by Will Storr
I found myself pushing past Max. There wasn’t much room between Kathryn and him, but I got into the space and I stood there in front of her and now nobody could see her.
“Are you lost?” he said. “You belong in the cold pass, not here with the g-grown ups. I suggest you get back there, tout de suite.”
I could feel the warmth of Kathryn behind me; the sound of her folding her arms over her chest. Her breath was on the back of my neck, wet and fast. Max didn’t realise that he’d gone too far. He would realise, though, when he was in a better mood. I undid my top button.
“If you want to test the limit of my patience,” he said, “please do carry on.”
And then the next one. And then the next.
“But let me warn you, young man, there will be consequences.”
I pulled my tunic down, feeling the cotton run and bump over my arms, and handed it to Kathryn. By the time I turned back to face him, all the power had left Max’s face. His eyes were sinking down the skin of my torso. They took in the scars on my chest; the scalds from the kettle; the cigarette burns on my nipples; the raised furrows of tissue from the whip-slashes of buckles and belts. In that instant, Max saw two decades of motherly discipline cut into the flesh of my body. And then, my own work, on my arms and the soft sides of my stomach. From pencil sharpener blades and razor blades and kitchen blades and the broken glass of bottles of wine and whisky and gin.
He took it all in, the Gentleman Chef, his eyes stuttering all over me, unable to disguise the horror, and for one beautiful moment the silence in his kitchen was mine. His jaw moved inside his skin, as if it was loose in there, this great slab of hinged bone all slack inside his face. I plucked Kathryn’s tunic from his fingers.
“I don’t have time for this childishness now,” he said. “Once more, allow me to suggest that you go back to your station and get on with your work whilst I decide what to do with you. I’d do it now, if I were you.”
I bowed my head before him.
“Oui, Chef. Sorry, Chef.”
As Kathryn composed herself once more, Max turned to face the onlookers.
“Work,” he hissed. “Now.”
* * *
Ten minutes later I found myself in Stephen Mews, alone with her. She had rushed up to me, urgently, with the news that Max and Patrick had left the kitchen for the back office – the rumour amongst the chefs was that something concerning Max had been spotted in the Evening Standard and it wasn’t good.
“Come with me,” she’d whispered. “Quick. Before they come back.”
The kitchen door closed with a rattle over the sound of traffic and fussing pigeons and a stray newspaper page that was being blown across the ground. A day of sun was trying to lighten the courtyard’s great grey walls. A tiny grain of heat and sparkle was reflected from each of the little cobblestones.
“Your chest,” said Kathryn. Her head was cocked a little to the right and her face was pinched with something like anger. “My God, Killian.”
And then I realised. Of course, she had seen me now. She had seen my skin and my bone and the indelible tracks of my ugliness.
“It’s disgusting,” I said.
“Oh no, Killian.”
With that, her expression fell open and she came towards me and took both my hands. There was a moment of hesitant tension. I could see her swallow; a fleeting glimpse of fear darted across her eyes. Then she put her arms around me. I yielded, gratefully, and she tightened her grip until I was held fast against her, my chin over her shoulder. She was pressing into me, her breasts against my ribs and her hot cheek into mine. Then she whispered, “It’s not disgusting. Killian, I’m telling you, it’s not disgusting at all.”
I let my chin rest upon her shoulder and she said, “What you did in there, with Max – I can’t believe you’d do something like that for me. And I just wanted to say, before I get too scared again, that I like you and I wanted to tell you, just in case you were interested or anything, and if you aren’t, then can we just pretend this never happened? Please.”
I moved my head back from where she’d been whispering. I would never have believed, when I met her on that first morning, that I would ever see her like this. All traces of sarcasm gone; nothing to her expression but openness and hoping.
“It’s okay, Kathryn,” I said. “It’s fine, because I love you.”
