The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (30 page)

No.

Yes.

He was thinking of Brian Kibby, and what was happening to him right now!

Skinner convulsed, almost oblivious to the beauty around him, as he considered the grim truth: he always missed Kibby if they were apart for more than a few days, craved the morbid, knowing fascination of ascertaining how his rival was doing.

For although Kibby would field what he regarded as Skinner’s transparently insincere enquiries as to his health, his desperation meant that he would inevitably confide in someone, usually Shannon McDowall, with whom Skinner was still on good, if now non-sexual, terms. And Skinner would gleefully pump her for information.

No, Skinner was thinking about Brian, about the impact of his work. He was like an artist who couldn’t see the effect of his strokes on the canvas. What would that marathon LSD trip have done to Kibby? What about those grimy, badly-cut-with-laxative lines of cocaine? Or that blithe, indiscriminate mixing of the grain and the grape? What about the bottles of voddy at Manumission, or the chasing of some brown on that yacht; that horrible tinfoil would surely play havoc with the weak lungs of his old adversary.

A weekend was enough to wait, enough to savour and anticipate the destroyed presence or the non-appearance of Kibby on those wonderful Monday mornings, truly the best time of
the week for Skinner. A week was tolerable. But two weeks! It was doing his nut in. He had to know.

Unlike almost every other holiday visitor to the magic island that summer, Danny Skinner could not wait to get home.

HER EXPRESSION SEEMED
preoccupied, even haunted, as she made her way through the crowded bar. But when she saw him beckon her to a seat beside him in the corner, Kay Ballantyne was stunned at just how well her ex-fiancé looked. — And you’re just back from Ibiza as well, she said, quite awestruck, then wondered whether there was someone else in his life now. She felt a sense of failure, thinking, Why couldn’t he do that for me?

Kay looks worn out, Skinner thought with a cold detachment. There were new lines around her eyes, deeper lines. This made him cast his mind back to the time he first saw her, at the fair on Leith Links. Her long, black shining hair, that red nylon bomber jacket, but most of all, her twinkling smile, her white teeth and her lovely dark eyes.

No. Not true. Most of all it was her arse, clad in those clinging, blue CK jeans as she raised that air rifle and shot at the targets. The way her tight buttocks moulded into those jeans as she shifted her weight. A dancer’s arse, the girl from the dance troupe.

Now, sitting with her in the Pivo, almost two years after meeting her in that fairground, he realised that he felt a desperate urge to see her arse again. So overwhelming was it that Skinner engaged in a protracted game centred on getting her to remove her long brown jacket.

— Take yir jaykit off, Kay . . . he smiled, but Kay wasn’t listening. She was going on about how it hadn’t worked out with Ronnie, how he’d gone to pieces when they’d lost the baby, how she had too, but now she was fighting back and
getting control of her life again, and starting a job, even if it was only waitressing.

Control of her life . . . who the fuck is Ronnie? Lost a fucking baby . . .?

—
Take yir jaykit off, it’s hot in here, Skinner urged, now in a strange gasp.

— I’m okay, she said and smiled at him, in a way that disgraced and humiliated him. It made him think how beautiful she still looked. And something was rising in his soul as he was moved by her story.

Please take off that jacket
 . . .

Please go to the toilet
 . . .

So that I can critically scrutinise your arse, see for signs of over
hang, for signs of collapse, so that I can gauge my mortality by your decline, as I do with everything around me . . . bringing to recall the words of the golden poet:

But then Kay started to cry. Just a trace of a tear, then her hand rushed to her eye. For a few excruciating seconds Danny Skinner wanted to wind the clock back, so he’d be able to be the man who could hold her hand, who could raise his own hand to her face and brush away that heavy bomb of a tear. But in his sick loss he realised that he was no longer that man, could never, ever again be that man. Then Kay abruptly rose. — Sorry . . . I have to go . . . I have to go, she repeated, moving away towards the door.

Danny Skinner thought that he should go after her, to try and comfort her, but he nodded back sadly and watched her turn and leave. He looked at her arse, but it was still covered by her jacket. He could still go after her and he did rise,
but he had to pass the bar first and, as ever, it got in the way.

It had been a terrible fortnight in the life of Joyce Kibby.

