The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

  To thine own self be true.

  9

  New Year

  I DID A stupid thing at the Housing Department party. It was normal office party stuff: a big, open-plan gaff, dealing with rent, housing benefits and the like, tons of booze flying around, amateur drinkers throwing up, people vanishing into storerooms for stolen moments of soon-to-be-regretted carnal lust.

  I was talking to Shannon, getting a bit maudlin about life, and she was too, me mentioning Kay, her Kevin. Then some drunken lassie stuck some mistletoe over our heads. A peck became a snog, which lasted all night as we held on to each other like orphaned baby monkeys, whose worlds were crumbling around them. Mine certainly was and it seemed that she was in the same boat.

  The next day I went up to Samuel’s in St James’s Centre and bought a diamond engagement ring. It cost nearly four hundred quid. I took Kay to the Derby match at Tynecastle, and we saw the bells in at her mother’s. I took it easy on the drink – not much option in that house. All the pictures of Kay, everywhere; a wee lassie in ballerina costume, a high-kicking Guys and Dolls amateur production teenager, her first real job in some experimental dance troupe. I darkly saw in the fussing of the aunties, uncles and gran, and her taking it as her effortless lot in life, just how all the lassies in her school must have secretly hated her. That slender, toned body, shiny hair and perfect white teeth, her boundless, enthusiastic smiles, the can-do attitude; all the things I loved simply because she gave them to me. And I will marry this girl.

  I didn’t give her the ring though. I resolved that when I went down on the bended knee, it would be her and me, alone, and I would be totally, utterly, perfectly sober.

  Now it’s business as usual. No gradual phasing in after the festive period; for some cunts in the office it’s like Christmas and New Year never even happened. I heard that old wanker Aitken going on about how he hates the festive holiday, and how it’s great to get back to the usual.

  The usual.

  Foy had put my report on to the second inspection roster, in the anticipation that Aitken or one of his other arse-crawlers would do the cover-up job. Invoking this procedure, a stage two, meant that it wouldn’t need to be referred to the next tier, namely that humourless cunt Cooper up the stairs.

  Now chubby boy Foy is emerging from his office, crazy with rage, and not only is he going to tear that sneaky wee fandan Kibby apart, he’s going to do it in front of us all as an example. That’s just the good news. The totally excellent news is that I’m ringside!

  He throws the report down on Kibby’s desk and that motion, before he even opens his mouth, has made the sad wee cunt go all eppy. Then Foy snarls, — What the fuck is this garbage? Do you realise that this is a stage two and it leaves this office? he hisses, jabbing his thumb ceilingward.

  — But his kitchen was really dirty, that dippit wee fucker Kibby goes, and it’s unbelievable watching Foy almost having a heart attack, seeing that old spunk-bag wonder how he’s gaunnae square that yin with fat boy De Fretais. No more discounts at Le Petit Jardin, no more fussy service and best tables!

  — That is not the kitchen of a greasy spoon in Kirkcaldy, you stupid wee laddie, Foy roars in flesh-stripping contempt as Kibby physically cowers, sinking into the collar of his shirt. The term ‘stupid wee laddie’ is, from Foy’s lips, more wounding than any curse I’ve ever heard uttered. — That is Alan De Fretais’s kitchen! Foy booms as Kibby stands up, trying to claim back some power, but he’s shaking on the spot, red-faced, and with tears welling up in his eyes. Foy steps closer to him, eyes chickenhawk-like, and guess who the chicken is? The fat bastard is really enjoying this. His voice falls almost to a whisper: — Do you have a television in your house?

  I’m feeling fucking weird about this. Foy’s a bully, an arrogant, overbearing bastard and he’s totally out of order. Why am I enjoying this so much?

  — Do you watch said television? he booms. I can almost see the laurels above his ears.

  — Ah . . . ah . . . aye.

  Foy takes his voice down even further: — Have you ever watched The Secrets of the Master Chefs, on Scottish Television, after the news?

  — Aye . . .

  — Then you will have seen Mr De Fretais from Le Petit Jardin, who presents the programme, Foy says reasonably.

  — Aye . . .

  — Then, Foy’s voice slows down, — you will know that he is an important man, he contends in a stagy diplomacy, lulling Kibby, who’s now starting to replicate Foy’s nod, before bellowing in his face, — AND NOT TO BE FUCKED WITH!

