by Monica Ali
‘… of moving in … but it’s hard …’
‘… to find the time …’
‘Yes.’ Did she end everybody’s sentences for them? Why did she do it? Was everything he said really that predictable, that boring?
‘I hope I’m going to meet her soon, Gabriel, time you made an honest woman … and I bet she thinks so too, even if she’s not prepared to say. But I won’t go on about that now, that’s not what I’m ringing for, not at this time of night though I knew you’d be up most likely …’
Did they end each other’s sentences, Jenny and her women friends in Blantwistle? Bev and Yvette and Gail and whoever else at the call centre.
‘… and I wanted to talk about Dad …’
Perhaps they did. Perhaps having their sentences finished made them feel understood. Every completed sentence a small act of loyalty, of love. The thought of it was exhausting. Gabe wanted to go to bed.
‘… those ships he used to build out of matchsticks, do you remember? Had all the drawings and photos of the Titanic and made her out of matchsticks, oh, so beautiful and the way he’d spend an hour just looking, deciding how to do the next bit …’
Gabe had taken one into the bath once without permission and broken it. He’d been terrified about telling Dad, but Dad only said, well, why don’t we fix it together, as if it would give them something nice to do.
‘… so I know you’re very busy and honest to God believe me I’m not saying you’re not but when I heard you hadn’t rung him and this was three days ago now I thought …’
The light in the kebab shop was off. The moon was nearly full but so pale it made little impression, hanging sullen above the chimneypots. The stars were weak too and few in number; they did not twinkle so much as flicker, as though at any moment they might go out. When Gabe was a boy there were more stars and they were brighter. That was the way it seemed. His sister’s voice went on and on and it was a wonder she didn’t run out of breath. He would finish her sentence if he could. If only he knew how, or when, or if it would ever end.
‘… Dad wanted to tell you himself but, you know, by the time you get around to ringing him …’
If Jenny had got out of Blantwistle. If she hadn’t saddled herself with a baby. What was the point, anyway, of thinking about that? She wore velour track-suits now in purple or green. She had her hair done at Curl Up and Dye, drank in the Spotty Dog or the Turk’s Head, and every Thursday was bingo night. It was strange how knowing every last thing about her made him feel as though he didn’t know her at all.
‘… so it looks like they didn’t manage to catch every bit of it when they cut out part of his colon and it’s spread to his liver now.’
Jenny had finally come to a halt.
‘Oh,’ said Gabe. ‘I see.’
‘Gabe,’ said Jenny. She was crying.
‘Jen?’ He had heard the words but not listened. Spread to his liver. But Dad had not been ill. ‘Jenny?’
He heard her blow her nose. ‘He didn’t tell me, either, about the colon cancer. He was only in hospital a couple of days and I didn’t even know he’d been in ’til Nana told me and he said it was a “spot of bother with me bowels” and, well, I left it at that because Bailey was playing me up and Harley’d been in a fight and with one thing and another …’ She tailed off.
‘Nobody told me he’d been in hospital. When was this?’
Jenny sniffed. ‘About eighteen months ago, maybe.’
‘A year and a half ago? Nobody told me.’
‘Nobody told me. Nobody told me. Is that all you can say? Honest to God, Gabriel. I never thought I’d say this but you’ve surprised me, you really have. I thought I’d never be surprised again by how selfish you are but I’ve got to hand it to you, you’ve managed it this time.’
Gabe turned on the tap. He twisted it until it would go no further. The water hit the steel sink hard and splashed out against the window, the wall, Gabe’s shirt. He turned it off. ‘So,’ he said, keeping his voice even and low, ‘he’ll get over this too. There’s got to be a decent chance.’
‘Not with liver cancer,’ said Jenny, sounding oddly prim. ‘I’ve been reading up.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE MORNING WAS BRITTLE-BRIGHT AND GABRIEL STOOD IN THE frost-starched loading bay watching the cheese van pull in through the gates. A single white cloud stood in the hard blue sky. Beyond the courtyard London hummed its morning song, endlessly reverberating, one crescendo piling into the next. A blackbird flew down from the wall and pecked the moss between the cobblestones. It returned to its perch and sang, its flute rising over the dying engine of the van. Gabe stepped forward, and the bird sang the warning call, flicking its wings and tail. Chook, chook, chook. A final rattle and it was gone.