And with that, everything became automatic. Her lips came to mine and there began a kiss that dropped the floor, lifted the heavens and unmasked the universe. The courtyard, the kitchen, the city, the world – the whole of creation revealed itself to be nothing more than an elaborate stage set whose entire purpose had only ever been to guide the two of us into this moment.
“In that case… uh,” she said, when it was over. “It’s ridiculous. We’ve only known each other for… ” She swallowed. “Anyway, sod it. I love you too.”
Before I’d had the chance to absorb what she had said, she grabbed my hand tightly and led me towards the door. “Come on, before Max gets back.”
We were lucky. Just a minute after I returned to my station, Max called down towards me.
“Er, Killian, do you have a moment?”
I followed him in struck silence into the dining room. There was a waitress, not yet changed, vacuuming in the corner by the window. Glasses were being polished and fresh orchids being placed in tall black vases. Even out here, everyone worked quietly; the hush a mixture of reverence, fear and self-importance.
Max nodded for me to sit at the table nearest the kitchen – Ambrose’s favourite dining spot. He pulled out the chair opposite and sat, crossing his legs in that TV-AM way I had once so admired. I could see the place where his sock met his leg. I could see how thin his limbs were. Little spirals of dark hair curled on skin the colour of tripe.
“I was just a little concerned about your display earlier on,” he said.
His tone was calm. He wasn’t staring. In the dry melody of his voice, I was sure I could even detect the soft lift of a note of concern. Over his shoulder, the sommelier shot me an envious glance. I sat up bolt-straight.
“Sorry, Chef. I know discipline is important, Chef. And you do these things for a good reason. But that thing in particular…” I swallowed. My pulse lurched. “Maybe it’s different with a woman.”
His upper lip stiffened as he interrupted me.
“I am enquiring about the marks on your skin. Are you having problems at home?”
My colour rose as I decided to tell him what I’d once told Mr Callum, the PE teacher. “I was in a car accident when I was young. I was pretty cut up.”
“And those fresh scabs on your arms? They are from a childhood incident too?”
“Just an accident at home, Chef. Nothing important.”
“Bon,” he smiled. “Good.”
He stretched his left arm out on the table and stared at his manicured thumbnail for a moment.
“After my apprentices have been with me for some time, I like to take them to one side just to find out how they’re getting on.”
His grey eyes tracked up and down my face.
“Not finding it too tough?” he said.
“It’s fine, Chef,” I said. “I love it.”
“Well, you must stop these petulant little displays of defiance. I run my kitchen as I do for a good reason. A less patient man than I would have fired you some time ago. But, as you know, we don’t do that here.”
“Oui, Chef.”
A waitress I hadn’t seen before walked by. I only saw her back as she glided past in regulation model fashion, one foot in front of the other, but that didn’t prevent her leaving an impression. It held itself in the air for a tantalising moment, her static carnival – her shape, her movement, her posture, her sway, the way her wrists hung loose by her hips. And there was a scent: colourful and sherberty, its lovely fizziness fading very slowly beside us.
Max asked the maître d’, “Is that one new?”
“Oui, Chef?” she replied.
“She’s wearing perfume.”
“Oui, Chef”, said the maître d’, before scurrying off obediently.
Perfume, I was to learn, wasn’t permitted at King lest it interfere with the smell of the food. Max sat back in his seat and draped his hand over the chair next to him.
“That waitress,” he said. “She looks a little like my first girlfriend, Grace.”
He smiled and took a deep breath, filling himself with the memory.
