The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (48 page)

Its delicacy and precision instantly mocked him. He stood there, housed in the wrecked and wretched soft machine of his body and raged at his pristine, useless creation.

What is all this? It’s all I’ve done with my fucking life. It’s all I’ve got to show that I ever existed on this planet. This fucking toy!

I won’t get another job.

I’ll never get a girlfriend, never find somebody to love.

This is all I’ve got. This!

It’s not enough!

—
IT’S NO ENOUGH! he screamed, his voice emanating from a buried, tortured part of his soul and ricocheting around the cavernous attic.

The hills his father had made, the houses he had built, the tracks he’d laid, the trains he’d bought, all looked back at him in an obstinate, contemptuous silence. — IT’S NOTHING! IT’S NOWT! And he lumbered towards the town and found himself tearing it apart; kicking and pulling and punching at it with an energy and power he thought that he’d never, ever possess again. Brian Kibby smashed the buildings to pieces, tore open the papier mâché hills, ripped up the tracks and hurled the train engines across the room, ransacking the model town like a demented beast in an old horror movie.

But the adrenalin vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared and exhaustion suddenly took him, stranding him prone on the floorboards, leaving him crying softly in the rubble he’d created. After a bit his glassy gaze drifted across the floor to the glossy maroon-and-black engine, which lay smashed and strewn in the debris. He could see the gold-and-black plaque on its side branded with the words:
CITY OF NOTTINGHAM
.

The R2383 BR Princess Class
City of Nottingham
. Its axle was broken. He picked it up, cradling it like a first-born child that had been fatally hit by a passing car. As he wept slowly he raised his head and looked at his father’s once magnificent hills, now levelled and reduced to trash.

The hills that Dad built . . .

NO . . .

What have I done?

And he climbed back down the aluminium stairs, now not worrying about the jarring thumps as his legs crashed down each step, and he thought that now was the time he was ready to die.

It would be better for everyone.

But perhaps there’s somebody else who has tae die first.

It was as if both Caroline Kibby and Danny Skinner had realised that there was a kind of love so empyreal in its nature that the window of opportunity for real physical congress cracked open
for only a short period of time. If, for whatever reason, you couldn’t jump through it, it was slammed shut for ever.

The smell of her hair. Her lovely deep hazelnut eyes. That beautiful skin, how it all seemed to change under my touch, as if corrupted by my proximity. I can’t be with her: not in that way.

Yet what other kind could there possibly be? he wondered as they stiffly headed arm in arm down Constitution Street in the confused, beaten silence of doomed lovers.

Caroline dug into her make-up bag, produced the gold lipstick tube and twisted it. As that scarlet piece popped out Skinner imagined his cherry poking out of his foreskin in the same way.

If only . . .

It was the curse on her brother; that was what was messing them up. It had to be. He wanted to tell her so much, just scream it out:
I’m killing your brother, I’ve put a hex on him. I did this because I objected to his mediocrity, his blandness and how he would advance beyond me purely because he didn’t have my demons holding him back. I won’t be able to touch you until this curse is lifted . . .

What could she say to that?

But who are they, this strange but so mundane family: the student daughter, bright and full of life; the stricken, nerdy hillwalker brother; and the crazy God-fearing anxiety-ridden matriarch? Who in the name of suffering fuck are those people? What the fuck was the faither like?

Skinner thought about the missing Kibby, the one who seemed to have cast such a large shadow over the others. — Caroline, what happened to your dad?

Caroline pulled to an abrupt halt under the orange sodium street lamp and looked quizzically at him with the same bewildering sense of intrusion she demonstrated when he tried to touch her. This moved Skinner to qualify his motivation. — Naw; it’s just that Brian’s illness seemed to happen shortly after your dad died. Did he have something the same?

— Aye, it was horrible . . . his organs had just seemed to rot
away from the inside. It was weird, because, like Brian, he was never a drinker.

Danny Skinner nodded. After all he had been through with Brian Kibby, he began to entertain the notion that maybe there was no hex, perhaps it was all just the uncanniest of coincidences. Maybe Kibby had the same, rare degenerative disease that his old man had before him. Who had he been to assume that he had the power to put a hex on anybody? Perhaps it was all his own mad, twisted vanity, distorting everything he saw around him.

