Hunger and the Howling of Killian Lone

by Will Storr

  Ambrose added fifty per cent to the prices and then another fifteen and it didn’t make any difference. Despite my not working at the pass, he raised my wages from £2750 a year to £5500, the same level as Andy’s. Beautiful girls began waiting for me at the kitchen door, but I was blind to them all. Kathryn and I were so busy, we barely had time to appreciate the brilliant love which had come to surround us. We would escape after service and kiss in the dark, my hands moving under her clothes as our forms moved anonymously in the passageway, next to whichever diners hadn’t managed to make it home.

  The success of Glamis and the success of my relationship with Kathryn seemed so intertwined as to be impossible to separate. But perhaps the greatest joy for me was seeing how it changed her. If Kathryn hadn’t shown me that shard of compassion on my first day at King, in all likelihood, I would have only ever known the person that all the other chefs saw – a cold, sarcastic and tough young woman; just another wounded soldier of the kitchen. Working next to each other and fighting through the lunch and evening service as if we were battling our way through terrible gales, rapidly built foundations between us that felt grand and permanent. And all the time we had the awareness that our restaurant was growing, that with each of the day’s twin victories Glamis was becoming more famous throughout the country and the security of our future was surer.

  Whenever we weren’t cooking, we’d huddle in my small office and talk. I’d sit on the already-broken Argos swivel chair and she’d perch on a cushion on top of the huge green iron safe and we’d gossip about customers and the brigade and rehearse the war stories that we imagined we’d one day be telling Wogan and Harty and maybe, if things carried on being this perfect, our children and grandchildren.

  More than once, Andy caught us kissing. Whilst he feigned comic disgust at this, Kathryn appeared genuinely shamed. It was in front of Andy that she seemed to cling hardest to the old version of herself. But she was changing. I’d notice her smiling more and more in public; she even occasionally engaged other chefs in small talk in the lunch room. Although they were still slightly wary of her, I could tell they admired her. One or two of them even came to know her as nice.

  Things soon became so frantic that, inevitably, tensions arose between us. I worried that she just wanted this less than me. Once she was earning enough for her mum to be taken care of properly, would her ambition slump? I became perhaps overly attentive to signs that she might not be truly committed. She complained, also, that I would regularly disappear back to Dor without her, the moment service finished. She didn’t know it, of course, but I had no choice. It was vital that I tend the herb garden and gather and prepare a fresh batch of Earl’s Leaf for the next day. So, naturally, Kathryn couldn’t come with me. I could never risk her finding out my secret. If she or anyone else discovered it, I could only expect to be ruined.

  39

  Kathryn had barely spoken a word since she’d arrived in the kitchen, eleven hours earlier. She was angry with me. It was her mother’s birthday and I’d told her that, this being a Saturday, she couldn’t take the time off to visit her. Actually, this was a half-lie. I had put into action a plan that I hoped might cheer her up.

  Ambrose’s fine idea of having a “Top Table” on a platform under discreet spotlights had, since the restaurant’s opening, ended up mostly benefiting Ambrose. On the majority of weekend nights, he would reserve it for himself, and entertain notorious business leaders or celebrities or influential editors and critics. The other diners would ogle them enviously as they sat, elevated on their illuminated dais, wisps and trails of cigar smoke surrounding them like the traces of angels.

  But I had made it clear that Ambrose was not to have the top table tonight. When he arrived, at getting on for our peak time, with a party of three and insisting that he have it, despite my pre-existing reservation, I knew that I had trouble.

  “I’m sorry, Chef,” said Drusilla, having joined me at the pass. “I’m not sure what to do. You know what Mr Rookwood’s like. He’s very insistent when he’s insisting on things.”

  I looked up at the clock.

  “Oh, Jesus,” I muttered. “Perfect timing.”

  I pulled my various pans off the burners and called over to Kathryn. “I might need your help with this one.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Yeah, it’s Ambrose.”

  She threw a basting spoon towards a tub of water. It missed, clattering against a steel butter pot.