  Kibby physically recoils and wilts further, and I am sure that boy’s white ass is shaking like Elvis’s pet jellyfish, then he rallies a wee bit and coughs out in pathetic defiance, — But . . . but . . . but . . . you sais . . . you sais . . . And I have to admit that something’s happening to me here. I’m angry, though not at Foy for his bullying, but at Kibby, for fucking well taking it.

  I’m willing him: fight back, Kibby, where’s your fucking bollocks? Stick up for yourself, you daft wee cunt. C’mon, Brian . . .

  — What? mocks Foy. — I sais what? And I feel my own sides convulse in a pain so fucking gleeful because I now realise that I hate this cunt Kibby, and I want him to suffer. I hate him, I really fucking do. Foy’s a buffoon, a joke, but Kibby, there’s something sneaky about that wee cunt, something sneaky; stupid and pathetic, aye, but it’s like there’s this covert snideyness there to try and make up for it. And I realise now that I want to see Foy make that fucking insect crawl like it makes my flesh creep . . .

  HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE.

  I don’t even know what’s being said now, because I can only see their faces. Kibby’s fucking silly muppet head, his eyes wide in shock; Foy’s crimson coupon, looking like a red-hot kernel of hashish ready to dissolve into his body, to melt right through that tweedy Marks & Sparks torso . . .

  Fuckin dingul. How radge is he?

  The fun only stops as that cunt Cooper, the big cheese, comes into the office, his presence a signal for Foy to pull himself together. A flustered Kibby goes to the toilet, no doubt to cry his daft wee girly eyes out. I’m tempted to go after him, to witness that little fag squealing like the bitch-slapped wee pussy he is, but no, I’ll chill for a bit and make some coffee. I can’t explain the rage I have against him, the impulse to precipitate and savour his annihilation, and part of me is horribly ashamed off it: the pathetic nature of it all, the raw, searing illicit pleasure this hatred of him gives me.

  10

  Sex and Death

  POST-NEW YEAR in Edinburgh saw a smoky black city sky hanging like a pile of bricks in a flimsy net above the heads of its inhabitants. The citizenry would frequently look up in anxiety, waiting for it to drop its load on them. Yet most Burgh boys and girls still nipped around briskly: they had processed their hangovers and had yet to break their resolutions, enjoying the wave of optimism a new year brings.

  One exception was a fur-headed, dry-mouthed Danny Skinner who was writing a report in earshot of a buoyant Brian Kibby, now recovered from his mauling by Foy, and enthusiastically recounting his recent adventures to Shannon McDowall. — The weekend there, Kibby said in his high, almost girlish nasal whine, — we were up in Glenshee, he explained as Shannon nodded indulgently, sipping black coffee from her Pet Shop Boys mug.

  A more clued-up soul than Kibby might have suspected that Shannon was bored and humouring him, but having a massive crush on her served to obliterate his antennae somewhat. In his troubled life dealing with his father’s illness and the tensions in his family, Shannon, the video games – particularly Harvest Moon – the model railway and the Hyp Hykers had become his main sources of respite. Shannon and one Hyp Hyker particularly. — . . . n thir was a bunch of us; me, Kenny, that’s the guy who runs the club, he’s a great laugh but pretty mad, Brian Kibby chortled, — and Gerald, who really tries tae keep up, he let his face screw up in a slightly indulgent manner, — but we call him slowcoach, n there’s Lucy . . . Kibby was abou
t to expand on the main object of his desire when he was cut short by a terse intervention.

  — These trips you go on, Brian, they wee treks in the country, Skinner proceeded in prosecution lawyer manner, as he’d learned from Foy, — any rideable females go along?

  The elicitation of Kibby’s blush had been Skinner’s sole intention and he wasn’t disappointed. Shannon rolled her eyes and tutted under her breath, busying herself in her paperwork.

  — There’s some girls that go – Brian Kibby began hesitantly, looking towards Shannon, who was ignoring him, her head bent over her papers.

  — Like the fucking clappers, I’ll bet, Skinner cut him off.

  Kibby stammered, feeling like he’d already betrayed Lucy in some unspecific yet deep way, — Eh . . . I dinnae . . . you cannae . . .

  Skinner’s mouth tightened, and from Kibby’s point of view his face took on a preternatural hue. — Bet there’s a few rides there, eh?