The laddie had come back so sick and ill from his trip down to Birmingham. He stayed only one night. For most of his holiday he’s been lying around in bed or groaning on the couch. For almost two weeks! Now it’s time for him to go back to work but he’s just no able.

The laddie just isnae able.

On the eve of her son’s proposed return to work, Joyce had wanted to get Dr Craigmyre out again. Brian could hardly breathe. He lay under the bedclothes, sweating and writhing. — Nae doctor, he gasped in a thin but determined protest.

The tears welled in his mother’s eyes. — I’m going to have to phone in again, son, tell them you’re not fit for work . . .

— No . . . Kibby muttered faintly, — . . . I’ll be fine . . .

The mosquitoes . . .

Joyce shook her head. — Don’t be silly, Brian, she said, turning on her heels and heading for the door, oblivious to her son’s pleas. No way was he going to struggle into work again, as he had so many times before.

Now her son, swollen and gasping, was delirious and muttering nonsense. — Skinner and the mosquitoes . . . Skinner and the mos-quitoes . . . he brought them to Birmingham . . .

Birmingham . . . mosquitoes . . . Skinner . . .

. . . not a mark on him . . .

. . . I need to get married . . . get to
Harvest Moon
. . . Ann . . . Muffy . . . finish the game . . .

Trundling down the stairs, Joyce dialled the city council’s number, asking for Environmental Health, only to be snootily informed that the department was now called Environmental and Consumer Services. Brian had always told her to phone Bob Foy, but Joyce had grown to detest his surly lack of compassion with regard to her son’s condition. However, there was one man she spoke to once, he had been so kind and comforting.

Danny, his name was, Danny Skinner.

Brian didn’t like him and had made Joyce swear that she’d never call him, but she just couldn’t face that Mr Foy’s cold sarcasm. She gave Skinner’s name to the receptionist who put her through to his extension.

Sitting at his desk, Danny Skinner was reading in
The List
about a new high-concept bar which had just opened up in town and apparently did not just push back the frontiers of service and comfort, but threatened to change the whole nature of how we perceived entertainment. And all one had to do to enter this new dimension was simply to turn up. With, of course, plenty of cash or a credit card. He didn’t have plenty of cash, only red bills, but credit was readily given these days and he’d pay off his Visa with his MasterCard. Aye, he’d go along there tonight, thinking that it might serve to remove the increasingly pensive thoughts he’d been having.

He couldn’t stop thinking about his recent encounter with Kay. It played through his head, over and over again. Maybe he should call her and make sure that she was okay. But she wasn’t his responsibility, that chance meeting being the first time they’d seen each other in ages. No, you couldn’t go back, you had to let go. There were other people in her life closer to her now. Let them sort it out. But what if . . . what if she was alone? No. That was his vanity talking. Kay was always vivacious, outgoing and popular. She never had any shortage of friends. That Kelly, the other dancer and her, they were tight.

But she doesnae dance any mair
.

Naw
.

Work. Clear your mind with work. Sometimes it has to be done
.

He clicked on the VDU, dragged up an inspection report on another new bar-restaurant, which was due to open on George Street. Then he was distracted by the phone, an external ring and a bit too early for real business. Something made him rise and look out from his office on the mezzanine, and a wicked
smile played across his lips as he saw the space at Brian Kibby’s desk. He picked up the receiver. — Daniel Skinner, he sang.

Joyce Kibby’s voice seemed to run a tortured obstacle course down the phone, from high to low, booming to breathless. — . . . I’m at my wits’ end, Mr Skinner . . . he needs to keep his job, he fears being sacked so much . . . my daughter’s at the university and Brian made a promise to his dad that Caroline would go through the university . . . he was obsessed with it . . .

That voice, though ragged, edgy and shrill, sounded like a symphony of angels in melodious choir to Skinner’s ears. He was paying for his sister to go through college, Skinner thought in a weird sympathy, straddling across completely fake to utterly genuine.

Then he intervened, his tone reassuring, but, he thought, with the correct gravitas: — Hold on, Mrs Kibby, let me tell you not to worry about that. I know that Brian’s had a lot of time off, but everybody here’s aware of his illness and we’re all rooting for him. Brian’s got a lot of friends in this department.

