The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (7 page)

Sitting up, Skinner saw Foy appear and his torn face mould into an avuncular grin as he noted the presence of Kibby. He winked, rubbed his cold hands together and led the new boy upstairs to the mezzanine and his office.

Another fucking clone, another Foy arse-licking sycophant. Somebody else who’ll be right up the hole of cunts like that fat fandan Chef De Fretais!

IT SNOWED LAST
night. Some of the gritter lorries are out but there seems no need as it’s all gone into slush. This kind of weather always gets me thinking about how tough it must be to work on a farm. You get an idea of it from
Harvest Moon
. Just a big, long slog, where, before you know it, it’s morning once more and you have to get up and do it all over again. It annoys me when they show you farmers on television, always standing around, lazing about or drinking in country pubs. I once said to Dad, ‘they don’t have time for that,’ and he agreed. That kind of life would just kill most people. The likes of us city folk in offices don’t know how lucky we are.

Nup, I wouldnae want to be outside in this. We’re in Dad’s car and I’m driving us out to the new hospital at Little France via the city bypass. We’ve all been pretty silent on the journey. It’s making Mum nervous and she says something about the snow up on the hills at the Pentlands, but Caroline is just sitting in the back reading her book.

— Wonder if it’ll snow again later? Mum asks, pushing it. — Looks like snow clouds to me. Then she turns to me and says,

— Sorry, son, I shouldnae be distracting you while you’re driving. Caroline, a wee bit of conversation from you would be welcome.

Caroline lets out a sharp exhalation of breath and puts her book on to her lap. — I need to read this book for my course, Mum, or should I just jack in the university because I haven’t done the required reading?

—
No . . . my mum says quickly, and she’s sorry, you can tell, because she knows how much Dad wants Caroline to do well at the uni.

It should be good at Christmas; it always was before, always the best time. No now but.

I’ve got to be really careful about who I marry. It’s not something you can just rush into. I’ve narrowed it down to five candidates:

Ann

Karen

Muffy

Elli

Celia

Ann is sweet and reliable, but I like Karen cause she’s really friendly. I sort of like Muffy as well, but I’m no quite so sure about her. I think that she’s the kind of girl that Dad would describe as ‘dodgy’! Elli’s dead nice as well, and though I don’t want to rule out Celia, I think she may have to go from the list.

We pull into the car park and Mum and I share the brolly as the rain is now coming down hard. Caroline could share too if she wanted tae, but she just puts the hood up on her red sweatshirt and wraps her arms around herself and strides quickly across the tarmac to get under the canopy above the gateway to the entrance.

When we get on to the ward I’m nervous as I approach my dad’s bed. As I see him I feel a terrible force rising in me, it seems like it’s coming up from the lino floor through the soles of my leather brogues, and for a second I think that I’m going to pass out. I take a deep breath but it’s all I can do to bring myself to look at his gaunt, tired face. Something hangs heavily inside me. I have to admit to something that I couldn’t accept before: my dad is fading fast. He’s just skin and bone and I see
now that we’ve all just been pretending – me, mum and even Caz in our different ways – that it’s all going to be okay.

I’m so shocked at my father’s decline it takes me a couple of seconds tae register that there’s this guy standing by the side of his bed. I haven’t met him before. He’s a big man, quite rough-looking, though Dad always says that you can’t go by appearances, which is true. He doesn’t introduce himself and Dad doesnae introduce him either, he doesnae shake hands, he only nods to us all, then heads off pretty quickly. I think he was embarrassed that he’d intruded on the family’s time, but it was good of him to come.

— Who was that guy, Dad? Caroline asks. I can see my mum looking worried, cause she obviously doesn’t know who the guy is either.

— Just an old friend, my dad wheezes.

— A chap from the railways it’ll be, Mum coos. — From the railways, Keith?

— The railways . . . Dad says, but like he’s thinking of something else.

—
See, the railways, Mum says, now seeming pacified.

— What was his name? Caroline asks, her brow furrowed.

Dad goes to speak and he seems really uncomfortable, but Mum cuts in, grabbing his hand, and says to Caz, — Don’t tire your dad out, Caroline, then she turns to Dad and says, — Tired?

It was unusual cause my dad doesn’t have many friends, he’s always been more of a family man. But yes, it was good of the man to come.

