In the Kitchen (4 page)

'I don't have any information concerning,' said Suleiman.

'Please,' said Benny, 'I don't know.'

Gabe didn't do much better. He handed over details of the agency through which Yuri had been employed.

Yuri was lying somewhere, unattended, on a mortuary slab. It was loneliness, certainly, that killed Yuri. For an instant Gabriel was desolate. He kicked at the mattress and tapped the wall, as though checking for damp or loose plaster, searching for an immediate job to be done. He swept his hand across a shelf and dislodged a soft roll of fabric that had caught between shelf and wall. A pair of sheer black tights, in a shrunken ball.

'So, he was naked, old Yuri. I think he was waiting for his girlfriend. You think so, Chef, eh, do you think?'

Gabriel sensed someone behind him, another beating heart. He stuffed the tights in his trouser pocket and turned and saw her. That girl, Lena, standing in the doorway in the jumble of shadow and light, let him look at her and she looked back at him. Her face was thin and rigid and her hands, which she held twisted together at her chest, were fleshless claws. This morning he had told Oona to fire her. It astonished him that he had never looked at her before.

Gabriel breathed deeper, to breathe the air she had breathed.

He opened his mouth, without knowing what he would say.

Lena smiled, or he imagined it, and then she ran away, into the maze.

CHAPTER TWO

THE IMPERIAL HOTEL, AS MR MADDOX WAS FOND OF POINTING OUT, had a history.

Built in 1878 by industrialist and champion muttonchop grower Sir Edward Beavis, on the site once occupied by Dr Culverwell's Bathing Establishment in Yew Street, Piccadilly, the hotel shouldered as many previous incarnations as it did flying buttresses and gargoyles on its Gothic Revival exterior.

Following the respectability and 'discreet luxury' of the Victorian era when the smoking and billiards rooms kept the ladies out of harm's way, the Imperial enjoyed a roaring twenties reputation for dance, decadence and statutory rape. Charles Chaplin's 1921 visit (escorted through the fans by no fewer than forty policemen) had made the Imperial de rigueur with the stars and starlets of the British silent screen. In 1922, in a case widely reported, Tyrone Banks (best-known picture Heave Ho! ) was caught with his pants down and three under-age flappers beneath the shotsilk sheets. The escapade remained curiously omitted from the hotel brochure but Mr Maddox had enjoyed relating it to Gabe when he interviewed him for the job.

After that he had appeared to lose interest and swivelled his chair round to look out of the window, so that Gabe was left staring at the column of iron filings that ran down the back of his neck. 'Noël Coward,' Mr Maddox had said, 'composed songs here. Big deal. The Aga Khan had a permanent suite. Theodore Roosevelt "gave his name" to the drawing room. Generous, would you say? Who else? Haile Selass
ie.
That's in the brochure. Bunch of marketing geniuses I got downstairs.

'I need five years from you,' he continued, coming round and sitting on the edge of the mahogany desk. A big man in an expensive suit. Careless with authority, as though he had much to spare. 'Be coming up to sixty then, Gabriel. Where do the years go? Been promised my last five somewhere more suitable. For a man my age, I mean. Bahamas, I fancy. British Virgin Islands.

Take a gimp, I mean deputy manager, of my choosing. Ease off a bit, wind down.' He stretched his arms and clasped his hands behind his head.

Gabe noted the discoloured patch on his inside wrist where a tattoo had been removed.

'They're not expecting miracles. We're not talking Michelin and all that crap.

Just some food you can eat without gagging. They spent a few bob on this place, you know.'

'They' were the PanContinental Hotel Co., which had purchased the Imperial from Halcyon Leisure Group a couple of years ago, marking, it was hoped, rebirth and renewal after the hotel's long half-century of decline.

In the war it had been requisitioned by the government, providing sickbays for convalescing officers and a transit point for soldiers on leave. Afterwards it went back into business but by the early fifties the doormen were fighting over the guests and the hotel was forced to close its doors. Somebody saw the potential for office space. A tobacco firm moved in, followed by an American pharmaceuticals outfit that put a cycle track in the roof space that was only for senior executives and a volleyball court in the ballroom for those from the lower floors and corporate rungs. In the seventies there was an attempt to restore the Imperial's former glory but by the mideighties it was hosting 'value breaks' and salesmen who packed samples and Alka-Seltzers and dutifully filled in the service questionnaires.

'Back when,' Mr Maddox had said, 'Monsieur Jacques ... well, you know the story.' The restaurant still bore his name. 'Escoffier did a quick stint, not many people realize, before he buggered off to the Savoy. Think you measure up to Escoffier, eh?' He winked and laughed, with little pretence at mirth. His brow was low and heavy, a ridged escarpment above the potholes of his eyes.

'I give you five years, then what?' said Gabe. In his head he added Ł10K to the starting salary. Another friendly joke and he'd go up another five.

'Six exec chefs in two years.' Mr Maddox shook his head in a regal fashion, as though his crown might slip. 'Bunch of tossers. Tell you what, give me the five I'll give you my dick on a plate. Sit down, for God's sake. Relax. How about a cigar?'

'About the salary,' said Gabe through his teeth.

Mr Maddox stopped him with a flick of the hand. 'Sort it out with my deputy.

I'll tell him not to disappoint you.' He banged the hand down and a stack of papers took flight. 'Loyalty,' he barked. 'That a word you understand? Where do you come from, Chef ? ... What? Where the fuck is that? Do they know about loyalty up there?'

