The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (39 page)

It’s everywhere.

A good pint. Aye, they dae a good pint in here, son. A fucking great pint! It contains syrups, corn sulphites, pyrocarbonate, benzoate, foam enhancers, amyloglucosidase, beta-glucanase, alpha-acetolactate, decarboxylase, stabilisers, ascarbonates. Might even also contain: malt, hops, yeast, water and wheat. Maybe. Don’t bet on it though.

And it’s fucking well everywhere.

It had been an amazing transformation. Now he was sitting up in bed and eating solids. The new liver was functioning efficiently and, more importantly, there had been no further night seizures. All the medical and nursing staff to a man and woman were shy of employing the term ‘remission’ but Brian Kibby’s rapid progress and the stretched resources of the NHS were such that the surgeon, Mr Boyce, estimated that he’d be home within the week.

Joyce was delighted at the news, and couldn’t remember when she’d last been so happy. Her prayers had been answered. Her faith, shaken as it had been by Keith’s death, and tested to breaking point by Brian’s illness, had emerged intact, even renewed. But worry and concern were by nature and circumstance so well embedded into her psyche that she felt some
what exposed without their accompanying presence. Brian Kibby knew his mother well and saw that even through her glee there was a spectre at the feast. — What’s up, Mum, is there something wrong?

His mother was aware that her son’s question had just made her physically recoil, so any attempt at concealment would be folly. — Son . . . I know you said not to bring this up, she began cagily, — but it’s Danny . . . Mr Skinner from the office. He really wants to visit you.

Brian Kibby’s face contorted into such a twisted parody of itself that Joyce immediately regretted her disclosure. Sitting rigidly upright in the bed, struggling to contain himself, he looked evenly at his mother, wearing a hitherto unseen expression that chilled her to the marrow. — I hate him, he said to her, — I don’t want him anywhere near me.

— But Brian! Joyce shrieked. — Da- . . . Mr Skinner was phoning from America all the time he was out there. He emailed that nice girl at your work nearly every day to ask about you!

It was now Brian Kibby’s turn to be concerned at his mother’s reaction; upset as he was by the way his response had aggravated her. — Let’s not talk about Skinner. I just want to get home; just you, me and Caroline, he said, all the time thinking:
What does Skinner want with me?

IT’S A RAW,
freezing day, but at least it’s a brutally honest one, devoid of spirit-crushing icy rains or torturous winds. The last of the weak sun is fading and the sulphurous sky is turning mauve. My feet scrunch on iced-up patches of pavement as soon as I turn off the main St John’s Road, down the winding backstreet towards the Kibbys’ gaff.

I’ve come here to see Joyce, who’d called me up, very concerned about Brian’s behaviour. She said I didn’t need to, but I insisted, as I wanted a nose around Kibby’s pad before he gets home from the hospital the morn.

I chap the door and as it opens . . .

Jesus fuck almighty . . .

. . . I get a big shock as a stunningly beautiful girl of about nineteen, twenty, appears before me.

What a honey! She has straight, blonde hair pinned back on one side with a gold clasp. Her large grey-blue eyes ooze a soulful depth. Her pearly teeth are dazzling and she has the smoothest skin I’ve ever seen.

Fuck sakes.

She wears a green top with green-and-black camouflaged combat trousers.

What the fuck’s gaun on here? I am . . .

She raises her eyebrows quizzically at me in lieu of a response that’s some time forthcoming as her very presence has knocked me right out of sorts.

Ya cunt that ye are.

Aroused, not so much sexually as emotionally, I struggle to
maintain my cool, forcing a clamped smile. — I’m Danny. I, ehm, work with Brian at the council, I explain, almost moved to describe myself as a friend of his, but managing to stop short in time.

— Come in. I’m Caroline, she says, and she turns in an easy twist and heads into the house. I’m so shocked that this,
this
, is Kibby’s sister. I’m following eagerly, desperate to remain close to her essence and, of course, to ascertain her curves in detail.

Joyce Kibby, who is already in the hallway beside us, interrupts my eyeful. She’s as nervy and jumpy as her daughter is poised and graceful. — Mr Skinner . . . she says.

— Danny, please, I reiterate, more for Caroline’s benefit than hers. The dopey cow should really have managed to dispense with the formalities by now. I get no response from Caroline though, who saunters into the living room without further acknowledgement.

