The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (19 page)

That crucial
or something
. And in such trivial asides so reputations are made and undermined in corporate life. It’ll take a lot to undermine Kibby’s though. The benefit of the doubt is all his.

But Danny Skinner was inexplicably beset with the notion that perhaps time was on his side. He felt surprisingly good, especially after the session they’d had last night. Maybe he was becoming like Big Rab McKenzie, he considered, developing an immunity to drink and drugs.

I’m fucking ready. C’mon, Kibby son, let’s see what you’ve got!

The staff members made their way to the conference room and settled down to hear Brian Kibby’s presentation. As he picked up his stuff, Skinner smiled at him and, sidling over,
whispered in his ear, — You’re fuckin well getting it, cunt.

Only one or two people seemed to notice the quaking, flapping spasm Kibby briefly went into.

No home runs for you the day, cunty baws!

They were all eager to witness Kibby’s presentation. Bob Foy gave him an encouraging pat on the back, which Skinner gleefully noticed almost caused its recipient to leap out of his skin. Kibby was never a confident performer, but he compensated by having the life belt of the most meticulous and detailed transparencies, which he could resort to when things got a bit askew. Or he could have, had his trembling hand not knocked a cup of coffee over them, soaking them completely. His subsequent attempts to mop things up merely made even more mess. Oswald Aitken came to Kibby’s aid, taking over the clean-up operation and urging him to carry on.

Strike one!

Danny Skinner sat and watched in amusement as Brian Kibby dug himself into a hole.

— Sorry . . . I’ve . . . eh, I’ve been feeling a wee bit off colour . . . some kind of virus . . .

— Aye, Skinner said loudly, — a lot of it going around.

— Yes, I’ve been feeling very peaky myself lately. Oswald Aitken supportively tried to draw Skinner’s sting.

As Kibby staggered through a painfully embarrassing presentation, the questions were largely unchallenging, except from one quarter. Danny Skinner toyed with Brian Kibby; his seemingly innocuous questions probing for a detail that his hesitant, tremulous adversary could not bring to mind. Skinner set his mouth in a cruel twist, the pout of a toff who has been unsatisfactorily served, but who will not cause further embarrassment by making a scene. Additionally, he had passed round detailed notes with figures explaining his omission the day before, which served to undermine Kibby even before the presentation started.

Bob Foy sat smouldering quietly, but, Skinner noted, his
anger seemed less directed at him than at Kibby, for such an inept defence of his status quo position.

It was Skinner who de facto wound up the proceedings by attacking Kibby’s advocacy of the current reporting system. — So, Brian, what you are effectively proposing is nothing. Keep things the same, he said, imitating Foy’s weary sadness of the previous day to the point of parody, which everyone bar the boss seemed to notice. At one stage Shannon, who had been treated to those impersonations in the pub, had to stifle a giggle, as Skinner did
that thing
with his eyes. — A lot of people might feel that dragging them in here to say what could have gone round in an email might not be the best use of their time, Skinner continued in growing arrogance, — and by extension the council resources, the efficient use of which you profess to care so much about, he smiled coldly, keeping his grin locked on Kibby’s face.

Brian Kibby was dumbstruck. He couldn’t retort. His head was pounding and his knees felt weak. Caught like roadkill in a car’s headlights, he looked around at the edgy staff.

Strike two!

—
If it isnae broke then you don’t have tae fix . . . he began weakly, his voice drying to a hiss in his throat.

Colin McGhee turned to Skinner uncomprehendingly, and then to Kibby with the same quizzical expression, which spread round the table like a bush fire.

— Sorry, Brian, Skinner cut in tersely, — I can’t hear you. Can you speak up a little please?

— If it isnae broke . . . Kibby lisped recalcitrantly, but he couldn’t finish the sentence as he felt something rise up from the pit of his stomach. He tried to cover his face, and by turning away managed to get a lot of the vomit into a waste-paper bin, although some splashed on the desk and bounced on to the sleeve of Cooper’s suit.

Strike three and out!

Shannon and Colin McGhee went to Kibby’s aid, while Foy wearily shook his head.

— Looks like the mystery virus has struck again, Skinner said in a deadpan way, as Kibby barfed humiliating piles of scrambled egg, bacon and tomato into the bin, while Cooper grimaced and brushed at his jacket sleeve with a handkerchief.

