by Monica Ali
‘Owes it to his talent,’ said Rolly. ‘Here comes that wine.’
‘He loves to tease,’ said Fairweather.
‘Well, if you’ve got the talent.’
‘A knack, perhaps it’s more of a knack. Anyway, in the Department, we always say that workers need to think about multi-skilling these days. I’m not even sure if that’s a word but that is what we say. I’m going to practise what I preach.’
Yuri, thought Gabriel suddenly. Yuri, it seemed, had been multi-skilled.
Fairweather’s voice was running on. It was a perfect voice for broadcast, both gritty and smooth, like running your fingers through sand. ‘And there’ll be the restaurant. It’s another way of serving, as I see it, because we’ll be making people’s lives that little bit richer. What could be better than making people happy? A restaurant can do that, I think.’
He’s still in, thought Gabe, relaxing slightly. He poured the wine.
‘Excuse me,’ said a diner, coming up to the table. She bent down as she spoke to Gabe so her décolletage was level with his eyes. ‘I just wanted to say that we’ve had a fantastic meal this evening. Thank you very much.’
Gabe lifted his gaze from the wrinkled valley between her breasts to the starched-and-ironed region of her eyes and brow. He asked what she had eaten, if the meal had marked an occasion and hoped that she and her husband would come again.
‘Splendido,’ said Fairweather, when the woman had blushingly retired. ‘Bravissimo. We must get you front of house as often as possible on charm offensives. They love all that, don’t they, mingling with the chef.’
‘Oh,’ said Gabe, ‘we’ve the television to thank for that. But I’ll be needed in the kitchen, so if you don’t mind—’
‘Wouldn’t be too clever,’ said Rolly, ‘to pour funds into a restaurant with a chef who’s going to find himself on some type of corporate manslaughter charge. You sure nothing’s going to stick to you?’
Gabriel gave a short laugh and rocked back in his chair. ‘Forget about the porter. I already have. It was a sad accident but Yuri brought it on himself. He was drinking. It’s not going to interfere with my life, though. I give you my word on that.’
‘Good enough for me,’ said Fairweather. ‘Rolly? Good enough?’
Rawlins did his special tooth rinse. It was a wonder, given how much saliva he appeared to produce, that it didn’t spray out when he spoke. ‘How’s business here, Gabriel? How’s your bottom line?’
‘Started out bumpy.’ Gabe shrugged. Rolly looked like a bit of a clown. When he wasn’t talking business he was usually talking rubbish, but in business, as he’d already proved, he was anything but a fool. With Rolly it would always be about the bottom line. ‘Look, we’re averaging seventy per cent capacity over the week now. The mid-weeks were killing the place before but you can see for yourselves … Let’s crunch some numbers when we get together. I’ve got more projections to talk through but I need to get back in my kitchen, I like to keep things tight.’
‘Off you go,’ cried Fairweather. The alcohol had reddened his cheeks further, but they seemed to glow with health, as if he had taken a bracing walk rather than an immodest amount of wine. ‘Mustn’t keep him, must we, but do just tell me this: would you object very much to a theme week when we open up? MPs do like a theme. I think I can guarantee a full house.’
Gabriel put his forearms on the table. He set himself solidly in place. ‘Traditional French cuisine – precisely executed classics with a clean, modern interpretation. Believe me, in London these days, that could be called a theme. If you want Pacific Rim with a Mexican molé on the side you can just pop round the corner. To get a decent steak béarnaise you’ve got to go to the ends of the earth.’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Fairweather, ‘that’s exactly what we discussed. That’s why we’re going to be full to the seams every night. There’s no precision in anything nowadays. It’s the same in politics, you know, a lot of flannel – flim-flam, my father used to call it – a lot of that about.’
‘Look,’ said Rolly, ‘if you’ve got some secret lust for Michelin stars, I’m telling you now, forget it. Yeah, if you get them, there’s payback. If you don’t … It’s a mug’s game. It’s one good way to go broke.’
‘Not interested,’ said Gabe. ‘Never have been.’ He looked across the restaurant at the treble-arched window. The open curtains, artfully swagged skeins of silver, framed the dark night beyond. People passed by indistinctly. Lights smudged colour into the street, but illuminated scarcely anything at all.
