The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

by Irvine Welsh

  A 16 bus rolled in and he saw Mandy, his mother’s hairdressing apprentice, disembark as she regarded him in some surprise. — Danny! Are you alright? I mean . . . it said in the paper that you had serious head injuries!

  — I’ve always been a serious head case, he laughed, adding, — Naw, it was a good thing it was only my heid. He banged his skull with his knuckles, quite hard, wondering if Kibby would feel it. — The newspapers always exaggerate, they’re full of crap.

  At his office Skinner scored brownie points by coming into work in an assured frame of mind, never complaining about his injuries, and strangely, there were no marks on his face. He did have a pronounced limp but it was Dougie Winchester who had noticed that after a few pints at lunchtime it seemed to have miraculously healed.

  Brian Kibby, by contrast, had not appeared, calling in sick. This was highly unusual for him.

  Beverly Skinner’s probing fingers worked the conditioner through Jessie Thomson’s steel-wool hair. The label information on the bottle mentioned ‘fruit oils’, describing them as ‘nourishing’, and strangely, it did seem that as she massaged the older woman’s scalp, some kind of rejuvenation was taking place. Jessie’s eyes and mouth were becoming more animated. — Of course, Geraldine’s ey been prone tae ovarian cysts. Her sister had them n aw. Martina, mind? Her wi the laddie that died, mind the motorbike? Death traps. Awfay sad though, rare laddie n aw. How dae ye get ower something like that? Ah mean, ma two, thir nae angels but if anything happened tae them . . .

  The customer was fishing, trying to get Beverly to open up about Danny’s plight. She should go round and see him. The football assault had been preying on her mind all weekend.

  I’ve telt that stupid wee fucker about that fitba nonsense for years . . .

  He’s all I’ve got. My wee boy. He wasn’t a bad laddie. He was –

  Mandy Stevenson breezed in, hair plastered to her scalp and the side of her face, the shoulders on her beige coat dark from a sudden heavy burst of rain. — Sorry I’m a bit late, Bev. Saw your Danny at the fit ay the Walk.

  — What . . . how was he?

  — He was just getting on the bus for work, Mandy smiled. — He looked fine, you know Danny, always joking aboot.

  — Aye, ah ken um awright, Beverly mused. Selfish little bastard, worrying us all for fuck all, she thought, and worked more conditioner into Jessie’s grateful locks. — This will really suit ye, hen, she threatened as Jessie Thomson fell into an abrupt tense-eyed silence.

  Brian Kibby had been prone to hypochondriac tendencies for a long time. As a schoolboy he was seldom far away from the doctors: a sick note procured in order to attain some respite from bullying was a precious commodity. But since then, he had grown shy of visiting his physician and was never off work. Any supposed illness was generally now little more than self-pitying habit, his routine phrase ‘I think I’m coming down with something’ usually deployed to get some sort of attention from women. Now that he actually had a genuine ailment, and one undiagnosed, he was worried that he might be going crazy.

  But that Monday morning, Joyce’s promptings and his bruising and terrible pains, to say nothing of his embarrassing collapse while hiking, at last compelled him to visit Dr Phillip Craigmyre, the family physician, at his Corstorphine practice. — Listen, son . . . his mother began uneasily, — mind and put on fresh underpants . . . you’re seeing the doctor, mind.

  — What . . .? Kibby beamed bright red. — Of course I’ve put on clean pants . . . I always –

  — It’s just that I found . . . boy stuff . . . in your pants when I put them in the wash, Joyce said nervously, — you know the sort of stains boys can sometimes make . . .

  Kibby’s cheeks burned and he hung his head in shame. She’d mentioned this to him once before, but that was way back in his teens.

  — I know it can be difficult, Brian, but it’s sinful and it can be very weakening, that’s all I’m saying. Remember, she looked to the ceiling, — He sees everything.

  Kibby went to speak and decided better of it. He was further mortified as Joyce insisted on accompanying him, and even had to be convinced to wait outside while the GP subjected him to a thorough physical examination. The physician’s familiarity gave Kibby the courage to cough out the question, — Doctor, could this be, eh, because I, eh, sometimes, ehm . . . touch myself?

