The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

by Irvine Welsh

  35

  The Leaning Tower

  FRIENDS EXPRESSED GREAT surprise, not just that Danny Skinner had come back so early, but that he was hanging around Edinburgh and was still sober. He emailed Dorothy frequently, but was on the phone to Joyce every other day, checking Brian Kibby’s progress. The odd coffee with Shannon McDowall was his other main social activity. Shannon had been promoted to his old job, but only on a temporary basis, which irked her, as it was subject to yet another review. Aside from her vitriol at what she regarded as the discriminatory employment practices of her bosses, she only seemed to want to talk about Dessie, and this had limited appeal for him. He found it unsettling having his old friend and rival cast in the role of new man.

  Skinner had still not attempted to see his mother, nor had he heard from her. People he bumped into in Leith Walk or Junction Street would tell him that she was doing okay, but he studiously avoided passing the shop. He was keeping doggedly to the resolution that when he did see her next, he’d speak that one name to her, then see how she reacted.

  One thing he did resume were his Friday soirées with Bob Foy; an Old Town Italian restaurant, the Leaning Tower, being the current favourite rendezvous point, even if he stuck resolutely to mineral water.

  Foy’s absolute delight that Kibby certainly wouldn’t be returning to the council’s employ was still very much in evidence. — That office stink of BO and God knows what else has gone. It’s quite literally a breath of fresh air, he rejoiced, waving the laminated menu around theatrically.

  Skinner was having none of it. — It’s a fucking tragedy what that poor bastard’s been through. I’m just delighted that he came through his op okay, and if he gets better, you could do worse than have him back.

  Foy puckered his lips and topped up his glass of Chianti. — Over my dead body, he scoffed.

  Skinner and Foy finished their meal in some tension, and went on for a few drinks, soft ones in the former’s case. Foy eventually headed off in a taxi disappointed and still a little bemused at this teetotal incantation of his old dining partner.

  Skinner also had another mission. He may not have been drinking but there were still bars to trawl, especially in the student quarter.

  The Grassmarket was busy. Skinner squeezed into one café-bar and had a soft drink when he was accosted by a couple of old faces, Gary Traynor and the chunky young man he knew as Andy McGrillen. They were clearly intent on making a night of it and were surprised and disgusted to note his choice of fuel.

  McGrillen . . .

  He recalled that fight he had instigated on Christmas Eve, when Skinner hadn’t got involved. He didn’t like McGrillen. Now his memory danced in recall of the boyhood confrontation they’d had on a train coming back from the football at Dundee. They were just kids, as it had been almost ten years ago, but he had never forgotten the incident. McGrillen, with some mates, had got wide with him. Skinner, who’d lost McKenzie and the rest of his friends on that occasion, was alone and had been forced to back down. It was a minor humiliation but one that still burned him, particularly now that McGrillen was hanging around with Traynor. Once McGrillen had realised that Skinner was connected he’d been civil enough, even attempting to develop a friendship of sorts. Both of them knew, however, how history could weigh heavily and they had largely tacitly agreed to keep out off each other’s way, discounting that one time at Christmas. Now, catching McGrillen looking disapprovingly at his glass, Skinner felt the burn again.

  A fuckin Burberry baseball cap. What a total chavy cunt. How auld is he? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Probably cause McKenzie’s no longer around, he thinks he can get quoted with our crew!

  — C’mon, Danny, have a fuckin pint, Traynor urged.

  — Naw, just an orange juice is fine, Skinner insisted.

  Traynor seemed to catch the vibe coming from Skinner towards McGrillen and tried to lighten the mood by talking about the most recent religious porn film he’d come across. — God, He Likes to Watch; it’s the fuckin best yet, ya cunt.

  Andy McGrillen shrugged and smiled at Traynor and went to the bar. He let his somewhat intimidating bearing clear a space among the drinkers, some of whom recognised him as one of the boys and possible bad news. He soon came back with the drinks, plonking them on the table.

  — Cheers, boys, Skinner toasted. — Good to see youse again, he said, managing to include McGrillen, with just about enough conviction.

