by Monica Ali
‘Why do you like watching this?’
‘Is live television,’ said Lena, ‘anything can happen.’
‘And what does happen?’ They were watching someone wipe down a kitchen surface. The camera cut to two young women, one combing the other’s hair.
‘Tchh,’ said Lena. ‘Nothing.’
‘So why do you like it?’
‘Is not for reason. Only for – ’ She sighed at his stupidity. ‘Only I like.’
He looked at her face in profile in the darting light of the screen. One moment her hair was greasy and she was hollow-cheeked and gaunt, and in the next flicker her hair was slickly groomed and her features finely drawn. She was like one of those Escher drawings; what you saw depended on how you looked or what you were looking for.
‘I called you and left messages,’ he said. ‘Two or three. Didn’t you pick them up?’
‘Yes, I think,’ said Lena. She sounded as if the subject was of no conceivable interest.
‘You didn’t call back. Were you here?’
‘Tchh.’
She was like some moody teenager. She had no grace. She couldn’t think of anyone but herself. ‘Lena,’ he said, ‘this thing about your brother.’
Lena sat up. ‘I have photo.’ She scavenged through her bag, which was on the floor. ‘Pasha,’ she said, poking the photograph at Gabe. She got up and switched on a light. ‘Very handsome, yes.’
The brother didn’t look anything like Lena. He was dark, he sneered with his eyes and there was a purple hue to his lips. ‘Tell me again,’ said Gabe, ‘what happened. How did you lose touch?’
‘When I live with girl from Bulgaria, I speak to Pasha and he say he comes soon to London. Then … I tell you before, Boris comes to my work and I run.’
‘Bulgaria?’ said Gabe. ‘I thought the girl was from the Ukraine.’
Lena twisted her earrings. She turned it into a gesture of contempt. ‘Ukrainian girl first, Bulgarian girl later. Why, what is difference to you?’
‘Nothing. Your parents must know where Pasha is. Can’t you ring them and find out?’
‘Their phone is not work.’ She spoke as if he had subjected her to hours of interrogation.
‘Maybe it’s fixed now,’ he said.
‘Is not work. Maybe they gone to other place.’
‘Doesn’t your brother have your mobile number?’
‘Why you are asking this?’
‘I’m trying to help you, Lena.’
‘Why you ask if Pasha have this number? Yuri buy this phone for me. After I run Pasha have no way to find. You think my brother will not lift telephone for me?’
There was something about Lena’s story that did not add up. But if he could help her he would, the poor kid. ‘OK,’ he said gently, ‘OK. What do you want me to do?’
Lena attempted to soften her face and succeeded only in looking sly. She looked up from half-lowered lids as she spoke. ‘Maybe Pasha is in language school. You find him there. Some places you can look, where Russians are going for talking and drinking. Coach station also – you know where is? Victoria. Is place for job. Many people are going there for job.’
It was a ludicrous request. How many language schools were there in London alone? And even if Pasha had registered at one of them, to gain a student visa, there’d be no guarantee he’d actually turn up there. More likely he had disappeared into the black economy and would not want to be found. ‘I’ll try,’ said Gabe. ‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.’
She rewarded him with a pat on the chest. ‘You are good man,’ she said, and settled back to look at the screen again.
It would never occur to her, Gabriel thought, to ask about his father. Unless it might bring her some benefit, encourage Gabe to do more for her. At least she hadn’t asked about the money again. Though that would probably be coming soon. And that was fine. It was straightforward. The more he thought about it, the clearer the situation became. It was fortunate, really, if he was going to have an affair – an indiscretion, rather, because ‘affair’ was too grand a word – that it had been with Lena. Things could have got complicated if he’d chosen someone else, that woman on the balcony, for instance, whose emotions and expectations would lack any clarity. With Lena, at least, the exchange was simple enough.
There was nothing between them. They were poles apart with nothing in common. When he’d met Charlie he’d known pretty soon that it was likely to work. They had the same sense of humour, she was the right age, they both liked food and music, and they kept similar hours. It was a bit like cooking, he supposed. If you had the right ingredients you could cook up something pretty good.
But Lena … just look at her there, in a state of suspended animation in front of the screen. He could keep watching her, because she was barely aware of him. She was so devoid of charm it was funny. It was quite charming, in its own way.