‘Because if you are …’ said Rolly.
Gabriel tuned in to the ticklish patter of the fountain, the clink of cutlery all around. Rolly needed handling, but it wasn’t too hard to do. ‘Who wants to end up like Loiseau?’
‘Who?’ said Fairweather. ‘Oh, I do know. The chef who shot himself? He was worried about losing a star.’
‘Besson,’ said Gabe, ‘had a heart attack when they took one away.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Senderens. He was smart. He handed them back himself. Wants to go back to cooking real food again.’ Gabriel looked directly into Rolly’s beady eyes. ‘Why let other people be in charge of your cooking – your life – when you can be in charge of it yourself?’
Fairweather rubbed his hands together as the desserts arrived. ‘Bravissimo. By the way, you should upgrade to fresh flowers for the restaurant, plastic is a bit you-know-what.’
On his way back to the kitchen he stopped to speak to Mr Maddox, who was sitting alone now with an espresso and petits fours. ‘How was your meal?’
The general manager took his time to reply, a small exercise of power. He stared with seeming deliberation towards Rolly and Fairweather, and then he glanced about the dining room. ‘There’s a man and a woman sat behind me, no, don’t start looking now, they’re staying in the hotel. I’d say he’s her boss and what his wife doesn’t know won’t hurt her, if you catch my drift. Next table along, a brace of City types, and those squawkers right there are Essex girls come up to town for a shop.’ Gabe studied Maddox’s face, trying to read the signs. His brow was dark and heavy, as though authority resided there. His mouth, though in no way generous, had lips that were surprisingly full and red. His eyes appeared somewhat cavernous beneath the weight of the brow. These same features could assemble and reassemble to present one face to a guest and another to an employee who had failed to come up to scratch. But the process of transformation was mysterious and Gabe could divine nothing by scrutinizing the opening and closing of the mouth. ‘The wax effigies at six o’clock,’ Mr Maddox continued, ‘fortieth anniversary, odds on. We’re serving the pink pound over by the fountain, Soho’s just waking up. What else? Ladies who lunch, doing dinner, ad execs on the mineral water, the lot of them on the twelve-step … I could go on. Point is, Chef – ’ He paused and scratched the inside of his wrist where the tattoo had been removed. ‘Point is, place like this, you got to cater for all of them and it looks like that’s what you’ve done. Well, what you waiting for? I’m not about to fellate you, you have to get back in your kitchen for that.’
The new night porter was down in the catacombs operating the rubbish compactor. Everyone else had gone home. Gabe typed in his password to access his personal file, clicked to open the spreadsheet and drummed his fingers to fill the couple of seconds before the program got in gear. He looked away. Viewed from his cubicle the bare kitchen took on a desperate aspect, as though it had been abandoned for good. Even Ivan’s grill station, his circle of fire, reduced to dull sheens and gaping holes, looked pathetic, as humbled as the rows of cookers and fridges that you see at any rubbish dump.
Gabriel began reading the numbers. He adjusted one of the assumptions, on staff costs, and watched it translate almost instantly to the bottom line. He took 10 per cent off dairy products, thinking that for the new business he’d be able to cut a deal. He ran through all the produce, making notional savings, and gaining the satisfaction of driving the gross prof
it up. If he raised the average spend per head, yes, he’d been too conservative there, he saw the possibility of moving into net profit before a year was out. Inching forward in his seat, he looked for new lines of attack. The computer purred and the numbers capitulated and Gabriel hunted deeper and deeper until he came to the costs that were fixed. Still he did not stop; he wanted very much to go on. He lowered the monthly lease and the price of gas and electricity, purely for the pleasure of seeing the numbers respond.
Rubbing his eyes he pushed back from his desk. He decided to go home. He hunched into the computer again and restored the fixed costs to their previous levels. Then he made another alteration to the projected volume of alcohol sales. If they pushed a mere twenty extra units per day – look at the effect it had. It was beautiful, setting up input and output like that. To make x happen you do y. Strange how easy it was to lose the connections in the course of an ordinary day.