Ernie sidled up with his hands in his pockets and a bobble hat on his head. He addressed Gabe in his usual manner, with his head ducked down, gazing up at a vacant spot approximately three inches to the right of Gabe’s face. It made him look mentally deficient, which Gabe sometimes suspected he was.
‘The blackbird is a canny wee fellow
Wi’ his coat of black and beak of yellow
When the wind blows in fresh harm
He is the first to raise the alarm …
‘Ach, it goes on but Ah cannae quite remember how. Something, something every morn, watch something, something and warn … No, Ah think Ah had morning and warning. One of ma early ones, that.’
‘Hello, Ernie,’ said Gabe. ‘You got the order printout?’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Ernie, his chin practically on his chest.
Gabe held out his hand.
‘On ma desk.’ Ernie took a few sideways steps towards his wooden booth. ‘Ah know their beaks are more, you would say, orange, but you cannae rhyme it. Purple,’ he added. ‘You cannae rhyme purple, neither.’
‘Right,’ said Gabe.
‘Ah’m not so into the rhymes now. Ah’m more, you would say, free flow. Time was, Ah could list every word in the English language with no rhyme. Pint, nothing, silver, month, ninth, scalp, wolf …’
‘Ernie,’ said Gabe. ‘The printout.’
The porter went off, a sideways scuttle. He walked back on his heels, flapping a handwritten list. ‘Is it not on the system?’ said Gabe.
‘Och,’ said Ernie. ‘Oona’s putting it in right now.’
Gabe turned and stooped to peer through the booth window. He watched his executive sous-chef tapping one-fingered at the keyboard while massaging her bosom thoughtfully.
‘How long have you been on goods-in, Ernie? Wouldn’t you like a change?’
‘Change,’ said Ernie. He drew his head into his anorak. ‘No, no,’ he said, somewhat muffled. ‘Don’t want some bugger messing things up. Just got it working nice. Och, Chef, no.’
‘How long, Ernie? Since when?’
Ernie’s head popped up. ‘Nineteen seventy-three.’ The head retracted. It was like speaking with a nervous tortoise. ‘Year I come down from Fife.’
Gabe watched the cheese man roll the first boxes down on a fork-lift. ‘They should give you a medal.’
‘Been writing poems longer. Nobody’s give me a medal for them.’ Ernie sounded genuinely aggrieved.
‘One day,’ said Gabe.
‘Oh, aye,’ said Ernie, fixing an earnest gaze beyond Gabe’s ear. ‘Ah know. Or Ah wouldnae bother, would Ah?’
With the regular order out of the way Gabe climbed into the back of the van and began selecting the specials. First a Livarot, strong and herby, sassy as its green-striped paper casing. For subtle contrast he went for two dozen Crottin de Chavignol. The cheese man tried to push the Bleu du Vercors. Gabe tasted and rejected it. ‘Your classic French mountain cheese,’ said the cheese man. He named three celebrity chefs. ‘Swear by it, they do, all three. Your classic creamy sauce cheese.’ Gabe moved about the van, paring and tasting, getting high on the fumes. He had decided he would take a ten-kilo Cantalet that had just enough hazelnut edge without it overwhelmi
ng the fresh milk flavour. But he was reluctant to leave this sanctuary and plunge back into the daily round of meetings and spreadsheets. He sniffed rind after rind, trying to break down the smells into discrete and comprehensible units. After a while he gave up, gave in to the inevitable. The whole was more than the sum of the parts; the aromas knitted together were dense and intense and impossible to untangle. ‘Something for you, Chef,’ said the cheese man. ‘Take one home.’ He proffered a Bleu du Vercors. ‘Thanks,’ said Gabriel. ‘I won’t. But thanks anyway.’
Afterwards he went into the staff canteen to check on a problem with the deep-fat fryer. Another call to be made. This made him late for the management meeting in Mr James’s fifth-floor office, with Gleeson, Pierre, the bar manager, and Branka, the housekeeping supervisor. Mr Maddox made an unscheduled appearance but then remained silent for the duration.
‘Any further business?’ said Mr James, addressing his superior. He offered an open palm, like a schoolboy about to be caned.