After he’d been to the bathroom he found her stretched out naked on his bed. The way she lay, so stiffly, she seemed to be waiting not for him but for a winding sheet. He wanted to cover her and tell her no, that this was not right. He sat on the edge of the bed. He put his hands on her feet. He kissed one big toe and then the other. Slowly, he examined each toe. He massaged along her insteps. He held her ankles in his hands. He tested the sharpness of her shin blades with his fingertips. If he could have her one more time, it would be done and spent. It was nothing but a bloodletting, to cleanse her out of his system, purge her once and for all.
When he’d finished he held her against his chest and she slept. He could not sleep but was content to be lying there. The next moment he was falling. He jerked awake. Better not to sleep than to have that dream again.
Lena rolled away to the other side of the bed. Gabriel got up and went to the kitchen. He drank a glass of water. It was only a nightmare and nightmares will not kill you. Someone, only recently, had said just that to him.
Gabe had picked up the phone to call Lena when Ernie trundled through the door, an art folder hugged to his chest, his trousers flapping at the shin.
‘Chef,’ he said, ‘Ah’ve a special offer on Christmas cards. Would you care to have a wee look?’
‘I’ll take a pack,’ said Gabriel quickly. ‘How much do I owe?’
‘Ach,’ said Ernie, retracting his head. ‘Ah dinnae think o’ that.’
‘Got to have a price list, Ernie. Come on now, I thought it would all be in your business plan.’
‘Oh aye,’ said Ernie, gazing wistfully to the left of Gabriel’s ear, ‘Ah dinnae think o’ packs.’
‘I’ll take ten, OK?’ Christ, he thought, as if there weren’t enough to do. The other thing Rolly had said in the message, there’s a new bistro deluxe opening every time I turn around. He’d never said anything about a bistro deluxe to Rolly. That was not what Lightfoot’s would be. ‘Just give me ten or a dozen. Give me twelve.’
Ernie laid the art folder on the desk and unzipped it. ‘See, what Ah’ve done – they’re all the same on the outside, just with the Christmas tree stamp. And then you choose the verse you want. Different prices for different lengths.’
‘Terrific,’ said Gabriel. Classic French food executed with the kind of rigour he would bring to bear – it wouldn’t surprise him if the kitchen ended up with a star. The inspectors went incognito, and if they liked the place … well, they liked it, and that meant you could put your prices up.
‘This is the price list,’ said Ernie, ‘and here’s a list of first lines, all alphabetical, and Ah’ve kept a list of the ones Ah’ve sold. That way I know which ones are most popular and Ah can plan for next year.’
Gabe opened a card and read. Ding dong, hear the angel’s bell, Ding dong, hoping you are well … He took a twenty from his wallet. ‘Give me whatever I can get for this.’ It irked him that he was forced to play social worker, but there was something about Ernie’s lists that was touching, heroic in the way of all hopeless endeavours.
‘Our very own Poet of the Polywrap, our Bard
of the Unloading Bay.’ Mr Maddox’s massive frame filled the doorway and darkened the office. In his black suit, dark shirt and toning tie, his hands clasped at his groin, he looked like a professional pallbearer waiting for the next coffin of the day.
‘Ernie’s made some cards,’ said Gabe, tucking the twenty into the porter’s top pocket.
Mr Maddox loomed in. ‘How’s it going, Ernie? How’s the old poetic inspiration, eh?’
If Ernie had had a cap he would have doffed it. ‘Very good, Mr Maddox, thank you, very good.’ He stood to a kind of dog-eared attention, scrunching his shoulders and clicking his heels.
When the general manager inspected the rank and file it was like watching members of the public in a line-up to meet the Queen. They became afflicted by self-consciousness, deference and embarrassment, even the bolshiest among them, the below-stairs republicans.
‘Well done,’ boomed Mr Maddox. ‘Off you go.’
The GM sat on the desk. ‘Get in here, Gareth, sit yourself down. What you waiting for, a bloody telegram?’
Mr James, who had been whipping about like a rat’s tail in the doorway, trying to see round his boss, slunk on to the spare chair.