When I speak I know that I’m trying hard to make it right for Dad, as if to convince him that I’m okay . . . like before we part. But I’m not okay, I know that much. The job is working out fine and they’re all very nice, well, most of them, although I wouldn’t want to get on Bob Foy’s wrong side.

The person I don’t get on with that much is that Danny Skinner. It’s funny, because he was nice to me the day I started,
he smiled at me in the lift and introduced me to everyone. But since then he’s been funny, a bit sarky. It’s probably cause I get on well with Shannon and I think he might fancy her. I heard that he’s got a girlfriend but there are some rats around whae that doesnae make a difference to, they’ll just use lassies.

You read in the papers about the likes of David Beckham. There’s girls claiming that he’s going with them when his wife’s having a baby. I used to like David Beckham, so I hope it’s not true and that those girls are all just money-grubbers.

I wonder if Shannon fancies me! Probably no cause she’s two and a half years older than me, but that’s nothing really. I know that she likes me!

I look at Caroline. She has this terrible tension in her eyes. I know things are horrible but she should try and make an effort to smile, for Dad’s sake, or even Mum’s. I worry that Caroline’s getting in with a bad crowd. She did so well in getting into Edinburgh Uni, but I saw her going down the road the other day with that Angela Henderson lassie, her that’s working in the baker’s now. That Angela’s exactly the kind of lassie who would make false allegations about the likes of David Beckham if there wis any money in it for her. I won’t let the likes of that drag Caroline down.

Dad’s breathing is shallower and quite laboured and he’s talking about the railways. He seems dislocated and confused. It’s probably all the drugs they’re giving him but Mum’s finding it really upsetting. He’s ranting a little, and I see agitation in his eyes, like he really wants to make a point.

He signals for me to get close to him and he squeezes my hand with a power you wouldn’t believe was possible for somebody so ill. — Don’t you make the same mistakes I did, son . . .

My mum hears this, starts sobbing and says, — You never made any mistakes, Keith. Never! Then she turns to Caroline and me and forces a strange smile. — What mistakes? Silly!

My dad won’t let go of my hand though. — Be honest, son . . .
he wheezes at me,— . . . to thine own self be true . . .

— Okay, Dad, I say, and I sit with him as his grip releases and he zones off into unconsciousness. A nurse comes along and tells us to let him rest for a bit. I don’t want to, I want to stay here, I feel like if I go I’ll never see him again.

But she insists, says he’ll be comfortable and needs to rest. I suppose they know best.

We’re quieter than ever on the journey back. When I get in I head upstairs and grab the hooked stick, pulling down the attic hatch, freeing the aluminium stepladder. As I got older I could see that it hurt Dad that I still came up here so much. He’d hear the step-ladder being pulled down, the snap of the aluminium, its strain and creaks as I pulled myself up. I know that it angered him, although he seldom said anything. Sometimes a shake of the head from him made me feel so very small. Like I felt outside and at school. But up here I was away from them all, McGrillen and that lot. They picked on me because I wasn’t like them. I didn’t always know what to say, I wasn’t interested in football or the bands that they liked, or raves or drugs, and because I was shy around girls. And the girls could be even more horrible: Susan Halcrow, Dionne McInnes, that Angela Henderson . . . all that sort. I can tell that kind of filthy tart a mile away. I nearly died when I saw Caroline with that dirty tramp of a Henderson lassie. I know it’s not really the girls’ fault, it’s the families they come from that are to blame.

But my sister’s better than that.

But up here, in the town I built with Dad, my place, I was safe. Even from Dad’s disapproval as it got so as that he couldn’t manage the steps. This was always my place, my world, and I feel that I need it more than ever now.

THE DAYS HAD
worn down to thin bands of light, squeezed relentlessly by the murky darkness. Snow was unlikely, but a dusting of frost would glitter for hours and night would fall before the chill’s jab could be removed from the air.

It was the day of the office Christmas meal and Brian Kibby found himself in happier spirits. His father had enjoyed a relatively comfortable night and seemed perkier and more
compos mentis
than on his previous visit. There was an aura of contentment about him as he apologised for his behaviour the night before, saying that he had the best wife and family a man could ever hope for.