  Craigmyre, a hawk-faced man with silver, shorn hair and an air of bustling energy, looked pointedly at Kibby. — Are you referring to masturbation?

  — Aye . . . it’s just that Mum says it’s very weakening and I . . .

  Shaking his head, Craigmyre said in clipped tones, — I think there are other things happening here much more significant than common masturbation, before going on to take blood, urine and stool samples, Kibby so chagrined that it took his body a while to part with its waste.

  When he was done, Dr Craigmyre invited Brian’s concerned mother into his surgery. He described the symptoms diligently, then contended evenly, — Some form of abuse has clearly taken place here, he stated.

  — What do you mean? Joyce said.

  — Look at your son, Mrs Kibby, he’s covered in bruises.

  — But he wasn’t fighting . . . he doesn’t get into trouble, she pleaded.

  — Ah dinnae . . . ah dinnae, Kibby broke into a wail.

  Craigmyre was unrepentant, removing his stethoscope and setting it down on his desk. — In fact, everything here is consistent with the after-effects of a lost weekend of alcoholic debauchery. He shook his head. — These bruises are of the type you see every weekend in the city’s casualty unit. The result of drunken street brawling, he contended, while Brian Kibby and his mother couldn’t believe what they were hearing. — And this mark on the cheek, it’s like a cigarette burn, of the sort that might be self-inflicted in drunken depression. You were telling me that you lost your father recently . . .

  — Aye, but ah dinnae drink . . . Kibby protested.

  — Yet your son says that he doesn’t drink and has had no alcohol over the weekend, Craigmyre half sneered as Joyce stood agog. — I have to tell you that if Brian does have an alcohol problem, then this is a very serious matter and neither he nor anyone else are helping things by attempting to conceal it.

  Now the laddie was being branded an alcoholic in denial, in spite of his tears of insistence that he didn’t drink! What kind of doctor was this? Joyce wondered through a seething rage. — But he doesnae even drink! He was at a Star Trek convention this weekend, Doctor! she implored, then looked intently at her son for traces of duplicity. — Weren’t you?

  — Aye! Aye! I wis with Ian! We were together all the time! He’ll tell ye I never had a drink at all! Kibby squealed at the injustice of it all, as his face reddened and he started to sweat. — I went back to the hotel on my own for a while when I got a bit sick . . . but I never had a drink!

  — I’d like to see some evidence of that, Craigmyre said. He’d seen scores of alcoholics before, some of whom would go to any elaborate lengths to obscure their drinking problem.

  — I’ll get it for you, Joyce snapped. — Thank you, she said snootily, heading for the door, — C’mon, Brian, and Kibby trailed pathetically behind his mother, puffing and secreting as he went.

  It took him till the end of the week until he felt well enough to go into work, and the bruises and swelling were still prominent. But the more he talked about his puzzling malady, the more he seemed to be full of self-pity. At least he was spared Skinner’s abuse, his rival had taken two days off to prepare for the interview the following week.

  Kibby stayed in most of that weekend, in readiness for his own performance. Apart from that, he just about had the energy to get up the metal stairs to his beloved model railway, and he spent a bit of time watching the City of Nottingham going round the loop, imagining the passengers inside the carriage. In his mind’s eye it was himself and Lucy in a luxury compartment. Lucy was dressed in Victorian style, with a tight corset racking out her cleavage. Her breasts in
real life he had surreptitiously evaluated as smallish, but for the purposes of his fantasy Kibby had substantially enlarged them. Now, as the train headed up the West Highlands – not through Europe à la the Orient Express – Kibby was pulling down the shutters and picking at the laces on the dress and freeing those mammaries.

  Craigmyre seemed to think it was harmless . . .

  — Stop, Brian . . . we mustn’t . . . Lucy gasped in soft arousal through her fear.

  — Can’t stop now, babe, and I don’t think you want me to either . . .

  But this is wrong . . . this is bad . . . I must stop . . .

  It was too late. Kibby panted hollowly as his jism pumped into the handkerchief and he lay out on the plywood floor further depleted by his efforts.

  I’m sorry, God, I’ll try to be good, please stop punishing me . . .