— How’s Brian? I ask Joyce, ready to follow Caroline, but I’m ushered into the kitchen. As I reluctantly sit down I catch a glimpse of her daughter through a crack in the door. She’s more than just a looker; I can’t recall having a reaction like that to a woman before, ever.

Well, maybe Justine Taylor in second year. Or Kay. Or Dorothy. But even they were different somehow. This is fucked. I can’t just –

Joyce is bringing the kettle to the boil. It’s probably cause of her daughter, but I’m scrutinising the old girl now, trying and failing to see a younger, tidier self. I see only the tight, prissy curls and that stiff, jerky manner. — He’s getting better but he seems really confused mentally, she tells me in that shrill voice of hers, which dovetails with the sound of the kettle whistling.

— Oh, not so good. How so?

Joyce puts two spoonfuls of tea into the pot, then adding one for luck, in the style of the Old Girl. Come to think of it, she too must be ages with Siouxie Sioux, although you’d never believe it in a million years. This woman was probably
born old, or maybe it’s just this cloak of uptight solicitude she’s shrouded in. — He has a strange obsession about his old job, she says. Then she looks at me quite shamefully, disclosing in a low, cagey voice, — This is so embarrassing . . . it’s just that he’s been really horrible about everything you’ve tried to do for him. He just doesn’t seem to realise that you’re here to help! I cannae understand why he’s so set against you when you’ve been so good to us and so concerned about him. There’s no good in it, no good at all, she says, her face flushing and her head shaking as she puts the cup down in front of me.

— Joyce, this has been a terrible ordeal for Brian. He’s bound to be confused, I advance in a conciliatory manner. The tea is in a silly little china cup that holds fuck all with a handle so small that it’s almost impossible to pick up.

— Yes, Joyce Kibby agrees vigorously, and continues rabbiting one thousand apologies on her son’s behalf. But all I’m thinking of right now is her daughter. She is gorgeous and übercool, a fucking megababe; everything that Brian Kibby and his dopey mother aren’t.

Caroline Kibby.

Brian Kibby.

And it just comes to me in a blinding flash of inspiration! There was a way that I could keep monitoring Brian’s progress, a legitimate reason to continue visiting them! It would be killing two birds with one stone, and a labour of love. It would also, in all probability, get right up poor Brian’s nose.

— It makes him seem such a bad person, Mr Skinner, and he’s not, he’s a fine young man . . .

Caroline.

That divine and splendid prefix which, to my hungry, restless mind, now totally neutralises the toxicity of that previously sickening word ‘Kibby’. There is no sugar in this tea but I’ve yet to taste a sweeter elixir. If I was seeing,
dating
, Caroline Kibby, I could come here if I wanted to, and Brian could do jack shit about it. I could take care of him, at least until he
was strong. Eat healthily, get plenty of rest and good lovin’ and watch him thrive. And while doing this I could get to understand him, find out why I have this strange and terrible power over him!

— . . . he never gave me or my husband, God rest his soul, a bit of trouble . . .

Caroline Kibby.

No, it wasn’t a bad word at all. Quite beautiful really: Kibby, Caroline Kibby. Yes, I could make Brian strong before I go home to San Francisco . . .

Dorothy.

In some ways it seems so far away already, but it was so real, so good.

— . . . and his attitude towards you . . . I can’t explain it . . . if he knew you were here even . . .

— Okay, I say to Joyce, — least said, soonest mended. Brian’s still very ill and the last thing I want to do is to upset him. I’ll take off now and I’ll keep away from the hospital. Provided, of course, that you keep me up to date with his progress.

— I certainly will, Mr – Danny, and thanks again for being so understanding. Joyce looks at me in that imploring way.

And for the first time I’m thinking about how there might just be some wonderful divine purpose behind this strange curse. I finish my tea and as I take my leave, stop off and poke my head around the door of the front room to say a cheery, — Bye, to Caroline, dropping her a smile.

— Bye then, she says, turning up from the table she’s sat at, at first quite puzzled, but then she returns the smile and I’m thinking, whoa, that is a fucking exceptional lassie!

I’m floating out of the Kibbys’ on cloud nine, almost oblivious to Joyce’s cooing and clucking. Then I seem to fall a thousand feet through my own body as I think again of Dorothy over in San Francisco. I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.

