (26 page)

The old bar tempts me, but I pass it by, cutting through to Fillmore, then up on to Haight. I realise that, even after all those years, I’m still entranced by this grand old place, built on gold and sustained on microchips. It makes me wonder why I gave the bar a miss. Years ago, I’d always swing by for a quick drink, or even just to catch up on the gossip.

It’s probably because today’s Castro, with its gay plumbers, launderettes, butchers and carpentry services, all seems so superfluous to me: just another part of society’s obsession with sexualising everything. How we queens have changed the straight
world for the worse. If only we’d realised that getting a sink fixed isn’t a gay or straight act, it’s non-sexual. Very non-sexual.

When I get to the restaurant, the young plumber illustrates this perfectly. His assumption of such a conventionally culturally gay persona is so all-embracing that he comes on like one of the androids from the film
I, Robot.

—
Just
exactly
what goes down this sink, Mr Tomlin, he lisps, covered in rotting food and stinking water.

— It’s a kitchen, I tell him. And it is. Not a beach, just a dirty, stinking, white-hot fucking kitchen.

Wobbling, sneezing, burping and farting around the pristine kitchen with his notepad, Brian Kibby pulled himself through the agony of his inspection. So complete was his immersion in his own misery that he was unaware of the impression he himself was making. Maurice Le Grand, Executive Chef at the Rue St Lazare Bistro was enraged as he observed this dishevelled, malodorous creature, who had come to inspect
his
restaurant. This was a joke. How dare they insult him in this manner?

Le Grand was straight on the phone to Bob Foy, who had asked Skinner to sit in on a counselling interview he was immediately conducting with Kibby on the matter.

Danny Skinner found himself savouring the moment Brian Kibby crept shamefully into the office. — Sit down, Foy gruffly commanded, then pushed a paper across the desk in front of him. It was a complaints note. It shook in Kibby’s hand as he read it.

— What is this, Brian?

— I . . . I . . . Kibby stammered.

— It’s a complaints form. From Le Grand. Calls you a mess. A disgrace, Foy said, lifting an eyebrow. — Should we be concerned, Brian? He scanned Kibby’s haggard appearance in contempt, before irrevocably answering his own question. — I think we should.

Kibby went to speak, but his brain seemed to fuse. For the
first time he seemed to take cognisance of the stains on his shirt, and the trousers of his blue suit, which was far too tight for him.

What’s happening to me?

—
Listen, Skinner said, dropping his voice, — is anything wrong?

— It’s just this illness . . . I . . .

— Nothing bothering you, like at home?

— No! I . . . I just haven’t been well . . . I . . . Kibby hesitated. Skinner and Foy had got rid of Winchester, Skinner’s old drinking buddy. They could make life hard for him. — I’m sorry . . .

— You’re going to have to shape up, Foy said in a quiet, restrained anger.—You’re making this section look pretty stupid, Brian, and we won’t have it.

— I . . . I . . .

— Do I make myself clear?

Somewhere, the sense of injustice at his lot seemed to enbolden Kibby, and he was able to look Foy in the eye and say, — Perfectly clear.

I’m letting people down. I’ve not been good at the job lately. I must be tidier. It’s just that I feel so sick . . .

—
Good, Foy icily grinned.

Kibby looked towards Skinner, whom he’d noted had glanced in slight distaste at Foy. — Look, Brian, consider this an informal little chat, he said, — off the record, if you like.

Tears glistened in Brian Kibby’s eyes and, perversely, he experienced a wave of gratitude, which at once repelled him and also made him want to scream at Skinner, at
Danny Skinner
, for help. —Thanks, Kibby coughed out, before excusing himself and heading for his refuge that was the toilet.

What about Kibby today? Fuck sake, that boy is a born victim. You can never be guilty for giving victims what they crave most desperately in life: persecution and, even more generously,
martyrdom. If you don’t do it the Fates will do it for you. The Fates are seldom wrong. You can count the exceptions on the fingers of a mutilated hand.

De Fretais and my mother, between the both of them I could get the real story. But I’m thinking that it’s Tomlin that the Fates have in mind for me. All my life I’ve known that my destiny was elsewhere, now I think it’s California.