  17

  Interview

  IN HIS OFFICE on the mezzanine floor, Bob Foy lurched forward in his leather chair, rose and scanned the Sasco year planner on his wall. It was fastidiously maintained: its keyed system of coloured symbols resolutely adhered to, indicating an organised and ordered inspectorate. Yet like most artefacts of its kind, it tended to depict wishful thinking rather than reality. Foy’s countenance took on a doleful aspect. Things were in flux and he didn’t like it. The vacant new Principal Officer’s post would be interviewed not just by him and Cooper, but by members of the Environmental Health Committee of elected officials, though Foy personally felt that none of the candidates were up to scratch.

  And yet . . .

  Danny Skinner had been very different over the days following Brian Kibby’s extraordinary mishap. He’d smartened up his act, appearing exceptionally bright and early in the mornings. Kibby conversely, his original preferred candidate, had just gone to seed. With Aitken retiring and McGhee finally getting his transfer to Glasgow, it was between Skinner, Kibby and ‘the lassie’, as Foy habitually referred to Shannon McDowall.

  Shannon was the first to be interviewed. She came over as knowledgeable and erudite. Yet she wasn’t aware that Foy and Cooper had been busy doctoring the Person Specification to make sure that her skills would not be deemed essential, and had been compiling an advance list of arguments as to why she was unsuitable for the job.

  Danny Skinner impressed the committee. He was well turned out, on the ball and bright enough, but above all deferential, taking care to play down his intelligence. Crucially, he came over as diligent, successfully packaging himself as a prototype senior local government official.

  Far less impressive was Brian Kibby, who had a nightmare interview. The panel took a collective, synchronised sharp intake of breath when his battered and bruised face appeared before them. He was sweaty and twitchy, and his voice, when audible, was a high, fey hiss. Kibby seemed less a nonentity more a seedy, desperate wreck of a man, in the middle of some personal crisis.

  While their colleague was suffering the torture of interrogation, Skinner and Shannon were in the office having a coffee. — Obviously, I want it, but if I don’t get it, I hope that you do, Skinner told her. And he was being sincere.

  — Thanks, Danny; the same goes for me, Shannon reciprocated, though with less sincerity. Both of them knew that she really should be the one.

  She’s got more experience than both of us put together. She’s able and well liked.

  But when he saw Foy and Cooper come into the office shortly after a shattered-looking Kibby appeared and flopped down into his chair, he thought, almost sadly, it’s a pity that she’s a woman.

  It took a few days for the decision on the promoted post to be announced. Le Petit Jardin was deemed by Foy to be the appropriate venue for the celebration lunch. — I’m not sexist but I know that some of the men here are, he said to Danny Skinner, — so I was protecting Shannon from their attitudes. Some of them could never work for a woman boss. It wouldn’t be fair to put her in that position and I’m not about to have the section in discord. And as for the restaurant trade . . . do you think somebody like our friend Mr De Fretais here is going to take a woman seriously? He dropped his voice: — He’ll have his hand up her skirt and her knickers off before she could say ‘Edinburgh Council Health Inspectorate’.

  — Hmm, said Skinner, nodding non-committally. While personal success was sweet, it hurt somewhat because of his relationship with Shannon. Their sex sessions had become more regular, often against the better judgement of either. Skinner had pushed it the most; he had just felt so energised, so damn horny all the time. At least till now.

  She’d been badly shocked when he’d got the job, but managed to congratulate him with graciousness which, combined with his own sense of injustice, made him feel rather small.

  Foy leaned in close, Skinner learning just how much some men’s essence was defined by their aftershave. — And you know lassies, they are not natural inspectors. They react to different things. ‘Oh, it’s a nice tablecloth you’ve got’ or ‘What lovely curtains’ and all that pish. Never mind the state of the fucking kitchen!

  Skinner suddenly felt the blood chill in his veins as the kitchen doors flew open and the bulky, apron-clad figure of Alan De Fretais swept into the dining room and moved towards them. In panic Skinner rose quickly, and made a beeline for the toilet. — Duty calls, he smiled at Foy in hasty departure.

  As he left, he glanced back to watch the Master Chef in conference with the council official. In the toilet Skinner did a long pish, thinking about the folly of office relationships. You’re fucking her and you’ve stolen her career, he lamented, as he looked at himself in the mirror. Then he thought of Kibby and asked himself aloud, — What the fuck am I stealing from him?