  “Oh, that’s fine then, if it’s Ambrose,” she said.

  “Look, I know you’re pissed off with me today,” I said. “But Ambrose is being unreasonable. There are diners booked on the top table already. I can’t have him feeling humiliated. I think it’ll help – a woman’s touch.”

  “I can offer a woman’s touch on his bloody jaw. Would that be helpful?”

  As I walked onto the restaurant floor, Drusilla quietly explained the details of the issue. As I’d planned, the top table was empty and Ambrose was standing at the base of the steps that led to it. Three men in tuxedos loitered in the shadows behind him. I thought one of them looked like James Goldsmith, but I couldn’t be sure. To my discomfort, when they realised it was me, they started peering nosily over his shoulder in my direction.

  “Ah, Chef!” said Ambrose, running his thumb down one of his red braces. “You really shouldn’t have been bothered with all this. There really is not a problem. For some unfathomable reason, Drusilla is telling me that there is a problem. But there’s not a problem, is there?” He smiled his very particular smile that said “I’m not smiling”.

  “Sorry, Ambrose, but there’s a reservation already for the top table,” I said. “The thing is, Drusilla tells me these guests have already arrived. And it’s quite important that they have this table. In fact, look, they’re over there, by the door.”

  Kathryn, who was standing at my arm, looked towards the podium where Drusilla usually stood with her reservations book. There was a taxi driver there, the one that I’d hired. And there was a frail woman with her hair in a damp ponytail. She looked nervous, doubtful, overwhelmed, as if she couldn’t believe she was in the right place.

  “Mum?” Kathryn whispered. She clamped her hand over her mouth.

  “Do you want to sit down?” I said to Kathryn, motioning towards the table. “One of those places is for you.”

  She looked up at me, a thick film of wet covering the surfaces of her eyes as she realised what was happening. Grabbing my arm, she whispered, “Thank you, Killian. Thank you.”

  “I’m sure we can find your guests somewhere to sit,” I said to Ambrose. “You understand, I know you do. It’s Kathryn’s mum’s birthday today and she’s here as my guest.”

  “Right,” he said, and I saw the muscles in his jaw pump. “Of course. Yes.”

  Kathryn’s mum was being led up the central isle which was specifically spotlit so that guests could be seen – especially the ones destined for the top table who, in order to reach it, had to walk its entire length. Except this time, with this diner, the effect appeared to be backfiring. A waiter was leading the way as Kathryn’s mother, in her dirty coat and tracksuit trousers, shuffled towards us. In one hand she clutched an inhaler and a half-used pack of pocket tissues, in the other, a Swatch watch with a broken strap. As she inched painstakingly towards us, the chinkle of cutlery quietened, as did the chatter. I could see chins rise and mocking eyes pivot towards her. From a corner table, four yaps, with crisp shirts and mousse-sculpted hair, burst into laughter. Kathryn’s mother dipped her head in shame. The effort she made, keeping the smile on her weak and yellowish face, was palpable.

  I stepped forward, so that I was directly beneath a spotlight, and held my arms out towards her. An audible murmur moved through the darkness of the room. The diners, in their hushed luminous pools, gazed towards me and I could hear their whispers, Killian, Killian, Killian, the middle letters of my name jutting from the low, rolling sound like a thousand tiny legs.

  “M
rs Riding,” I said, loudly. “My very, very special guest. Happy birthday and welcome to Glamis. The best table in the house is ready for you, as is your extremely talented daughter.”

  As Kathryn stood and embraced her mum, I retreated back into the safety of the kitchen. Barely ten minutes had passed, but already the disappearance of Kathryn and I had had an effect. A dangerously long queue of tickets had built up and I was met by an ugly collage of irritated faces, all silently asking of me, “What the fuck?”

  “Andy, can you take over the sauté station?” I said.

  I had to work triple quick and, immediately, the wings of a terrible fluster began beating on my back. I had arranged my station in such a way that only Kathryn had a clear view of my cooking. But now Andy was beside me. Moreover, I had been in the job for long enough that most of what I did had become automatic. So what happened next was almost inevitable.