‘I’ve been in your kitchen, giving out a few pats on the back,’ said Mr Maddox. ‘You’ve got to give exactly the right amount. Too few and the natives get restless, too many and they expect a bloody pay rise. Got to get rid of Ernie, by the way. You need to let him know.’ He scratched the inside of his wrist, along the ghost of the tattoo.
‘Oh, Ernie,’ said Gabe, ‘he doesn’t do any harm. Been here for ever and a day.’
‘Then give him a bloody carriage clock, but get him out of here.’ The GM picked up a hole-punch and took it apart, spilling little disks of white paper all over the floor.
‘Now, we’ve got the date for the inquest,’ Mr Maddox went on, ‘you know, for that night porter – his name, Gareth, his name – are you clearing your throat or is that what he’s called? Yes, all right, I’ve got it. Yuri. Stick it in your diary, Chef. You’ll be wanted, I suppose.’
‘Will his family come over?’ said Gabriel.
Mr Maddox laid a mocking finger across his lips. ‘Oh dear, I didn’t think to ask.’
‘He had two daughters,’ said Gabe, ‘one studying economics, the other in the second year of a medical degree.’
‘Toxicology report came in. Completely legless, of course. Give him the date, Gareth. It’ll probably change. Go on, write it down.’
‘Actually,’ said Gabe, ‘Yuri was an engineer, fully qualified.’
‘It’s an inquest, Chef, not Mr and Mrs. You’ll be telling me the colour of his toothbrush next,’ said Maddox. ‘Well, we lost a good man. That’s what I’ll say when I’m called to give evidence. A good man went down.’ He paused to savour this line, which he clearly felt would resonate well in the coroner’s court. ‘That’s the news we bring for you today, Chef. And what do you have for us?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr James, ‘what do you have for us?’
Mr Maddox put a hand to his ear. ‘Anyone else hear an echo? Is there an echo in here?’
Gabriel watched the deputy manager clenching and unclenching his buttocks, a glaze of pious suffering over his face. ‘What were you expecting from me, Gareth?’
Mr James consulted with the clipboard. ‘The numbers for last night and the night previous to that. The coffee shop three-month forecast. Final budgets on the night-shift room service.’
‘We’re not in the bloody F&B,’ said Maddox, shifting his haunches, knocking a mug and spilling coffee dregs over Gabriel’s list.
‘Chef missed the food and beverage meeting this week,’ said Mr James, as though citing a capital offence.
‘Gareth …’
‘Yes, Mr Maddox?’
‘Shut up.’
Gabe turned to Mr James. ‘I’ll come up to your office, go over the figures with you.’
Tipping back and toppling a pile of suppliers’ brochures, Mr Maddox sniffed the air long and hard. ‘Smell anything?’
‘I smell lunch service,’ said Gabe.
‘In this business,’ said Mr Maddox, speaking loudly over Gabriel, ‘you develop a nose. A nose for trouble. A nose for anything rotten. The fishy stuff. You don’t know what or where it is, but you find it in the end because you follow your nose.’
‘I’m not sure I—’
‘All I’m saying – the conversation we had the other day – have you got anything for me? I’ve put my trust in you.’
‘No, not really. I’m on the lookout, of course.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Maddox, ‘you’re one of us, aren’t you? Isn’t he, Gareth? One of the team. You happy here with us, Chef? You settled? Not planning to cut and run?’
‘Me?’ said Gabe. ‘No.’ The words rang out so alarmingly clear and false that he panicked. He needed to divert attention. ‘Stanley Gleeson,’ he said, ‘I’m sure he’s up to something.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Maddox, ‘go on.’
‘I don’t know yet, but I’m keeping an eye on him. And then there’s Pierre,’ he babbled on, naming the bar manager. Gabe stood up and fiddled with the air-conditioning. There was sweat running down his back. But what was the worst that could happen if Maddox found out he was planning to leave? He’d get ejected six months ahead of schedule but so what? So what! He couldn’t afford for that to happen. He’d put his money into the pool, there were already costs – the architect had put his invoice in – and Gabe couldn’t go six months without pay. Even worse, Rolly and Fairweather might use it as an excuse to back out of the venture. Do a year at the Imperial, they’d said; prove yourself. A year, they’d said. Not six months. Maddox, what a bastard. I’ve put my trust in you. What a bastard thing to say.