FRIENDS EXPRESSED GREAT
surprise, not just that Danny Skinner had come back so early, but that he was hanging around Edinburgh and was still sober. He emailed Dorothy frequently, but was on the phone to Joyce every other day, checking Brian Kibby’s progress. The odd coffee with Shannon McDowall was his other main social activity. Shannon had been promoted to his old job, but only on a temporary basis, which irked her, as it was subject to yet another review. Aside from her vitriol at what she regarded as the discriminatory employment practices of her bosses, she only seemed to want to talk about Dessie, and this had limited appeal for him. He found it unsettling having his old friend and rival cast in the role of new man.

Skinner had still not attempted to see his mother, nor had he heard from her. People he bumped into in Leith Walk or Junction Street would tell him that she was doing okay, but he studiously avoided passing the shop. He was keeping doggedly to the resolution that when he did see her next, he’d speak that one name to her, then see how she reacted.

One thing he did resume were his Friday soirées with Bob Foy; an Old Town Italian restaurant, the Leaning Tower, being the current favourite rendezvous point, even if he stuck resolutely to mineral water.

Foy’s absolute delight that Kibby certainly wouldn’t be returning to the council’s employ was still very much in evidence. — That office stink of BO and God knows what else has gone. It’s quite literally a breath of fresh air, he
rejoiced, waving the laminated menu around theatrically.

Skinner was having none of it. — It’s a fucking tragedy what that poor bastard’s been through. I’m just delighted that he came through his op okay, and if he gets better, you could do worse than have him back.

Foy puckered his lips and topped up his glass of Chianti. — Over my dead body, he scoffed.

Skinner and Foy finished their meal in some tension, and went on for a few drinks, soft ones in the former’s case. Foy eventually headed off in a taxi disappointed and still a little bemused at this teetotal incantation of his old dining partner.

Skinner also had another mission. He may not have been drinking but there were still bars to trawl, especially in the student quarter.

The Grassmarket was busy. Skinner squeezed into one café-bar and had a soft drink when he was accosted by a couple of old faces, Gary Traynor and the chunky young man he knew as Andy McGrillen. They were clearly intent on making a night of it and were surprised and disgusted to note his choice of fuel.

McGrillen . . .

He recalled that fight he had instigated on Christmas Eve, when Skinner hadn’t got involved. He didn’t like McGrillen. Now his memory danced in recall of the boyhood confrontation they’d had on a train coming back from the football at Dundee. They were just kids, as it had been almost ten years ago, but he had never forgotten the incident. McGrillen, with some mates, had got wide with him. Skinner, who’d lost McKenzie and the rest of his friends on that occasion, was alone and had been forced to back down. It was a minor humiliation but one that still burned him, particularly now that McGrillen was hanging around with Traynor. Once McGrillen had realised that Skinner was connected he’d been civil enough, even attempting to develop a friendship of sorts. Both of them knew, however, how history could weigh heavily
and they had largely tacitly agreed to keep out off each other’s way, discounting that one time at Christmas. Now, catching McGrillen looking disapprovingly at his glass, Skinner felt the burn again.

A fuckin Burberry baseball cap. What a total chavy cunt. How auld is he? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Probably cause McKenzie’s no longer around, he thinks he can get quoted with our crew!

—
C’mon, Danny, have a fuckin pint, Traynor urged.

— Naw, just an orange juice is fine, Skinner insisted.

Traynor seemed to catch the vibe coming from Skinner towards McGrillen and tried to lighten the mood by talking about the most recent religious porn film he’d come across. —
God, He Likes to Watch
; it’s the fuckin best yet, ya cunt.

Andy McGrillen shrugged and smiled at Traynor and went to the bar. He let his somewhat intimidating bearing clear a space among the drinkers, some of whom recognised him as one of the boys and possible bad news. He soon came back with the drinks, plonking them on the table.

— Cheers, boys, Skinner toasted. — Good to see youse again, he said, managing to include McGrillen, with just about enough conviction.

Skinner found sipping at his orange juice strangely comforting. He was getting into Traynor’s patter again. His old buddy turned to McGrillen. — Tell ye a great Rab McKenzie tale, mind this yin, Skinny, he nodded to Skinner. — Us two and Big Rab went back wi they posh birds, that Paki lassie you wir wi, what wis her name?