  Skinner found sipping at his orange juice strangely comforting. He was getting into Traynor’s patter again. His old buddy turned to McGrillen. — Tell ye a great Rab McKenzie tale, mind this yin, Skinny, he nodded to Skinner. — Us two and Big Rab went back wi they posh birds, that Paki lassie you wir wi, what wis her name?

  — Vanessa. And she’s Scots-Asian. Her dad’s from Kerala and her mum’s from Edinburgh, Skinner corrected.

  — Awright, Mr PC. Traynor playfully punches Skinner’s arm. — So wir back up this big posh gaff up in Merchy; big indoor pool, auld man n auld girl away oan hoaliday, n wir aw cavortin aroond in the skud. It’s the first time we’ve seen the Big Man without clathes, n, well . . . ye kin imagine. Bit they lassies are aw horned up, this big posh bird Andrea, and that Sarah lassie, n every cunt starts gittin frisky. You went away wi that Vanessa, eh, Skinner.

  — Aye, but nowt happened. We just snogged for a bit and talked; that’s aw.

  — Talked, eh sais! Aye, that’ll be right.

  — We did, Skinner protested. — She wisnae up for shagging, no big deal. I had a nice night; she was an interesting girl.

  — Fuck off, Skinner, Traynor laughed, pushing him in the chest. — Well, while you were talking, ah’m fired intae that Sarah, giein it the message oan the lilo. And the posh bird Andrea – tidy, but no that sharp – Traynor tapped his skull, — she’s gittin it oan wi the Big Man. Thing is, ah mind ah’d been sayin tae um earlier that posh birds are eywis game, and dirty as fuck n aw, dae anything, ya cunt. Traynor’s toothy grin expanded. — So Big Rab’s obviously taken aw this tae heart. Ah jist hears the Big Man gaun: ‘Ah’d like tae fuck you up the arse.’ Then the posh bird says – Traynor puckered his lips and put on a tea-room accent: — ‘What exactly does that involve?’

  McGrillen laughed loudly and Skinner did too, although he’d heard that story many times. He took another sip of his orange juice. Something was wrong here. He sniffed it and tasted it again. There was alcohol in it.

  Vodka!

  Looking up, he saw McGrillen’s stupid, leering expression, then briefly savoured the change in it as he looked down his arm while ramming a solid right-hander into his face. It was a good punch, Skinner pivoting into it and following through with his body weight, and McGrillen went crashing off his stool on to the deck.

  Gary Traynor looked at the shocked, recumbent McGrillen, then back to Skinner. — Fuck sakes, Danny . . .

  Skinner was still shaking with anger. He threw his glass to the floor and it missed McGrillen’s face by an inch. — What d’ye think yir fuckin well playin at, tryin tae fuckin well poison – and he looked around and saw the scene he was making and said,— Sorry, chaps, then swiftly departed, rubbing at his stinging knuckles.

  He stepped out into the street feeling the elation of the adrenalin buzz leaking from him as the guilt started to kick in.

  It was taking liberties. McGrillen didnae know the score, how could he? But why can’t some cunts understand that no means no?

  Quickly heading across the road and into another bar, Skinner ran into a group of chatty girls he knew vaguely from the council. One of their pals was on a hen night. Two of them were very talkative but soon he was only half listening to them, distracted as he was by one of the waitresses.

  Caroline Kibby had about quarter of an hour to go until her shift ended. From one of the tables, she saw a recognisable man watching her. Yes, she knew him. He smiled, and she smiled back. Then he approached her and invited her to have a drink when she finished up.

  It’s the guy who was round at M
um’s the other day, him from the council. The one Brian’s being so weird about.

  She was happy to accept.

  He’d just eaten a big Italian meal with Bob Foy. However, after a few more soft drinks Danny Skinner was happy to suggest that he and Caroline grabbed a bite to eat at what he was inclined to describe as an ‘excellent old-school Chinese’ called the Bamboo Shoots up in Tolcross.

  Sitting opposite her in the restaurant, he still found it hard to believe that Caroline was Brian Kibby’s sister. As she ate in deliberate, poised, economical movements, there were times he just wanted to scream that at her: You are so fucking beautiful, how can you be related to that sneaky wee fandan, Brian?

  Caroline, for her part, was equally taken by Danny Skinner.