  Shannon McDowall looked first at Kibby then at Skinner. Her glance was dismissive. Skinner caught it and gestured in appeal.

  — There’s some nice lassies, aye, Brian Kibby said, quite assertively, and as a result he instantly, for a few precious seconds, felt that he had captured the moral high ground.

  Skinner’s expression was stony and serious. — Rode any?

  Brian Kibby looked disgusted and turned away, but Skinner saw that the attempt to construct a mature façade was a smokescreen in order to cover his virgin’s humiliation. Shannon McDowall tutted again, shook her head, rose and marched over to the bank of filing cabinets. Colin McGhee grinned over and let his brows rise, tacitly giving Skinner the audience he needed following Shannon’s departure.

  — Why so coy, Bri? Skinner said matter-of-factly. — A simple question: rode any birds at this hiking club of yours?

  — Nane ay your business! Kibby spat, and stormed off, heading for the toilets, passing Shannon, who moved back to her desk.

  Skinner turned to her. — Looks like I touched a nerve!

  — Don’t be so fucking horrible, Danny, Shannon said. Brian Kibby could go on, but he was a nice wee guy, just a bit innocent.

  Skinner winked suggestively at her, causing Shannon to feel a slow pang of desire she wished she didn’t. That drunken snog at the Housing Department party. It had just been one of those things, a piece of nonsense neither mentioned again, yet she was reminded of it every time he looked at her in a certain way. Skinner felt it too, and it shamed him. He’d been stupid. He loved Kay, although things were still pretty tense between them after his behaviour at Christmas. Kibby, though, had nobody, Skinner considered with a treacherous, gloating pity. — There’s no stigma in being a virgin at twenty-one. For most people, he grandly contended.

  Skinner’s baiting of Brian Kibby was relentless enough in the office, although it was skilfully presented by its architect as just a series of light-hearted wind-ups, based on a genuine, if obviously patronising, friendship, rather than any real malice. However, at the local further education college on their day-release studies for the Certificate of Public Health Management, his viciousness came into its own. Surrounded by many of his peers, the flamboyant Danny Skinner was remorseless: heckling, abusing and humiliating the tongue-tied and socially awkward Brian Kibby at every turn. It got so that in certain places, notably the college refectory during coffee and lunch breaks, Kibby was literally scared to open his mouth, lest he draw Skinner’s attention to him. Other students became either willing accomplices or unwitting stooges, but most were happy to acquiesce rather than face the sharp end of Danny Skinner’s tongue.

  That tongue, though, also had its softer side, which was envied by Kibby, almost as much as he detested its more brutal aspect. The female workers at the council, or more often, the students in the college, were seldom spared Skinner’s verbal charms. Danny Skinner often seemed incapable of letting a girl pass him by without registering a smile, wink or comment.

  The abhorrence Skinner had felt towards Brian Kibby, so deep that it often appalled and dismayed him, had grown steadily over the few months of their acquaintance. It had reached the point where he assumed it had evolved to an unsurpassable level. But one incident would elevate this animus to even greater heights.

  The engagement ring intended for Kay Ballantyne had been burning a hole in Danny Skinner’s pocket. It was a raw, cold Saturday, with searing gales blasting the city from the North Sea, but the town was nonetheless busy with shoppers, taking advantage of the January sales.

  — Let’s just take a wee walk through the gardens, Skinner had suggested to his girlfriend. As they descended the steps at the floral clock, now barren for the winter, the throb of a bass line rumbled in the air. Something seemed to be going on at the Ross Bandstand. They heard a wavering voice rising, and saw some groups of freshly scrubbed-looking people, clad in clean brushed denim, and ascertained that some kind of gospel rock band was playing.

  — Let’s check this out, Kay suggested.

  — Naw, let’s just sit down here for a bit. Skinner pointed at an empty park bench.

  — It’s too cold to sit out, Danny, Kay protested, stamping her feet, and pulling some windswept strands of hair out of her eyes.

  — Just for a minute, I’ve got something I need to say to you, he pleaded.

  Intrigued, Kay followed him, and they sat on the bench. Skinner looked sadly at her. — I’ve been an idiot, a total arsehole. At Christmas . . .