Gabe adjusted the thermostat. ‘Yes, I was going to mention it … Pierre, sometimes puts handwritten orders through from the bar and never rings them up on the till, so either he’s pocketing the money or giving meals away.’
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ said Maddox, ‘giving meals away? The barman? You’ll be telling me he’s poured doubles and charged for singles next.’ He laughed. His laughter, which contained no mirth, was like a series of heavy objects falling to the floor, lead balls perhaps, something that made you want to skip out of the way.
‘I’m just being straight with you,’ said Gabriel.
For a moment Maddox leaned in towards him, sweeping his gaze like a wrecking ball across Gabriel’s face. He seemed satisfied. ‘It’s appreciated. And, as you say, keep an eye on Stanley. There’s something about that man. I don’t know what it is, but I can smell it. He’s up to something, as sure as I’ve got a hole in my arse.’ He got up and looked round at the desk. ‘Maybe you should tidy up a bit. Don’t know how you find anything in all that mess.’
Front of house turned lunch service into an unexpected bloodbath by fucking up at every turn. Plates were sent back cold which Gabe knew for a fact had gone out hot. The Swedish waitress was mixing up the orders, taking them to the wrong tables and wandering back in leisurely fashion to the kitchen to announce that the ‘wrong dish’ had been sent.
‘Sort her out,’ said Gabe to Gleeson, ‘before I do it myself.’
‘Little stressed in the kitchen today, are we?’ Gleeson looked like a waxwork dummy, all stiff and unreal, not a single hair out of place.
‘What is she – on drugs or something?’
‘Come, come,’ sang Gleeson, ‘that’s a serious allegation to make.’
‘What is she on then? The end of your dick? Stanley, the girl’s a fucking space cadet. Oh, hello, here she fucking comes. Ready on nine? Who’s ready on nine? Stanley, get her out of my frigging kitchen, put her on coffees because if you don’t, I’m telling you, I’m going to chuck her in a chest freezer and lock her the fuck in there until the end of service tonight.’
‘Coming from you,’ said Gleeson, a dishonest sparkle in his eye, ‘I’ll take that seriously. After all, there’s been one death below stai
rs.’ He prowled over to the Swedish girl and curved his arm solicitously behind her back as he steered her away.
‘You piece of shit,’ shouted Gabriel, only managing to find his voice as Gleeson reached the swing doors. ‘You fucker! You fucking fuck!’
Gleeson turned with his hands over his ears and rolled his eyes. ‘Temper, temper,’ he mouthed. ‘It’ll get you into trouble one of these fine days.’
Oona joined Gabriel at the pass mumbling incantations. ‘“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Matthew eleven, verse twenty-eight.’
‘He’s a fucking wind-up merchant,’ said Gabriel, ‘he’s …’
‘“For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but lose their soul?” ’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Gabe, wiping his brow.
‘M’mm,’ said Oona.
‘Look, can you take over? I need a break.’
Oona made little clucking noises. ‘Didn’t I just say so, darlin’? You go and get some rest.’
His cubicle was as hot as the kitchen. Gabe knocked the thermostat down another five degrees. He called Charlie on her mobile and the only word he’d spoken was her name but she said, ‘You sound a little frazzled, fiancé, can you get away for a while?’
‘No,’ he said, checking his emails. ‘Not really, but I will. Where are you?’
‘On my way to the British Museum. Come and meet me. I’ll bring you some smelling salts.’
At the newsagent where Gabriel stopped to get cigarettes there was a cardboard tray of adjustable ‘sweetheart’ rings on the counter for little girls to buy when they came in for a Curly Wurly or a copy of Sugar magazine. Gabe bought one and slipped it in his pocket. He walked north up Charing Cross Road. The walk was clearing his head. They’d try for a baby straight away when they got married. It wasn’t as if Charlie had time to lose. The first few years would be hard, with him working all hours at the restaurant, but he guessed she’d bring the child in most days. He’d grow up in the kitchen. It would be like a second home to him. Would he mind being dragged along? I used to go into Rileys, thought Gabe. Never did me any harm. He smiled at the cliché. Well, it didn’t. And the boy would learn at his side.