What’s keeping me here? Things are getting weirder with Shannon. Last night was more like a square-go than a shag. We were kissing on my couch, but in an attacking, nasty manner and she got me, kind of ordered me, to strip off. Then she started sucking my cock, but raking at it with her teeth, biting it, and it was fucking painful and she knew it was. I grabbed a handful of hair: to pull her
away
from, rather than
towards
, my groin area. Her eyes were narrow and cruel and I tore her blouse off, snapping two buttons in the process. I reasoned that she wanted it rough so I started mangling her tits. She gasped and grimaced and bit my lower lip until we both got that metallic taste of blood in our mouths. I got her jeans and pants down and rammed my fingers roughly into her cunt. She grabbed my cock crudely, the sharp fingernails digging into it as she yanked the foreskin up and down with such power I could feel the strand tearing and stinging. Almost as a defensive manoeuvre, I grabbed her wrist and pinned it back on the couch, thrusting myself into her, my knob burning. She pulled on the back of my head, pushing her own forehead into my nose, rubbing it and grinding it severely, till my eyes watered and I was almost certain she was going to break it. I fucked her as hard and relentlessly as I could and clamped her nipple in a callous vice-like pinch between forefinger and thumb. Then she dragged her nails down my back and the side of my body and violently pushed me away as she twisted out from under me. She ordered me to roll over as she gets on top, shouting, — I’M ON TOP, I’M ON FUCKING TOP OF YOU, SKINNER, YOU CUNT, and she fucks me, but she’s really
just fucking herself into a bitter orgasm. When she’s done, she tears away from me like we were two strips of Velcro, leaving me to jerk off so as to come; my spunk shoots all over the couch and some on to her thigh, which she brushes off with scorn, rubbing it on to the cushion. And the worst fucking thing about it is the way she just treats it as normal, coolly putting on her clothes and leaving. And then we see each other in that cunting office the next morning and it’s like nothing’s happened!

And I keep subtly looking at Kibby, for the marks, bites and scratches that I know I’ll find.

It’s fucking crazy with Shannon and me, but we’re no longer friends! I keep singing that Dandy Warhols song to myself whenever she walks into a room:

Now she’s got the huff as we sit in the putrescent Leith superpub called the Grapes. Done out like an airport bar but for non-high-flyers; hardwood tables, plenty glass and chrome. The chairs and floor are already looking like they’ve taken a good beating and the air is thick and blue with smoke. The scabby Junction Street fashionwear attire of the clientele gives the game away almost as much as the prices, painted chalk-style on various blackboards, advertising cooking lager at £1.49 a pint and Stella at £1.90. I’m at the bar drinking Bulmers cider and Jack Daniel’s while Shannon’s on Bushmills. To cheer her up I put my name down for the karaoke. I see a familiar figure approaching the bar, and fuck me if it isn’t my old mate Dessie Kinghorn. I nod to the cunt and he cursorily returns the compliment with a measured shake of his head. — Dessie!
I shout across at him. — How goes? And I’m steering Shannon towards him.

— No bad, he says, as he and Shannon uncomfortably register each other.

I turn to Shannon. — This is Dessie Kinghorn, an old buddy of mine. Shannon is . . . a colleague, I laugh and she looks sourly at me. — I suppose Dessie’s an old colleague of sorts too. Represents the clued-up, stylish wing of the movement, I say, looking him up and down, his tatty old jeans, and minging T-shirt which looks like it’s spent a good day too long on his back in a festering, sweltering Rio shanty town. A poor show threadwise.

— Fuck off, Skinner, he spits.

— Dinnae be like that, Desmondo, have a beer. I turn to the barmaid. — A pint of your best lager for my old buddy Dessie Kinghorn! Make it Stella or Carlsberg Export. Nothing but premium for Dessie boy! I turn back to my old buddy. — Still in insurance then, Des?

I never really noticed how evil those eyes were before but I do now as Kinghorn’s looking at me in downright abhorrence. His mouth hangs open in that glaikit stroke-victim impersonation nutters sometimes go into just before they start flinging punches. — Ah wis made redundant last year. But I don’t want a drink fae you. I dinnae want anything fae you!