  He’s quite handsome, in a funny sort of way. He’s got that startled expression but it makes him look like he’s fascinated rather than perplexed by the world. He must spend a fortune on clothes. It seems ridic that he’s a couple of years older than our Brian. He looks years younger: fresh-faced and in pristine condition. There’s something about him that’s quite imposing; something that makes me think that I might have some of that!

  Later on they walked across the Meadows, through a cool darkness lit up by the moonlight and the sodium lamps. They were in no hurry at all, talking unselfconsciously and listening intently to each other about almost anything that came into their heads. Caroline felt the tiredness of her shift peel from her and her eyes, sore from burning an essay out of the computer, began to regain their sheen. Fearing the end of the evening, she said, — I’ve got some hash here if you fancy a blow.

  I’m no really a hash-monkey but a smoke would do her brother good, relax him, and perhaps bolster his appetite.

  — Back to yours? Skinner quizzed, the South Side being within walking distance and Leith a taxi ride away.

  — Eh, maybe yours would be better, I’ve only just moved into my flat and I’m not really sure about my flatmates yet, if you know what I mean . . . Caroline said uneasily.

  A peg of trepidation was suddenly hammered into Skinner’s chest. He should have been completely made up about this news, getting this girl back to his Leith love nest, but somehow he was experiencing an unsparing discharge of unease.

  Why am I so keen to look around her place and her mother’s, but feel awkward about letting her see my base? It’s better than that mausoleum she comes from!

  He nodded in the affirmative and they flagged down a taxi in Forrest Road and headed for the port.

  — Have you lived in Leith long? Caroline asked.

  — All my life, Skinner replied, thinking about San Francisco, and Dorothy, and how he’d love to live there. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Leith; in some ways he adored it, but he enjoyed the idea of living somewhere different and always having it to come back to. Maybe you can love something without wanting to be close to it all the time, he considered.

  Caroline walked into Skinner’s hallway. She saw that the flat was neat and fastidiously clean.

  Fucking hell. This is domesticated. Does he have a cleaner?

  Mindful of dope kernels on the settee, Skinner went through to the kitchen and got two large pub ashtrays. Caroline followed him, noting the expensive units. —You lived here long, Danny?

  — Four years.

  — You’ve got some nice stuff, Caroline said, obviously impressed, looking at his slim, taut arse in his black trousers. A dizzying spasm briefly pulsed through her.

  Mmmm-hmmm.

  — Aye, Skinner said as they headed into the living room. — I was in a bad road traffic accident a few years back. A car hit me, knocked me unconscious, broke my arm and leg and fractured my skull. I got some decent compensation so I used most of it to do this place up, he explained, thinking with more guilt about Dessie Kinghorn’s meagre five hundred quid attempted pay-off.

  Maybe a grand would have been a fair result. Or even fifteen hundred. Ten per cent.

  Caroline asked him the details of the accident and he recounted them, omitting the fact that it was caused by his own recklessness, as she skinned up while scanning the front room. It had old gold-painted walls and was dominated by an L-shaped black leather settee. A glass coffee table sat in front of it. A flat-screened television was next to a period fireplace with a big wall-mirror above. To the sides were built-in cupboards; one containing a music centre, and above it shelves full of books and CDs, the other housing yet more books and videos. A small replica model of the Statue of Liberty stood on the mantelpiece.

  Taking a long draw on the joint before passing it over to Skinner, Caroline got up from the couch to check out the CDs and books. Skinner had already explained his rap and hip-hop tastes so there was no shock in the music department: Eminem, Dr Dre, NWA, Public Enemy. The open CD on the coffee table caught her eye. The band was called the Old Boys. Some of track listings sounded strange to her: ‘Compulsory Repatriation’, ‘Remembrance Day’, ‘A Penny From the Poor Box’ . . .— What’s this like? she asked, waving up the index case.

  — Utter crap, Skinner said. — I bought it the other day because my ma was a big fan. They were a local punk band and I think she used to hang out with them. But it’s not my thing at all.

  Moving back to the shelves, apart from copious volumes of poetry by Byron, Shelley, Verlaine, Rimbaud, Baudelaire and Burns, and a big, obviously unleafed one of MacDiarmid, Caroline noticed that the books were mostly American novels, ranging from Salinger and Faulkner through to Chuck Palahniuk and Bret Easton Ellis. — No Scottish fiction? she asked.