No, he had to get away from them, he’d kill them all, like he’d probably killed his own father. Only now Alan De Fretais seemed more alive than ever: it was reported that sales of
The Bedroom Secrets
had picked up dramatically in the last week, putting his aphrodisiac cookbook back at number one on the best-seller lists.
Scotland on Sunday
, the
Herald
, the
Mail on Sunday
, the
Observer
and
The Times
all ran big features on him. Stephen Jardine presented a television documentary on the life of ‘Scotland’s greatest culinary talent’. On this programme, one wag claimed that De Fretais taught us to look at food differently – holistically – relating to it in a completely cultural and social way. They referred to him as the ‘Godfather of the Culinary Generation’.

He was simply a cunt, Skinner thought, thinking of the old joke:

Who called the cook a cunt?

Who called the cunt a cook!

The lights of the Shore flashed into view, dancing across the Water of Leith. Skinner had insisted that he return the compliment by taking the Kibbys out to dinner at his favourite seafood restaurant. Joyce was delighted but she worried about how Brian would react. Strangely, he had raised no objection, although he was far from enthusiastic. — I hope you have a good time, he said, albeit in a distant, hollow tone.

— But Brian . . . you’re invited as well, Joyce had incredulously shrieked.

— I’ll come if I’m up to it, Kibby said, the fight further knocked out of him following his deeply regretted trashing of the model railway and town. But even as he protested he realised that in his heart of hearts there was no way he was going to be absent, to be the subject of Skinner’s one-sided propaganda. One thought burned in his brain:
I need to protect them from that bastard.

As they crossed over the cobblestones, Skinner glanced down an alleyway, saw something move. It was a gull, and it appeared to be covered in blood, on its head and chest. It was hiding among the sacks of rubbish from the restaurants. — Look at that . . . poor bastard, Skinner said.

— It’s only a seagull, Caroline scoffed.

— Naw, he’s covered in blood . . . a cat must’ve got him while he was rummaging . . . It’s okay, pal. Skinner crouched, moving closer to the wild-eyed bird.

The gull squawked, suddenly rising and flying past him, into the sky.

— It was tomato sauce, Danny, Caroline explained. — It had been scavenging, ripping open the bin liners.

— Right, he said, keeping his face away from her, so that she wouldn’t see his tears, those strange tears for the lonely seagull.

When they got to Skipper’s Bistro, they noted Joyce immediately, standing in the doorway outside the restaurant, too nervous to enter unaccompanied.

— Hi, Mum . . . Caroline pecked Joyce’s cheek and Skinner followed suit. — No Brian?

— I haven’t seen him today, he went into town . . . He said he might come.

— Here we go, Skinner nodded tightly, glancing over Joyce’s shoulder. She and Caroline turned to acknowledge the source of his gaze. Through the fog and night an almost shapeless
figure emerged, moving slowly towards them. He seemed less a real human being than a piece of the vapid darkness come alive.

— The man himself! So you made it then, Danny Skinner smiled warily as Brian Kibby approached.

— Looks like it, Kibby snapped curtly back.

Skinner opened the door of the restaurant and ushered Caroline and Joyce inside. He held it open for Kibby, mouthing a crisp and stagy, — After you.

— You first, Kibby bit again.

— I insist, Skinner said, his elongating smile disconcerting Kibby. It was cold and he was desperate to get inside and into the heat, so he stumbled through the door with Skinner following behind.

A girl took their coats and they had a drink at the bar, Kibby sipping a tomato juice under Joyce’s approving scan. — Awright, Charlie. Skinner enthusiastically greeted the chef who had come through from the kitchen and they exchanged pleasantries for a bit.

— You must know a lot of chefs through your work, Danny, Joyce remarked, obviously impressed.

— One or two . . . though not as many as I’d like, he said, a sadness coating his words.

In her excitement Joyce didn’t pick up on his lugubrious tone. She turned to her son, whose eyes were fixated on the spirits gantry. — I’ll bet you know a few chefs from your council days too, Brian?

— Not at my level, Kibby said evenly.