There was nothing more he could usefully do tonight, except go home and get some sleep. He scratched, or rather caressed, the tiny bald patch. Was it visible yet, or was his hair sufficiently thick and wayward to cover it up? Charlie had never mentioned it but that would be just like her – or rather it wouldn’t, he thought she would have said something, to tease him, or to show that it was nothing, or just because … he couldn’t think now, what it was that she might do. He really was extremely tired and he had to go to bed.
One thing he should do tomorrow was to think of a way of getting rid of Oona. It would hardly be fair to hand her on to the next executive chef. He had nothing against her personally, and it wasn’t like she wasn’t willing to do things his way. But even when she was doing exactly what he asked of her there was something so – what? – static about her. Even bustling about the kitchen, Oona had a way of seeming to stand stock-still.
A few times she’d covered for absences in the staff canteen and she’d always seemed happiest then, turning leftovers into curries and serving up huge portions of rice’n’peas. Her interest in food was basic and narrow, without imagination or zeal.
Gabriel looked down at his hands. They looked like chef’s hands, callused and scarred, but gave no reassurance. Was he so different from Oona? Had he fallen out of love with food? It was all these numbers and forms, the meetings, the health and safety procedures, the staff problems, the countless emails. No wonder the passion waned now and again. A hard-on in a hailstorm would be easier to maintain. Classic French, a modern twist, cooked with precision. Just a set of worn-out words.
Well, he hated the alternative. A handful of this, a slug of that, depending on how you feel, lovely jubbly, tear a few leaves, do a dance, chuck in some chillies, there you go. He could still feel something about that. Yes, precision was something he could offer, a quality he would bring to bear. He had it all those years ago, even when he started at the Jarvis, and he had not lost it yet.
Bogie and Darren and the other commis used to go out and get shitfaced seven days a week while Gabe stayed late in the kitchen, test-grilling one-inch slices of steak and perfecting his soufflés. Their reading material began with Penthouse and ended with Hustler while he ground his way through Le Guide Culinaire and Larousse. They knew as much about food science as they knew about girls. For Gabe too, girls remained (literally) impenetrable, but he knew about polysaccharides, starches, gluten, protein, collagen, gelatin and gels.
No, Gabe knew about food all right, had forgotten more than most of them would ever learn. And if a dimming of passion was all he had to worry about, then, for God’s sake, he was doing well. The business took over, that was reality. You couldn’t go round tearing basil leaves and swooning with pleasure all day. He had no debts; he wasn’t an alcoholic, he didn’t take drugs, he didn’t live on sugar sandwiches and Coke; and he had come this far without bankruptcy, coronaries, divorce or psychotic breaks. Looking sideways (for what man is strong enough to resist?) he could say that things were not too bad.
Gabriel turned off the computer, and at last got ready to leave.
He headed to the back exit through the loading bay. There’d be less competition for cabs; worth considering, even at this time of night. The cold cut his nostrils; it always shocked him after the day-long swaddling heat. He coughed and the back of his throat felt sharp. He wondered if he was coming down with a cold. As he walked past Ernie’s prefab hut he saw a figure step away from the wall. He was not surprised. It seemed natural that he should have conjured her like this.
Lena had her hands in the pockets of her coat, a thin, navy trench. She shivered but looked at Gabriel with indifference as though ready to walk on by.
‘It’s you again.’ Gabe hardly recognized his own voice. A streetlamp shrugged a sodium glow over the girl, and he had the sensation she was floating in the circle of orange light.
‘Yes.’ She carried a duffle bag over one shoulder. It slipped down and she hoisted it up.
‘I’m going home,’ said Gabe, his throat really hurting. ‘What are you doing here?’
She raised her chin but did not speak. Shadow obliterated her eyes.
‘It’s very late,’ he said, stupidly. ‘Do you … do you have anywhere to go?’ He knew that she had come for him, though he hardly dared believe it yet.
‘I’ll carry your bag,’ said Gabriel. He took one step towards her. She didn’t bolt so he took another. He approached her gradually, as he would a wild creature. ‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s OK. You can stay with me.’
CHAPTER FIVE
LENA ROAMED THE SITTING ROOM AS THOUGH LOOKING FOR A way out. She trailed her hand across a shelf, knocked a candlestick and set it straight. She picked up a photograph of Charlie but barely glanced at it. She put it down again. Standing by the long, naked window, twisting her fingers, she regarded the door with infinite blankness.