Mr Maddox affected to ruminate. ‘Let’s see, there was something … no, it’s gone. Oh yes, table linen, let’s talk about that.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr James smartly, ‘I’ve been saying we should look into linen hire, the replacement cost is—’
‘Christ alive,’ said the general manager. He stood and pressed his knuckles on to the desk. ‘I’ve got coppers still crawling up my arse. A whole week on, mind you. Don’t they have anything better to do? I’ve got the PanCont lawyers wanking each other off, I’ve got sicko journos with a couple of column inches to fill … Jesus wept.’
‘The porter?’ said Mr James. ‘I thought it was—’
‘Yes it is. It better be.’ Maddox leaned on his knuckles like some 300lb corporate gorilla. ‘Parks called today. The post mortem’s in. Exactly what he expected – injuries consistent with a fall. Awaiting the toxicology report, which will no doubt reveal he was bladdered, well it doesn’t take a genius, does it? Parks says he’s coming in today, tie up any loose ends. I don’t like coppers in my hotel. Makes me itch.’ He looked at Gleeson who narrowed his eyes at Gabe, trying to redirect the GM’s gaze. ‘What do you do if you have an itch, Stanley? That’s right, you scratch.’
Gleeson sat straight-backed and righteous. ‘Mr Maddox—’ he began.
‘Right, so I’ll scratch around, shall I?’
Gabriel kept watching Gleeson and understood that he had made an enemy. The porter might have been on Gabe’s patch, but now he was bringing unwelcome attention all round. Pierre looked uneasy too. Only Branka retained her usual demeanour, of ice-cold efficiency.
‘Because,’ continued Maddox, ‘what we’re after here is a clean result. It’s a sad, sad accident, we are terribly, terribly sad, but we are not sorry – we’re not sorry because it’s not our fault and if you’re sorry it’ll cost you a mil – and they can stick that in the paper as well. Except they won’t because they’ll have forgotten all about it by then. And there isn’t a problem. Unless … unless it’s going to turn up something else. I don’t know why, but this is what happens in hotels. A screw falls out of a door frame. Easy, you think, soon fix that, and just as you’re giving it one last turn, that’s when you notice the whole fucking door is full of rot and woodworm and it crumbles to dust in your hand. Am I making sense? Anyone read me out there?’
Everyone nodded. Gabriel looked at his watch. ‘Bit pushed are you, Chef? Chef’s a bit pushed, Mr James. Shall we let him go?’
Mr James, who clearly had no idea what the correct answer to this question might be, pursed his lips at Gabriel for putting him on the spot.
‘You can go,’ said Mr Maddox, ‘thank you for your time, all of you. You can go. And if anyone’s got anything they’d like to bring to my attention, please – as we say in the hospitality world – don’t hesitate.’
* * *
Gabe split off from the others, who all had other meetings to attend. The vestibule by the lift contained the trademark arrangement of black lacquer occasional table, square-cut bowl with coloured pebbles submerged in water and a candle in a vase of sand. Above hung the portrait of Sir Edward Beavis, founder of the Imperial, flinty-eyed and wealthily whiskered, keeping watch over the management floor.
In the lift Gabe leaned on the handrail and thought about the pair of tights he had pulled from the washing machine that morning, tangled up inside a pocket. Dangling from his finger the tights were shrivelled and he had pulled at them with vague anxiety, attempting to give them shape. He had found a small hole and stretched it gently over his palm, watching the way it grew. The tights were on his kitchen counter and now he wished he had put them away. He told himself there was no reason to worry. Charlie had taken a week’s job, singing in a hotel complex on the Red Sea, covering for a sick friend. There was no chance she would pop round and make the discovery. Even so, it left him uncomfortable, as if he had been told he had spoken in his sleep without knowing what it was he had said.
On the second floor the lift doors opened and three guests got in, two men with mobile phones held at their hips like guns, and a female hostage. They were mid-conversation about the ‘Birmingham office’, but something – he could not say what – made him think that two were lovers. The woman wore wedge heels and her hair scraped back in a bun. Lipstick smudged her front teeth. When she spoke she looked down and tapped her foot. Rationalization long overdue, tap tap, more systems synergy to be had, tap, tap, like a child reciting her two-times table.
When the police had called earlier in the week to ask if Lena had returned to work or if anyone had been in contact with her, Gabriel had told them no. ‘No, nobody’s seen her at all.’ Why had he not told the truth? What need did he have to lie?