“I’ll let you into a secret. I used to be a very jealous boyfriend. Passionate, I used to tell myself, but that was a rather silly excuse. It was jealousy, pure and simple. Grace had had a boyfriend prior to me. I can’t remember his name. I was – well, let me see – nineteen? Nineteen or twenty. Grace a little older. I’d somehow got it in my head that this ex-boyfriend had had the best of her. I think I’d seen a picture of her when she was sixteen, seventeen and… well, I realised that when a woman is fourteen or so she’s too young to be really attractive. They can still look like an uncomfortable amalgam of Mum and Dad at that age, can’t they? And by the time they’re over thirty, say, they’re past their best. Which means, logically speaking, there must be a point between those two ages when a woman is at her peak. There must be one afternoon, say, when her body and face are at their most sublime and everything else – her mood, her dress, the quality of the sun – coincides to make these few hours the ones in which she’s at her most perfect. She’d never believe it, because to her it would have been the most wonderful day, but the truth is she’ll never be as beautiful again as she has just been. It’s terribly sad. It all drips away, doesn’t it? I know it’s not a very modish thing to say, but a woman’s beauty is always her most prized possession, and for any female unfortunate enough to be born without it – well, that’s a loss from which she never recovers.”
By now the maître d’, without being asked, had delivered two espressos. Max took a sip of his, pushing his upper lip into his teeth and sucking it back as if to extract every last molecule of flavour from it.
“But anyhow, I became convinced, for some strange reason, that Grace had been at her most perfect when she was with her ex-boyfriend. And I just couldn’t live with it. That was the first time I became obsessed with the idea of perfection. Luckily, nowadays, all that passion is directed at my food. Is that mango at its moment of perfect ripeness? Is that jus reduced to the exact point where any longer on the heat and it’ll start to become syrupy? It’s a much healthier way of expressing perfectionism, don’t you think?”
I tried to think of something to say that wasn’t “Oui, Chef”.
“You could say the same about our job.”
Underneath his top lip, Max slowly licked his teeth.
“How so?”
“Well,” I said. “Is there a point where a chef is at his most talented? Is there one afternoon when he’s cooking his best and he’d never believe it if you told him, because he thinks he’s on fire, but he’ll never be as good again?”
Max looked into the little cup that he was holding daintily in his thumb and forefinger.
“No, I wouldn’t say so. Not at all,” he said. “That’s quite different. Quite, quite different.”
There was a strange silence.
“Now why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” said Max. “Are you courting? Getting along nicely with young Kathryn?”
“Well, I… I hope to.”
He smiled back at me and a helpless grin broke out across my face.
“Good luck with that one,” he said. “She’s a fair cook. Pretty too. Bit straight-laced, though, it’s always seemed to me. A bit sullen.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”
“Your mother must be pleased you’re doing so well.”
“Not really. She says that male cooks are just a bunch of Larry’s.”
He didn’t respond.
“You know, Larry Graysons. Gays. She thinks I should be doing some good in the world. She thinks all the evil in the world is the fault of men. I think she expects me to do something about it.”
His gaze had wandered above my head and seemed to settle on the front window of the restaurant. “Yes, of course,” he said, unsmiling.
He sat forward abruptly, and his large eyes fixed onto mine.
“So, Killian. Now that we’re friends again, why don’t tell me what you know about the item on page 9 of today’s Evening Standard.”
I cleared my throat.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I haven’t seen it.”
He moved closer; spoke more insistently.
“The report,” he said, “apparently concerning me. My personal life. Information that must have come from this kitchen.”
I shook my head.
“Come on, come on,” he said, his voice thinning. “Don’t be like that. You can talk to me. You can tell me. After all, I know full well who you socialise with. I’ve heard you myself, threatening to leak information to Nigel Dempster.”
His mouth was smiling, but his eyes looked like holes in tarmac.
“It wasn’t me,” I said. “Honestly, Chef I wouldn’t, I would never…”
Max stared at me for a long time. Two or three people walked past, not acknowledging us. And then, suddenly, he broke the spell.
“Very well,” he said. “Bon. If it wasn’t you, then I know what to do.”
“Right,” I said. “Good.”
As we both moved to stand, our faces naturally broke contact. But, partly so I could remember the scene, I glanced back at him earlier than I otherwise might have done. He was wearing an expression so devoid of meaning, so utterly empty, it was startling.