Danny Skinner rose and exited the conference room as if sanctified, leaving behind the distressed Kibby and his squabbling, fussing colleagues. Through his exaltation and excitement he struggled to make sense of things.

What the fuck went on in there?

It was surely just chance. Kibby obviously had the flu, or some genuine virus, while I’ve put away so much drink recently that my resistance has gone through the roof. It’s pretty fucking worrying; it could be the alcoholic’s last blast of light, one final big rush of omnipotence before the dark decline sets in.

But . . . Kibby was fucked! Truly, utterly, strung out.

It was the symptoms of somebody who’s been caning it!

Nah . . . I’m gieing my mind a treat.

The afternoon flew effortlessly by for him, and he was astonished to find his desk clean at the close of business. Completely spellbound, he stopped off en route home at several of his preferred Leith Walk hostelries; the Old Salt, the Windsor, Robbie’s, the Lorne Bar and the Central.

That night in his flat, he sat up denting a bottle of Jack Daniel’s with a flat litre mixer of Pepsi, watching
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
on Channel 4. Something, though, was making him restless through his contentment. Skinner had to be sure. He lit up a ciga-rette, and after only a moment’s hesitation, stubbed it into his cheek. A fierce cry of pain exploded from him. Tears welled up in his eyes. Self-loathing burned him deeper than the cigarette.

How could I have been so fucking stupid? I’ve probably gone and fucking well scarred myself for life.

He watched the rest of the film in a deep depression, occasionally touching at the nasty burn mark on his cheek.

Skinner eventually went to bed, expecting one of his
bruising, fitful sleeps, the type that he tended to have when he was full of drink. But he slept soundly, a deep, rich slumber and woke up the next morning feeling invigorated. In the bathroom he looked at his face in the shaving mirror. Something was wrong. Something was missing. He felt an excitement mount in him so strongly that he had to sit down on the toilet seat fearful that he would pass out, as his head raced with possibilities.

The thing was that it was so damn sore. Brian Kibby winced as Joyce dabbed some germoline at the ugly wound on her son’s cheek. — It’s a nasty one alright, she said. — You must remember doing something to it. It’s like a burn or a bite . . .

It was a vile, dirty pain and it worried him that he didn’t even notice when it had been inflicted. It had just seemed to come up in the night. Its sting woke him up and he had put the light on, brandishing a rolled-up copy of
Which Computer
; looking everywhere, under his bed, in his wardrobe, behind the curtains, for some exotic multi-legged intruder. He could locate nothing. — I wish ah did, he whined disconsolately.

— You look terrible, son, Joyce said, with a sombre shake of her head, — I’m sure you’re coming down with something. You should go and see a doctor.

Brian Kibby had to concede that he did feel very rough, but he was disinclined to indulge his mother’s fussing as, in his experience, it only made him feel worse. The way she mollycoddled him had often been a source of tension between her and his father. Now that Keith was gone Brian was the man of the house and he was determined to at least try and act it. — I’ll be fine, it’s just a bite from some spring bug with the milder weather coming in. These things happen, he said cheerfully, but he felt so much more weak and sick than he was letting on.

But there were a lot of exciting things happening in his life, and he felt that he couldn’t afford to submit to illness right
now. There was a Hyp Hykers meeting at the McDonald’s at Meadowbank on Friday, which had become a regular haunt for them. Kibby occasionally enjoyed the guilty pleasure of a Big Mac, although he knew it wasn’t good for him being full of sugar, salt, fat and additives. Most excitingly, he and Lucy had arranged to go over to the sports centre after the meeting, for a game of badminton.

That’ll get them talking at the club!

He felt rough, but his head was already spinning with the advanced, perhaps even ridiculous notion that they were already
bona fide
boyfriend and girlfriend. He might even ask her over to the Golden Gates pub for a drink after the game, although he’d probably stick to fresh orange and lemonade.

Ian had called last night to remind him of the
Star Trek
convention in Newcastle that they were going to attend on Saturday.

Aye, it’s shaping up to be an eventful weekend!