  “What’s that in your apron?” asked Andy.

  He was staring at me. His tongs were held over a spitting veal fillet, the blue flame running hard beneath the blackened metal. I froze completely, my fingers in a damning sprinkle position directly over the top of a pan.

  “What?” I said.

  “You keep doing it,” said Andy. “Taking something out of your pocket and putting it in the food.”

  A commis chef called Leon had moved in behind us, holding a tureen containing half set mousse. He was standing there, watching it all; listening.

  “It’s where I keep my pepper,” I said. “I keep my pepper in here.”

  “But I can see your pepper,” said Andy. “You’ve been adding pepper from the pot that’s right there. So what’s that in your apron?”

  “It’s pepper with a bit of ground clove in it. I put it in everything. For fuck’s sake Andy, what’s the matter with you?” I turned around. “Leon!” I shouted. “Fuck off before I boot you out of the fucking window.”

  I bent over my stove. Andy, in my peripheral vision, glanced back towards me, amused and bewildered and suspicious. He splashed some brandy into a veal pan, which he tipped into the flame to ignite into a whooshing cloud of pink and purple and ruby.

  40

  “Have you seen the News of the World? I wouldn’t worry about it too much, but it is a little concerning. Never nice to feel there’s disloyalty in the ranks.”

  It was Ambrose, calling from his home, eight days after the incident with Andy. I was alone in my office planning the motivational brigade talk about Max that I was to hold in half an hour’s time. I pulled my chair closer to the desk.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing really,” he said. “Why don’t you have a look? But don’t overreact please. Call me back straight away if you want to discuss it.”

  I headed for the door, my walk turning into a run. Without stopping for my coat, I bolted out into the deserted Sunday morning streets which couldn’t have been emptier if the Soviets had finally dropped the warhead we were forever being warned about. I bought a News of the World and began flicking as I walked back to the restaurant. It was right there, on page 4, a large photograph of me and the headline: “TEARS, RIVALRY AND SEXY INGREDIENTS: SECRETS OF GLAMIS REVEALED. Exclusive report by Bill Hastings.”

  I stood still on the pavement, only vaguely aware of the early buses and the colours of concrete and morning and the tarry city smell that was blowing over my face and fingers and through the cotton of my tunic.

  “In stunning allegations that can be exclusively revealed today – which come from a source close to Killian Lone – the young London chef, who is the talk of the nation’s gourmands, has been adding a sexy secret ingredient to his pricey dinners. Since the opening of his glitzy London restaurant, the so-called ‘Glamis Effect’ has become notorious amongst his well-to-do-diners, who include many of Britain’s best-known stars of stage and screen, including Marc Almond, Dr Who’s Colin Baker and Stephen ‘Tin Tin’ Duffy. It’s always been said that Lone’s luxurious menu is so delicious that it gives anyone who eats it a raunchy aphrodisiac effect. But someone close to Lone has finally revealed his naughty habit. ‘It’s no secret that the punters who love Glamis food tend to get certain, shall we say, physical reactions,’ says our source. ‘Lone would have you believe it’s all down to his genius. At his age? Come on, he must think we were born yesterday. Everyone in his kitchen is convinced there’s some sort of trickery involved, possibly involving chemical pheromones bought from Soho sex shops.’

  “In further claims that will rock the glamorous London restaurant scene, we can also reveal that Lone’s famed skills as a top cook don’t quite match his ability at the head of a professional brigade, a role that demands years of experience. ‘The opening night was a disaster,’ reveals our source. ‘Killian got a big telling-off from the proprietor, Ambrose Rookwood and he was in tears. He had to give up running the kitchen completely and pass control to his second-in-command Andrew Silverwood. It’s been like that ever since. Lone may be executive chef in name but he doesn’t do much more than the sauces. He’s lapping up all the glory, but everyone knows Andy’s the one with the real talent.’