— Funny, Des, I just got a big promotion at the council, didn’t I, Shannon? She looks as pointedly at me as Dessie does. — Big bucks. But you ken me, mate, every penny is needed. Expensive tastes. I finger the lapel of my new CP Company jaiket. — A curse, I suppose.

— Fuck off, I’m warning you. Dessie’s eyes narrow. — See, if you werenae wi yir bird . . .

I’m about to pull Dessie up about his rather sexist comment when the wee guy who’s running the karaoke holds up a card and shouts, — Danny Skinner!

— Must go, but hold on, I’ll be back, I smile, hopping up
on to the small stage and taking the microphone from the boy. — I’m Danny Skinner, I shout, catching the attention of some old boys, young gadges and lassies in the nearby seats, — and this is a song I dedicate to my old mucker Dessie Kinghorn, who’s a bit down on his luck at the moment. I wink at Des who now seems on the verge of a fit as I launch into ‘Something Beautiful’.

— You can’t manufacture a miracle, the silence was pi-ra-ful that day . . . a love is getting too cynical
 . . . I turn to Shannon whose expression is now so acerbic that it takes me a split second to register that it’s actually her, — . . .
passion’s just physical these days . . . but get no sign, love ain’t kind, every night you admit defeat . . . and cry yourself blind
 . . . I look at Dessie and upturn my free palm as I belt out the chorus as camply soulful as I can, —
If you can’t wake up in the morning, cause your bed lies vacant at night . . . if you’re lost
, I point at Dessie, —
hurt
, and again, —
tired and lonely can’t control it try as you might . . . may you find that love that won’t leave you, may you find at the end of the day, you won’t be lost, hurt, tired and lonely, somethin beautiful will come your way . . .

Dessie freaks and charges up on to the stage. I keep hold of the mike but raise my hands, boxer-style, defending my face. He gets a couple of good licks in, one on the side of the jaw, punching through my guard, like back in our boyhood spars at Leith Victoria, but I’m keeping my grip on that mike. —
The DJ said on the ra
 . . . The speakers go dead as the boy who runs the karaoke switches off the machine. I drop the mike, and it falls to the floor. Stepping back I raise my hands to the air in innocent appeal as Dessie tries to stick in the boot, misses, feels like a cunt and shouts, — You’re fuckin scum, Skinner! And he turns and pushes past the karaoke boy, making a storming exit from the pub! What a diva!

I shrug apologetically at the stunned drinkers, picking up the mike and handing it back to the bemused-looking boy. Shannon comes up to me and says, — You’re being such a
tedious bastard; I’m off hame, and true to her word departs from the boozer! Another drama queen! Well, fuck her. I go back to the bar and finish the drinks, starting on the pint I got up for Dessie Kinghorn, which he didn’t touch.

I’m soon flirting with the barmaid, absolutely 100 per cent certain in the knowledge that I’ll be shagging her later. She’s wearing a black top and black leggings. Perhaps not obese, but certainly overweight with rolls of cold, wobbly beer fat peeking through the spaces between the clothes. It’s amazing how some women like to show off a bit of flab, use it sexually, the puppy-fat nonce thing. Yet naebody accuses those fat girls of advancing paedophile chic, that’s just for the thin, anorexic waif-like birds. She’s drinking a big tumbler of Coke, twenty-two sugars per glass.

Funny, but I’m hoping that I can really love her, if just for one day. — Whatcha say, I smile, getting her attention. — Ever made love? I ask her.

Love . . .

— Yeah . . . she says looking at me, but in that same empty, predatory soulless way I am probably regarding her. Just wanting her lumb swept, nothing else, probably her boyfriend working away on the rigs or in jail or out on the piss.

But there is no fucking way back. — Want to do it again? I ask.

— Mibbe, she says, and I ask her what time she finishes and have another pint and wait till she knocks off and gets her coat and we head for mine.

She’s nothing to do with my shit, but fuck it, none of us are saints and scapegoats are always handy.

And almost as soon as we’re at it, I’m wishing that I was somewhere else, with someone else. But her face is flushing up, one of those birds that you can keep the foreplay minimal with and if you just fuck them enough they’ll come. It’s like humping Leviathan: a fucking war of all against all, a shag of attrition. Eventually she goes off and I shoot my load and, save for a shaving of egotism, am completely unmoved by the experience.