The lift halted on the ground floor with a shiver. The taller of the two men got out first, followed by the woman, and the other man followed her, his fingers playing up and down the curve of her behind.
Oona fanned herself with a folder of paperwork. ‘Hotter than hell its own self, darlin’. One day I goin’ find you all melt down. Just a lickle-ickle puddle on the chair, chef’s hat on top. Hooo-hee.’ She laughed her cosmic laugh.
Gabe looked down at his staff planner. There used to be a time, he could just about remember it still, when he actually cooked, rather than sat at a desk. He scanned down the document – all the commis where they belonged at the bottom of the food chain, Damian and Nikolai and the rest. Victor, he thought with a sigh, had been overpromoted by the previous head chef, who had made him a chef de partie – a decision no doubt taken in an alcoholic mist, why else put Victor in charge of a section? Unless, of course, it had been an honest mix-up, the wrong East European cook picked out of the line. At least Benny and Suleiman were up to the job.
Ivan’s semi-autonomous republic as grill man was reflected in the way he’d been boxed off on the schedule. Gabe would have to do something about that. Albert too was out on a limb, but that was natural enough for a pastry cook. And then there was Oona at the top of the page. My right-hand woman, he thought, not without bitterness.
‘Everything on target for tomorrow, Oona? You been checking things through with the boys?’
‘Ho, yes,’ said Oona, in a way that suggested she were responding to a double entendre. ‘Don’t you worry!’
‘I’m not worrying, Oona, I’m …’ He was about to say ‘managing’, but thought it might sound as if he were just getting by.
‘No need to worry at all,’ said Oona, laughing for no apparent reason.
The Sirovsky launch was tomorrow evening. All the chefs were in today, preparing everything that could be prepared in advance. ‘Just take me through where we’re up to,’ said Gabe.
Oona pulled a sheet from her folder and studied it, mumbling to herself. ‘Black bean cakes, salsa fresca, vitello tonnato … ho, was there a problem with the … no, it’s all right … wild mushroom strudel … I think Victor said the chicken liver parfait was … ho, but he was … and then the devilled …’
‘What’s that?’
said Gabe, looking round.
‘What now, darlin’?’
‘Scratching noise. If there’s a mouse in here …’
‘Ain’t no mouse,’ said Oona. ‘A bitta dry skin on me heel. Just givin’ it a little old scuffle on me shoe.’
Gabe looked at Oona’s feet and quickly looked away. ‘So. No questions, no problems, nothing else I need to order in.’
‘Hopefully no,’ said Oona. She showed her gold tooth and touched it like a lucky charm.
‘Think, Oona. We don’t have much time.’
‘I hope it all OK.’
‘Hope? Shouldn’t come into it, Oona. Hope’s irrelevant.’
Oona smiled at him with pity and forbearance, as if he were making an unwarranted fuss.
‘Right,’ he said, swallowing his irritation, ‘let’s decide what we’re doing for service. Gleeson reckons he’s only got three people to give us, so we need to call an agency, get five, maybe six more waiters.’
‘Darlin’, I know just who I goin’ call and, you know, Suleiman was sayin’ what he suppose do with the red pepper mousse? He suppose put it in the endive right away, or wait until the mornin’? And we clean out of the mushrooms, what’s they called? Shanti-someting-or-other, fancy mushroom ting, you know.’
‘Chanterelles. I’ll go and see Suleiman about the mousse. Anything else, Oona, now you’re in the mood to tell?’
The executive sous-chef pursed her lips and gazed up at the ceiling, waiting, perhaps, for divine inspiration. Her eyes had a sparkle, even in this dead, yellow light. Her cheeks were fat as ripe black figs. Despite everything she was a handsome woman. For a moment Gabe had a vision of Oona as a young girl in a white dress, kneeling in church, gazing up at the altar. She must have been a sight to behold.
Calling himself to order, he opened his notebook, thinking he would prioritize his workload for the rest of the day. In the kitchen the cooks bobbed and weaved. Suleiman slid on an oily patch but saved himself and earned a cheer. Gabe held his pen over the page. His mind became fogged. Impossible to pick out a single thought. His wrist locked and though he wanted to write any old thing, to begin the process, he could not make a mark.