They were shown to a table, where, at Joyce’s instigation, they ordered some wine. Skinner was reluctant at first, then looked over at Kibby and said, — I’m not so much of a drinker these days, but maybe just one glass. What’s it they say: a meal without wine is like a day without sunshine?

Brian Kibby looked hopefully at Joyce who screwed her face up. He filled his glass with mineral water instead.

Still a fucking sad mummy’s boy, Skinner thought savagely. He saw the television in the corner burn with footage from the Iraq occupation, and proposed a toast. —
A buon vino non bisogna fasca
.

Not one of the Kibbys had an idea what he was talking about, but it sounded impressive enough, especially to Joyce’s ears. She was highly thrilled by the food; she’d never seen or tasted sea bass like the one presented to her. Caroline, at Skinner’s recommendation, Brian Kibby noted, joined him in the John Dory. Kibby himself opted for the lemon sole. The fish was excellent and the evening was a treat for Joyce, who seldom ventured out after dark. — The fish is very fresh, she said appreciatively. — Is yours nice and fresh, Danny?

— Fresh? I was squeezing my lemon on it, when the last rites were still ringing in its ears, Skinner jested.

Everybody laughed, except Brian Kibby, though Joyce was gratified that, although quite surly, he wasn’t being overtly hostile to Danny. — Are you much of a cook yourself, Danny? she asked.

— I’m an unashamed glory hunter, Joyce. I’ll pick up any TV chef’s recipe book – Rhodes, Ramsay, Harriott, Smith, Nairn, Oliver, Floyd, Lawson, Worrall-Thompson – and faithfully strive to re-create their offerings, the exigencies of the local marketplace permitting . . .

— What about our old pal De Fretais? Kibby said in a sudden challenge. Skinner felt his pulse rise. His body was suddenly immobilised in shock. — The one who’s kitchen was a midden! Mind that, Danny?

What the fuck . . .

—
That was a terrible thing, Joyce said, — a man at the top of his career and a great chef.

De Fretais . . .

—
I thought he seemed like a real creep, Caroline said.

My old boy . . . I killed him . . .

Joyce pursed her lips at her daughter. — Speaking ill of the dead like that!

. . . he was a sex beast, an exploiter . . .

—
What did you think, Danny? Kibby urged.

Kay. She’s such a lovely girl. All she wanted to do was to dance. To be good at it. What the fuck was so wrong with that in my eyes? I should have supported her. I should have
 . . .

Skinner thought of his former fiancée lying in the hospital bed. — It was very sad, he said sorrowfully, then he felt the rage coming back as he recalled the image of De Fretais on top of her. — I was critical of his kitchen, we all know that, and so were you, Bri. Unfortunately, we never got the backup we needed from senior management. As you’re aware, I was a long-time advocate of changing the reporting procedure to make it harder for officers to have inappropriate relationships with the De Fretaises of this world . . . He watched Kibby redden and squirm.— . . . but I didn’t get the support. Personally, though, I have to admit that De Fretais was one hell of a chef. So yes, I unreservedly add him to the list of people whose dishes I’ve shamelessly striven to replicate in the kitchen.

Kibby’s head was now bowed.

Skinner turned back to Joyce. — Alas, with little aplomb. So I try, Joyce, but I’m not quite in your league.

Joyce put her hand on her chest and batted her eyes like a schoolgirl. — Oh, you’re very kind, Danny, but I’m really not up too much –

— Your soups are good, her son petulantly snapped.

— You’re a wee bit too red meat inclined for me, Caroline interjected.

Noting the fish on Caroline’s plate, Joyce retorted, — Some vegetarian, you, madam! Caroline shuffled in her chair.

— I’m getting her off all that nonsense, Skinner teased, as Caroline nudged him playfully in protest. Both again wondered fretfully how it was that they were so able to display the intimacy of lovers while still trying to consummate that love.

Her pubic hair will be as blonde as her head, so sweet and
delicate, and I’d love to graze on it like a spring lamb on the virgin grass of the season, but I’ll never know it, not like I knew old Mary’s sweaty mass . . .

— Aye, sure. That’ll be the day, Caroline chided back.

Brian Kibby tried to meet his sister’s eyes with a burning look but she couldn’t even see him.

He’s fucking controlling you!