— You’re so kind . . . Joyce almost cried in gratitude.

— We need to cut Brian some slack, Mrs Kibby. What I want you to do is sit down and put the kettle on. I’ll be straight round myself in about an hour. For goodness’ sake, tell Brian to take it easy. I know how proud he is. And try to take it easy yourself, he said, in a burst of empathy.

For her part, the song Skinner was singing was also sweet, sweet music to Joyce Kibby. — Thanks so much, Mr Skinner, but there’s no need, you must be so busy . . .

— It’s not a problem, Mrs Kibby, he reassured. — I’ll see you shortly. Bye.

— Goodbye . . .

Skinner stuck the receiver on the cradle. He didn’t even realise that he was vigorously rubbing his hands together until Bob Foy came into his office and remarked, — Somebody’s had some good news!

— Met a very sexy lady last night, Skinner said, — and she’s just got back to me.

Foy’s resultant gaze managed to encompass envy, contempt and admiration.

That Mr Skinner is a saint, Joyce reflected, as she put the phone down.

It’s so uplifting, in these selfish, amoral times that there are still some good people left in this world.

Joyce Kibby took Danny Skinner’s advice and headed for her kitchen, filling up the kettle.

What a genuinely nice, considerate young man. But why is Brian so hostile to him, recoiling every time his name’s mentioned? I can’t understand it. Yes, Brian was very put out when Mr Skinner was promoted instead of him, but why bear such a silly grudge when the man’s been so good to him?

I’m going to visit my old buddy Brian Kibby! It’s been over two weeks. The Balearic holiday was excellent, aye, but the consequences of it on Kibby’s health have eluded me. Knowing what you gained was delicious, but seeing what you escaped was utterly delectable.

I’ve got two site visits to undertake but these will now require some delegation. The personnel business to attend to at the Kibbys’ is far more pressing. It’s going to be strange seeing a stricken and vulnerable Kibby in his home environment. And stricken and vulnerable he surely will be, as I put a good few away last night, with Gary Traynor and Alex Shevlane. There was a fair bit of charlie flying around as well: Kibby’s sinuses would have taken one hell of a beating.

As it happens, Shannon’s happy to get out of the office and take on the visits. She’s cut her hair shorter, exposing her slender neck at the back. Normally I don’t like women with short hair but it sort of suits her. — New haircut. Does that mean new felly?

She gives me that I’m-getting-shagged grin as she picks up the folder. Then she puts her finger to her lips. — Shhhh, she says.

More bedroom secrets.

As well one of us is doing okay: I need cheering up somewhat. I’m still reeling from the shock of seeing Kay, those disclosures of hers about new boyfriends and miscarriages that I tried not to hear, but also feeling well disconcerted about the lot of Rab McKenzie, who’s simply fucking vanished of the face of the earth. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the fat bastard in the chicken run of the trashy clubs and grotty pubs that are our stomping ground.

Poor Big Rab, suffering from cirrhosis of the liver, now never able to drink again. What a nightmare. That’s the problem with intoxication, it’s an immediate state, belonging in the present. You can’t live your life on the memory of previous consumption.

The idea of Rab being finished is too fuckin weird. It gets me thinking that we are roughly the same age and height, though not weight. Kibby’s an inch or two shorter than me and eighteen months or so our junior. Therefore he must be in, or rapidly approaching, the same state of health. That finite resource that was Kibby’s body – his nervous system, liver, kidneys, pancreas, heart – it must be well depreciated by now. At first my big consideration had been: what if Kibby died? Now this is becoming: surely Kibby will die. It’s inevitable. Everybody does, but thanks to my antics, his time is almost certainly running short. And I can’t – won’t – stop living my life this way. There’s no need, as Kibby is picking up the health tab. I’d be stopping simply to keep Kibby alive, which is a truly perverse notion.

But . . .

But it’s murder. Aye, murder of a bizarre, other-worldly and thankfully unprovable nature, but murder nonetheless. And, speculating further: what happens, if, or when, Kibby does pass away? What becomes of this marvellous arrangement I’ve been
blessed with? Will I be able to transfer the burden of pain on to somebody else?