This partially restored Brian’s optimism. Maybe his father would get well, get strong again. Perhaps he was being too morbid. He was going to have to be strong himself, make more of an effort with the likes of Danny Skinner. Skinner, who looked at him with that expression of thinly veiled hostility, like he knew everything about him.

He doesn’t know me. He knows nothing about me. I’ll show him who I am; I’m as cool as him or anybody else! I know about music. I hear stuff.

So a buoyant Brian Kibby swaggered playfully into the office, his narrow hips swivelling as he deftly swerved past the corner of Shannon McDowall’s desk, nodding at her as he passed. Her response was a lenient smile. All the time Kibby air-drummed, making home-made sound effects by blowing air through his tightened lips. Danny Skinner was by the window, watching his entrance. An air drummer: that
shows his mediocrity, he thought in crushing, savage contempt.

Kibby felt Skinner’s eyes on him. He turned and dispatched a weak smile, only to have it met with a terse nod. What have I done? Brian Kibby wondered fretfully. And Danny Skinner was wondering much the same thing, as shocked as Kibby by his increasingly hostile reactions to the new lad.

Why do I dislike Kibby so much? Probably because he’s a sooky little mummy’s boy who’d rim any ass to get on.

Ass . . . what a great word. Much better than arse. An arse sounded more like something you just shat out off, whereas an ass was definitely something sexy. The Yanks had class, no doubt about it. One day I’ll go to America.

Kay’s ass . . . tight as fuck, but soft as well. Until you’ve ran your hands over a pair of naked buttocks like that you can’t truly have said to have lived . . .

A hangover erection rose instantly, digging into the material of his pants and trousers. Skinner gasped a little at the discomfort, then watched Foy head into his office, thought about Christmas and the hard-on (to his relief) vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

When they arrived in a fleet of taxis at Ciro’s restaurant down on the South Side, Bob Foy immediately took it upon himself to choose the wine to accompany the lunch. Though a few soft grumblings were audible the staff seemed generally happy to defer to him in this foible. It was an in-joke that Foy was the ideal man for the job, as he certainly knew his way around a wine list. Various city restaurateurs allegedly benefited from his selectively lax enforcement of health regulations, and were subsequently quick to show their appreciation.

Foy sat back in his chair and scrutinised the list. His mouth was twisting in the petulant pout of the Hollywood Roman Emperor at the Colosseum games who has yet to decide whether or not what he is witnessing amuses him. — I think a couple of bottles of the Cabernet Sauvignon, he finally
decided, with a satisfied air. — This particular Californian red is generally reliable.

Aitken gave a slow, tortured nod of approval, McGhee an enthusiastic puppy-like one. Nobody else moved. A deafening silence followed, broken by the only dissenting voice which was Danny Skinner’s. — I don’t agree with that, he said firmly, shaking his head slowly.

There was deathly hush at the table as Bob Foy’s face reddened slowly but steadily in anger and embarrassment, to the point that he almost asphyxiated with fury as he contemplated this young upstart.

In my section for about five bloody minutes. It’s the first works dinner this cheeky wee bastard has deigned to appear at! Who the hell does he think he is?

Composing himself, Bob Foy forced his features to mould into an avuncular smile. — It’s a wee tradition that we have here . . . Foy hesitated briefly, then elected to use Skinner’s Christian name, — . . . Danny, that for the Christmas meal, the section head chooses the wine, he explained, displaying a row of capped teeth, as he casually smoothed down one of the sleeves of his Harris tweed jacket, brushing off a non-existent crumb.

This ‘tradition’ had been both purely devised and solely enforced by Foy, but nobody was contradicting him as his gaze scrutinised every face around the table.

Except Danny Skinner. Far from being intimidated, Skinner was in his element. — Fair enough, Bob, he said, imitating the same grandiose manner Foy himself had employed, — but this is a social occasion and nothing to do with rank at work. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we all contributed the same amount to the meal, therefore it follows that we should all have the same rights. I’m perfectly willing to bow to your superior expertise in the wine field, but I don’t drink red wine. I don’t like it. I drink white wine. It’s as simple as that. Danny Skinner paused for a bit, saw Foy start to dissolve into apoplexy. Then
he turned to the rest of the company at the table and added with a cold grin, — And I’m fucked if I’m paying for other people to drink red if I’m sitting drinking nothing!