The problem of his marriage remained a sticky one. He decided to seek advice on a
Harvest Moon
Internet chat site. Like so many players, his preference was for Ann. He had to admit that there was something about her that was better in the 64 version than in BTN, but as well as being pretty, she was loyal and steady.

A good wife. An asset.

He just couldn’t get Muffy out off his head though. He was delighted to see that Jenni Ninja was online. She (he assumed it was a she) was really sensible and knew the game inside out, amassing very high scores.

05-03-2004, 7.58am

Uber-Priest

King of the Cool

Hi Jenni babe, still stuck on my marriage decision. It’s a big one. It’s shaping up to be a battle of the super-cuties,
Ann v Muffy, although Karen and Elli are still in the running. Any advice?

05-03-2004, 8.06am

Jenni Ninja

A Divine Goddess

Yeah. I have to admit that I voted Ann and Muffy, they’re both my all-time favourites. I used to like Karen and Celia but not any more. Good luck in your decision Uber-Priest and I hope it works for you.

She wrote straight back. And she understood. But who is Jenni Ninja? She sounds really cool and sexy, but maybe she’s a lesbian. Wanting to marry other girls and that. But it’s only a game! Maybe I should write back and ask her where she’s based. But that sounds a bit creepy.

05-03-2004, 8.21am

Uber-Priest

King of the Cool

Thanks for your advice Jenni babe. It’s a difficult call to make but the King of the Cool here in the Palace of Love notes your words of wisdom.

I’m smiling at my words but I feel a burning sting in my cheeks. I’m tempted to wait and see if Jenni Ninja replies but I have to get moving and I feel awful. I click off-line, then shut the
Harvest Moon
game down and switch off the screen. In the reflection I can see the ugly mark on my cheek. My head is spinning and I feel sick and dirty, like dirty inside. Something’s no right here.

So Brian Kibby journeyed groggily into work. At the office he felt very uneasy. Danny Skinner was already in before him and that seldom, if ever, happened. Moreover, Skinner seemed elated to see him, making Kibby self-conscious, as his eyes
wouldn’t leave his face, where the bite mark was. — That looks a nasty one, Bri, what’s that?

— Like you care? he snapped, uncharacteristically irritable. It was this flu, it dried out his mouth, made his head throb, poisoned his guts and frayed his nerve endings.

Skinner threw up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. — Sorry I spoke, he said, eliciting a sympathetic nod from Colin McGhee, and another from Shannon, although he overcooked things slightly by adding, — Somebody got out the wrong side of bed this morning!

Brian Kibby busied himself by heading out to his inspections. En route to his sites, he read everything he could get his hands on about the council and its workings, as well old committee papers, and reports on initiatives relating to public health. He would be well prepared for this test.

I’ve got to get this promotion.

Outside an Italian restaurant, a young girl, who wore a plastic vest adorned with the Cancer Research label, smiled at him in appeal. He shouldn’t have stopped, but her baleful stare ate into him.

She seems a really lovely lassie, a really nice person.

Sheryl Hamilton was fed up. She felt like a prostitute, soliciting men all day. The ones who stopped were either creepy businessmen, or total victims like this guy. She was even thinking like a whore now, she mused, as she went through her spiel. Kibby learned, encouragingly, that most cancers were preventable and treatable, and that major medical breakthroughs were happening all the time. But, Sheryl added gravely, funds were urgently required in order that progress be maintained.

Kibby dutifully signed on the dotted line, buoyed by the knowledge that he was doing something helpful and useful. He thought about asking the girl if she wanted to go for a coffee sometime, but she was immediately talking to somebody else and the moment had passed.

Later in the day he started to feel a little better. During the
afternoon tea break, he sat close to Shannon, marvelling at the red nail polish that she wore, as if she was at a nightclub rather than the office. She was reading a celebrity picture magazine, and Danny Skinner was in attendance, teasing her.

— It’s just harmless lowbrow fun, Danny. I mean, it’s not the kind of publication that’s going to change the world.

— It already has. For the worse, Skinner said, slightly concerned that he was sounding like his mother.

Shannon rolled up the magazine and play-hit Skinner with it, before throwing it on the desk. Skinner felt a bit flustered at their public show of intimacy. He noted the racket sticking out of Kibby’s sports bag. — Badders, Bri?