‘Tea,’ said Gabe, ‘coffee, cocoa, vodka …’
Lena switched her gaze to the window. Her hair, tied in a ponytail, was limp and greasy. Her earlobes were stretched by thick gold hoops. A row of studs ran up the cartilage of the left ear. The tendons of her neck formed two thick cords.
She shook her head.
‘Are you cold? I could put the heating on.’ He felt shivery himself. He bit his lip to stop his teeth from chattering.
Lena began to pace. She wore black patent shoes with a gold clasp across the toes and low heels that tapped a nervy message across the pale oak floor.
‘We don’t have to talk,’ said Gabriel. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything.’ If those were her tights he had found, if she had been living in the basement with Yuri, if she was now homeless as well as jobless – she probably didn’t know where to begin.
‘It’s late, anyway. Time for bed.’ His throat hurt when he swallowed. He was coming down with something. Was he too cold or too hot? For a few moments he closed his eyes.
He was back in the cab, coming over Vauxhall Bridge, looking out of the windows at the London Eye and St Paul’s and all the other jewels scattered against the purple velvet sky, and his hand was not so far from hers and he breathed the thin damp scent of her and did not look at her once.
‘If you want sex,’ said Lena, ‘I don’t have problem.’
Gabriel opened his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘What? No.’ He shook his head.
Lena shrugged. The deep slash of her top showed the sharpness of her collar bone and only the faintest suggestion of breasts. In front of the television she came to a standstill and faced him. ‘I don’t have problem. We do it, OK, now if you want.’
Again, he shook his head, staring at her cadaverous little frame. He scarcely believed those words had spilled from it, and he was appalled. He wanted very much to have sex. ‘Christ, no. That’s not why I …’ He rubbed his face. ‘Look. You don’t know me, but if you think I … that’s not how I am, I’m not like that at all.’
‘OK,’ said Lena.
‘You don’t believe me? I didn’t bring you here for … you said you needed a place to stay.’
‘OK.�
�
‘Jesus.’
‘OK.’
Gabriel got up. His throat was definitely inflamed and his head hurt. It was madness to try to help this girl. She could stay one night on the sofa and then she would have to leave. ‘I’m going to take some aspirins and then get you a duvet. You can sleep in here. Right. You need anything else? Are you cold? I can get you a jumper, you know, if you’re cold.’
He went straight to the kitchen, picked the tights off the worktop and threw them in the bin. He went to the bathroom and swallowed two aspirins, replaced the bottle, retrieved it and tapped out two more. In the bedroom he opened drawers and closed them until he realized he was searching for a jumper that would suit her and pulled out the first thing that came.
Lena was watching television in the dark. She had taken off her shoes and sat with her feet up, hugging her knees. Gabe held out the jumper. She took it without a word, pulled it on and stretched it over her legs.
Gabe wished it were already morning so he could put her out of his flat and out of his life. She wasn’t in the least bit attractive. She was hostile. What was wrong with her? Offering sex like that but not a single word of thanks.
He would fetch a duvet and a pillow and leave her to it. He had tried to be charitable and she had thrown it back in his face.
He sat on the sofa next to her, but leaving the widest possible gap.
On the screen, some cable channel, a tedious 1940s movie played out. Oh, how can you ask me that? The woman wore a frothy nude-toned evening gown, although it appeared to be the middle of the day. The man was in a tuxedo. Through the open French windows was a swimming pool shaped like an internal organ; the way it glittered made everything look fake.
Gabriel turned to Lena. He would question her briefly but closely about Yuri. Wasn’t that why he had brought her here? She wasn’t his responsibility. If she had no job that was her own fault. Oona had never fired her because Oona hadn’t seen her again.
Lena watched the television; his jumper formed a tent over her knees. The light from the screen played with her face, screwing the angles around. She had a feline nose, small and snub, high, skinny eyebrows and a pale scar of a mouth. It was difficult to tell, Gabe could not decide, whether she was pretty or not. She turned her face and now he could see her eyes, darker than he remembered, livid blue in the television’s flame.