  “Silverwood, 32, has trained at the altars of some of Europe’s most celebrated chefs, most recently the legendary Max Mann, of the restaurant King – also part of the exclusive Rookwood Group of celebrity eateries. Our source reveals that it was Mann who taught Lone how to make the sauces, which, in the six weeks since the opening of Glamis, have already caused an international sensation, with reservations coming from as far away as Los Angeles, Cape Town and Tokyo and tables in the bistro being booked eight months in advance. It is also alleged that Chef Mann has confirmed to his staff his suspicions about Lone, calling his deadly Glamis rival a ‘fraud’. ‘Max told his brigade that Lone is ‘Paul Daniels posing as Paul Bocuse’, our source alleges, citing a world-famous French chef. ‘His staff lapped it up’.”

  By the time I had run back to my office and picked up the phone, my throat felt as if it was blocked with wire wool.

  “Bastards!” I shouted when Ambrose picked up.

  “Calm down,” he said. I looked around the room – at the files, the paperwork and the recipe books. I wanted to burn the whole lot of it. I wanted to go home. “Honestly, Killian, it doesn’t matter. It’s not going to affect the bottom line, I guarantee it. If one or two gullible readers stop coming, there are one or two thousand more waiting to replace them. Besides, the News of the World is not our market. Do you think the sort of idle rubbish that reads it would ever darken the doors of one of my restaurants?”

  “It’s not true,” I said. “It’s lies, all of it.”

  “Killian, my dear, of course it is,” laughed Ambrose. “Drugs in the food. Even by the standards of the News of the World that’s preposterous. You really don’t need to deny it. I mean, pheromones?”

  “And the thing about the tears! I wasn’t crying. I can’t have people – God! It’s just bullshit. I’m going to sue them. I’m going to sue this fucker, Bill Hastings and I’m going to sue Max. Who is Bill Hastings, anyway? Do you know him?”

  “Now, now, hang on there, young man” he said. “I can absolutely assure you that Max had nothing to do with this and I resent the implication. Max has been a close friend and colleague of mine for more than a decade and I know him to be an honourable man who always plays with a straight hand. He wishes you only the best.”

  I kicked the waste-paper bin, its contents spilling across the carpet.

  “Bollocks,” I said. “Why are you lying to me? Why are you lying?”

  “Killian, you must calm down,” he said. “Far more likely it’s someone in your own brigade. It reeks of petty jealousy, the whole thing. The stink of envy fair rises off the page. It’s probably one of the juniors trying to make an easy buck. Think about it – calmly. But in the meantime, you must trust me. I will look after you. I will back you, always. We will be fine. All will be forgotten come tomorrow.”

  The kitchen was in near silence that day, and th
at’s just how I wanted it. I was distant from Kathryn and refused to entertain Andy with any contact. I removed myself from them all; returned to the sure comfort of my own embrace. During lunchtime service the wound from the branding I’d given myself in front of Max all those weeks ago began to itch. I had the word “King” seared in scar tissue on my arm and the temptation was to lock myself in the bathroom with a knife and slowly peel it off.

  After the final diners had left the restaurant, I wandered back to my office. I sat there, alone, with my files and invoices and payslips and newspaper and magazine clippings from London and Paris and New York and Tokyo and Berlin and Helsinki and Toronto and Glasgow and Madrid and Washington and Lyon and Rome and Chicago and Dublin and Stockholm and Los Angeles, all of which said essentially the same thing – that Glamis was serving some of the best food in the world and the reason was that I, Killian Lone, was a genius. I scooped them up and dropped them in the waste-paper bin beneath my desk. It was too small so I stamped them in, harder and harder, angling my heel in, crushing them down, and then it fell over and my foot accidentally came down on the side and it cracked but it felt good so I leaned on my desk for support and did it again and again and then I became aware of a face peering around the door. It was Kathryn.

  “Are you going to talk to me about it? Or do you want me to go?”

  I stepped back from the explosion of plastic and paper on the floor. She came into the room and held me.