  What do I really feel? Who the fuck am I? What about my old man, would he criticise or praise my behaviour?

  De Fretais. He’d approve. I’m sure of that.

  What a thought!

  Old Sandy was his mentor. No wonder that poor old cunt drinks like a fish! He’s well off the list now, but De Fretais is a shagger, that’s well known. He might not be the slim, fit suntanned old boy that I imagined, but he’s a drinker, and he’s successful.

  As he returned to the dining room and took his seat, he was relieved to note that De Fretais had gone, replaced by a bottle of Cuvée Brut champagne. — Oh, this is a present from our good friend, to celebrate. Foy raised an appreciative eyebrow.

  Skinner was happy to quaff the elixir, as he recalled a passage from The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs:

  This set off a line of thought which I was moved to explore over a lunch with my publisher. We were celebrating, over several bottles of Krug 2000 champagne, the fact that my book A Culinary Quest: Inside the Mind of the Master Chef had passed the 200,000 UK sales mark. My alcohol-assisted hypothesis was that the sensualist, by both disposition and what I suppose we must simply refer to as training, has a certain knowledge and level of skill to pass on in this area. Most Chefs (or Master Chefs as I prefer to call my peers) are by their nature sensualists. If we are interested in love, sex and human relationships (and who in our midst can truly say that they are not?) then my colleagues seemed an obvious resource to draw upon in this quest for erotic enlightenment

  The next time the chef returned he was carrying a bottle of vintage burgundy. This, and the effect of the champagne, served to blunt the edge of Skinner’s repulsion. — Well done, Mr Skinner, De Fretais said in ceremonious tones, a tight, evaluating smile on his lips.

  Skinner stared at him for a few seconds. As their eyes locked, he sank into a strange quagmire of emotions: simultaneously appealed and appalled by the proximity of the large man.

  This fat cunt, my faither? Git tae fuck. There’s no way!

  — Many thanks, he said, — much obliged.

  — Think nothing of it, De Fretais said haughtily. — Well, I have to leave you gentlemen; I’m off to sunny Spain.

  — Holiday? Foy asked.

  — No, sadly, filming another television series. But I’ll be back by the twenty-eig
hth as I’m having a little birthday celebration. Perhaps you’ll be able to join me?

  Foy and Skinner both nodded affirmatively as the Master Chef departed.

  Was De Fretais like me as a younger man, just a slip of a boy who suddenly ballooned in middle age? I can’t believe that!

  He had wanted to ask De Fretais about the Archangel, about Sandy Cunningham-Blyth, about the American chef, Tomlin his name was, that he’d trained with, but most of all about Beverly. But now the drink was kicking in and, more than anything, he wanted to celebrate. And why not? He was entitled to do so and Kibby was paying the price!

  This crazy arrangement won’t last for ever; the normal order will be restored soon. I might as well enjoy it while I can. Let that slimy wee rat pay!

  Foy turned to Skinner and, holding the bottle in a most proprietorial way, sniggered, — Of course, you don’t like red though, do you, Danny?

  Skinner slid his glass across the white linen tablecloth. — Maybe it’s time I was a bit less conservative, he grinned.

  The following Saturday morning Ken Radden rapped on the door of the Kibby household. Joyce answered it, startled and nervous as she looked over his shoulder and eyed a group of faces staring at her from a minibus outside. — Mr Radden . . . eh . . . Brian’s just . . .

  Brian Kibby was by her side. His face was still swollen, and his eyes blood red.

  — Have a good night last night? Radden asked, wrinkling his nose at the cooking and cleaning smells, which wafted out the door.

  — Naw . . . naw . . . I was in . . . I stayed in . . . Kibby protested, his heart sagging as he saw the minibus, — it’s some kind of virus, I’ve been tae the doctor’s . . .

  Of course . . . the trip to Glenshee . . . how could I have forgotten?

  — He has, he has, Joyce said too quickly and emphatically.

  — It’s some kind ay flu, Kibby pleaded. — I cannae make it the day, he said, noting in terrible despondency that the pushy Angus Heatherhill was sitting beside Lucy.