  — Not for me. If I want swearing and drug-taking, I’ll step outside the door and get it. But as for reading about it . . . Skinner smiled, for a second seeming to her oddly spooky and clownish with his long jaw.

  That strange smile of his . . . something feels not quite right here, but fuck it, what’s the worst that can happen? I get shagged by this fit lad in a nice flat in Leith . . .

  — Are we going to go to bed, or what? she asked him.

  Skinner was taken aback. Perhaps he had seen Caroline as Joyce’s daughter or Brian’s sister and therefore found it hard to believe that she could be so at ease with her sexuality. — Aye . . .

  He took her hand and they walked through to the bedroom, too lost in their growing mutual discomfiture to realise that they looked less like lovers and more like concentration camp victims walking into the gas chamber.

  In Skinner’s bedroom an outsize Old Glory hung on the wall over the brass-framed bed. The bed was topped with what Caroline felt was an outlandishly bad-taste orange duvet. The room on the whole represented an odd lapse, as it seemed so different to the rest of the house.

  Skinner was methodically taking his clothes off, wondering, in mounting distress, exactly what was happening to him. His erection had become like his father: he was painfully aware of it by its absence. Caroline looked out the back on to the green. — This is nice, she said, now also feeling very self-conscious. She cursed inwardly at this type of weak, bland remark her mother might make.

  What the fuck is going on with me?

  — Apart from the pigeon shit, Skinner smiled ruefully as he pulled his trousers and shirt off and slipped under the sheets. For some reason he kept his briefs on, possibly because she was making no effort to remove her clothes.

  — You get them everywhere . . . Caroline said, — . . . except the tropics. That would spoil a tropical paradise, if you had them cooing away at your feet while you were sipping your cocktail by the pool.

  Skinner laughed at this, perhaps a little too emphatically, she thought. She looked at him sitting up in the bed. His body was lean and muscular and she fancied him. Yet she found it strangely hard to undress in front of him. And she sensed that he was as freaked out as she was. Eventually, she kicked off her pumps and peeled off her jeans, keeping on her T-shirt as she got under the sheets.

  — Cold? he asked.

  — Yeah . . . I think that blow’s a bit strange. I’ve come over a wee bit weird,
to be honest, she explained in rueful, confused shame.

  Feeling his own inexplicable otherness, he concurred. — Yeah, I know what you mean . . . maybe we’re rushing things a bit here . . . I really like you . . . there’s plenty of time for, you know . . . let’s just have a hug and a blether again . . .

  — Okay. Caroline smiled tightly as she moved closer to him. He looked at her again; she didn’t remind him of Kibby at all. She was beautiful but fuck him if he wasn’t as flaccid as he was when confronted with a stage one inspection report.

  Striving to create some intimacy into the mood, Skinner swept her hair from her face, but felt her tense up under his touch, as if the gesture was unwelcome and intrusive. Deciding to revert back to their old safe theme of pigeons, while shocked at the inanity of it, he found himself pointing to the window and saying, — In America they don’t let vermin nest on public buildings and shit all over us from that vantage point. They have those thin spikes they put on ledges to deter them.

  — They’ve started doing that here as well, Caroline said more dreamily, — but down here it must be the seagulls that are the big problem . . . She liked being beside this guy; she was just being weird.

  Skinner, experiencing port loyalties kick in, felt oddly compelled to mount a defence of the seafaring bird. As they seemed to be relaxing a little, he resisted the temptation.

  Caroline was thinking about her favourite band, the Streets. How the guy in the Streets was called Skinner as well, Mikey Skinner. There was a line he had about calling women birds not bitches where he came from. It made the male, working-class culture which had often appeared to her to be misogynistic seem beautiful. It depended on what kind of bird though. She suddenly heard herself ask, — Did you like the American girls when you were over there?

  — Gorgeous, Skinner admitted, thinking of Dorothy. Was she really the one? Was this why he couldn’t make love to Caroline? — But most American girls don’t know how to dress, like European women. Even the best-looking of them just can’t seem to wear clothes for some reason.