  — Look, we’ve been through this before, I don’t want to talk about it. Kay shook her head. — Let’s just put it behind us. It’s Saturday and I –

  — Please, angel, just listen to me for a second, he urged, fishing a small box out of his pocket. — I love you, Kay. I want to be with you always.

  She gasped as he snapped it open and she caught the sparkle of the diamond ring.

  Skinner slid off the park bench on to his knees in front of her. — Kay, I want to marry you. Will you marry me?

  Kay Ballantyne was in shock. She’d come to believe that he was bored with her, and wanted them to finish, and that this was what all the drinking was about. — Danny . . . I don’t know what to say . . .

  Skinner looked tensely at her. Fortunately, this was one of the responses he’d considered in his myriad rehearsals. — Yes would work.

  — Yes! Of course! Kay screamed in glee, bending down to kiss him on the mouth as he placed the ring on her finger.

  Brian Kibby, out with Ian Buchan on Princes Street, was sporting his favourite baseball cap. A roaring blast of wind suddenly ripped it from his head, hurling it over the railings into the gardens. — My hat! Kibby gave chase, heading through some gates down a cobblestoned slope.

  At first he couldn’t see it, then he registered that it had come to rest underneath one of the park benches at the bottom of the hill, where a girl in a white jacket was sitting alone. Brian Kibby walked up slowly behind her, and bent down to pick up the cap. As he did, he found himself staring, to their mutual disbelief, through the bars on the bench, straight into the eyes of a kneeling Danny Skinner.

  Finding themselves practically in each other’s faces, both men were stricken by shock. There was a frozen moment of purgatory before Kibby spoke. — Eh, hi, Danny, he said softly. — It’s ma hat, it blew away, he inspidly explained, as Kay turned round in her seat. Kibby was trying not to notice that Skinner was on his knees in front of a startlingly beautiful girl. The white leather jacket she wore had a fur trim, and she sported a furry hat with earmuffs. Her pixie-like nose twitched in the cold, and her eyes widened, as if to compensate for the narrowing of Danny Skinner’s, who was ludicrously pretending not to see Brian Kibby. The game was up when Kay nudged him and pointed at his colleague, who was now standing up, clutching the offending cap to his chest.

  — Oh, hi, Brian . . . Skinner said with the minimum possible grace.

  Kay stood up, thus forcing Skinner to do the same, and put her fingertips together. Cocking her head to the side, she looked up at Skinner in an e
ager, urging smile, then turned back to Kibby, who marvelled at her dazzling white grin and the swish of her shining black hair in the wind, which cascaded on to her shoulders from under her hat and muffs.

  Despite feeling the words jamming in his throat, Skinner managed to cough out, — Eh, that’s Brian. He works with me at the council. Then he added quickly, — This is Kay.

  Kay smiled broadly at him and Kibby almost passed out.

  She’s lovely, and she’s with Skinner, and they’re probably in love and there’s no justice in this world . . . a lassie like her going out with the likes of that . . . her teeth are so white, her skin’s so smooth, her hair’s so beautiful . . .

  — Hiya, Brian, Kay said, and nodded to his friend Ian, who had appeared by his side. Then she nudged Skinner, who seemed to Kibby to be sick with tension and disgust and said eagerly, — I can’t help it, Danny, I want to tell the world!

  Skinner gritted his teeth, but Kay didn’t notice. She extended her hand to show Kibby the ring; the diamond ring he’d given her in that exquistite moment of intimacy, only seconds ago, which had now been completely ruined for him.

  Him! That fucking little arse-licking walking foetus is the first person to know about us, about my cunting engagement! Caught on my knees by that fucking . . . and that cunt he’s with . . .

  — We just got engaged! Kay sang, as the Christian gospel music soared to new heights.

  Skinner stole a scornful glance at Brian Kibby’s friend. All he saw was a pair of protruding ears and a prominent Adam’s apple.

  Another fucking muppet!

  Through witnessing Danny Skinner’s silent rage, Brian Kibby realised that he’d inadvertently intruded on a precious moment. It was of the type he’d never personally experienced, but had enviously seen in the lovers around him; and he felt, through that glacier, psychotic stare of Skinner’s, that he would emphatically pay for this trangression. — Congratulations, Kibby said as warmly as he could, trying to both ingratiate himself to Kay and make a twisted plea for clemency to his enemy. Ian nodded with an awkward smile as Skinner said something like, — Hmmmph, while almost choking in repressed fury.