* * *
A couple of hours later, Patrick called my name. He was holding the kitchen phone in his hand. “You’re wanted in the office. Be quick.”
I ran up the stairs with my head down. I knew which day this was and even though I had planned exactly what I was going to do, I could still feel a hot clamour rising in my chest and throat. I just wanted to be left alone to get on with my blackcurrants.
I knocked on the door and was summoned immediately.
“Well, look at the chef! Wonderful! Every inch the award winner.” It was Mr Mayle, in a new-looking tan trench coat, paisley scarf and Oxford brogues that had been polished to a varnished mahogany. He’d dressed up, more smartly than I had ever seen him, in order to take me to the Young Saucier of the Year awards. The words evaporated from my tongue as he stood to greet me. Ambrose was sitting back in his chair, his usual red braces stretched over the foie-fed hillock above his hips, looking ostentatiously relaxed, as if keen to impress on his old friend that he was so much the king of his kingdom that its rule didn’t even require him to sit up straight.
“I’m not going,” I said. “I’m needed here. I’m sorry, sir. I’d forgotten you were coming. If you could collect my award…”
Mayle’s hands squashed themselves in front of him. He looked crushed. Ambrose pulled himself up in his leather chair.
“Nonsense, Killian,” he said. “This is a proud day for you and Robert. I’m sure the kitchen won’t miss you.”
“The kitchen will miss me, I think,” I said. “We’re an apprentice down now that Kathryn’s been promoted.”
Mayle took a step towards me and said, with beseeching eyes, “But please, Killian. Come on. I’m sure…”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve got to get back. Have a good time.”
29
By twelve o’clock that night, the brigade was beginning its final clean-down. All the steel units were being pulled from the walls and washed and tides of soapy water were pushed around our feet as the floor tiles were scraped, scrubbed, mopped and dried. It was the only part of the day in which we were allowed to chat, although it was mostly abusive banter which acted as both bonding glue and mettle-tester, with any crack in composure caused by the insults watched for and feasted upon. Still not fully used to the eighteen-hour shifts, it was easy to allow my e
xhaustion to overcome me. The others, I could tell, felt energised and victorious, having beaten back the forces of another double service.
That night, though, I was scrubbing my unit with even more determination than usual. I became aware of Ambrose coming into the kitchen, nose pinked and smile hardened by a night spent, presumably, entertaining friends and generally celebrating himself at his usual table.
“Attention!” he clapped. “Please, mesdames, messieurs et gamins. Don’t stop what you’re doing, but I’d appreciate it if you could give me as much attention as you can spare.”
Everyone did as Le Patron had asked and popped their heads up. I paused, on my way back to the cleaning cupboard with a bucket, and noticed that someone was with him – Mr Mayle. He was holding a white presentation plate.
“Whilst you were all busy, Grosvenor House were doing their usual no doubt profoundly mediocre job of hosting the annual Young Saucier of the Year competition, a title that one or two of the wonderfully talented chefs present here have been shortlisted for in the past and, of course, the award our very own Max won years ago at the start of his long journey to international repute…”
The entire brigade had stopped. They could tell by the direction in which Ambrose kept looking that I was the winner. Carlo was smiling and nodding his head; the other apprentices spread their faces in expressions of simple astonishment. I dried my hands on my torchon and took a tentative step in the direction of Le Patron.
“It gives me great pleasure to announce the 1985 Young Saucier of the Year is our very own Killian Lone.”
As I made my way towards Ambrose, the rest of the brigade began to clap. I watched my clogs slapping on the damp floor tiles and kept my head bowed, in an attempt at hiding the daft grin that had erupted across my face. As I got nearer, the appreciation of these marvellous men grew in strength and I began to feel as if I could hear every individual palm slapping another and I tried to hold the sound in my head, so that I could keep it for later and replay it again and again. Even Patrick was striking his muttony hands together. Everyone was doing so, except Max, who was leaning against the wall with the air of someone awaiting a late-running bus.