Gabriel passed through the revolving doors and stood at the kerb looking up at the dark stone walls of the hotel. Midnight. Sixteen hours he'd worked today and the one time he'd tried to take a break he'd been dragged into a meeting with an environmental health officer who, despite finding no reason to close the kitchen, had found plenty of excuses to waste Gabe's time.

He spent a moment regarding the mullioned windows and the carved grotesques sulking beneath the parapets. The stone looked cold. The door released a guest and a blast of hot air that carried the vanilla scent of the lobby. Gabe looked in at the sleek black reception bar, the high perspex stools sprinkled among the distressed leather armchairs, the purple and chrome 'sculpture'

suspended from the ceiling, the 'architectural' flowers that could take out an eye. Viewed like that, outside and in, the effect was somewhat schizophrenic.

The Imperial would never be truly great again. Jacques would never live up to its name. Great restaurants, like great hotels, delivered coherent design and consistent standards. Gleeson's 'silk, please' flowers gave the game away. If the Imperial were a person, thought Gabe, you would say here is someone who does not know who she is.

*

By the time he'd walked up to Piccadilly Circus a soft rain had set in, caught in the headlights of the cars that edged fractiously around, crinkling the air and shining the pavement. The electronic billboards flashed the golden arches, Samsung, Sanyo, Nescafé. Above the fountain, the Eros statue looked glum, usurped by the monumental LED displays. Car horns sounded; a pair of young women tottered towards Haymarket screeching and cackling and holding each other up. On the fountain steps more drinkers, professionals who would dedicate their short lives to the cause. A hot-dog van let off steam and an oily onion smell. A businessman, officious overcoat and moustache, wanted to cross the road and struck the railings that blocked him with his sturdy umbrella. A middle-aged woman, a chihuahua tucked under her arm, hesitated beneath the foggy halo of a streetlamp, judging if it was better to ask directions or to remain a little lost. The rain, the smells, the billboards, the rumble of cars – Gabe walked and took it all in although his mind was engaged elsewhere.

He had seen Mr Maddox in action many times. With the hotel guests, the important ones, he was charming. He remembered their children's names. He was humble without being fawning. He knew what it was they wanted before they knew it themselves. With the staff he insisted that he was just one of the crew. He had come up the hard way, from the kitchen to the top floor. He walked the halls and corridors and spoke to everyone from PR chief to chambermaid, though he was more likely to be rude to the former than the latter, a fact which nudged Gabriel into grudging admiration. If someone was not working properly he'd jump right in and tackle it. 'Never ask someone to do a job you wouldn't do yourself.' He would clamp a chambermaid's shoulders and move her gently aside. 'Now look how it's done. Bit of elbow grease, yes? You get me. I know you do.' He was cheerful and direct and always made sure to reiterate his point. He praised and punished openly like a good and honest man. In pursuit of managerial goals he deployed humour, incentives and a keen grasp of psychological matters. In short, he was a first-class bully. And he induced in his underlings a fear that they often confused with respect.

Gabe knew it on that first meeting.

'Private client work,' Mr Maddox had said, 'it's the dog's bollocks. I know a lot of people. Month on a yacht round the Riviera, six weeks in a mansion in LA, couple of weeks in Aspen, London penthouse for a break, whatever the boss and the trophy wife are doing. You cook macrobiotic crud for her, steak for him, dinner party once a fortnight and you're done. How hard can it be? You're looking at filthy money. I mean a right filthy pile.'

'You could definitely do that?' said Gabe.

The general manager levelled him with his demolition stare. 'Are you in? Can I welcome you into the fold?'

For a moment Gabe was back in Blantwistle, ten years old, poking shepherd's pie round his plate while his mother started the washingup and his father pushed back from the table and cracked his fingers as he always did before the sermon began. Never pick on a lad smaller than yerself. He would stroke the table firmly, as though to smooth out the cloth. He was built like a whippet but his hands were large and strong. Nimble too. At the mill the legend was that Ted Lightfoot could knot on faster than any machine. Never pick on a lass neither. There must have been a time, not that Gabe could remember it, when he was six or seven, maybe, when he had looked up to his dad. It was stupid the way he sat there after dinner like he was Moses, bringing down the law. Never, ever, shake hands with a man and then go back on your word.

Gabriel got up and shook hands with his new employer. It was an empty gesture and they both knew it. It was how the game was played.

At the Penguin Club Charlie was singing ' ' Taint Nobody's Bizness If I Do'.

She wore her silver sequin dress and jade choker. Her heels were sharper than boning knives. The pianist kept his nose close to the keyboard, collapsing under the weight of the blues.

Charlie put her hand on her hip and rolled her shoulder; her way of waving at Gabe.

Gabe bought a beer and sat at the bar, watching the punters watching his girl.

The room was dark with fake wood panelling and padded booths along one wall.

The round tables in the middle had crushed velvet tablecloths and little art deco lamps that lit up the punters' chins. Some had their girlfriends or mistresses with them, fingering necklaces and earrings; some sat in twos or threes, clinking glasses and sometimes words; most just sat with their cigarettes, inhaling and exhaling and thickening the air.

Charlie and the pianist shared a small stage, elevated a mere six inches above the floor. The song did not suit Charlie's voice, which was too light for it, too teasing. She lowered her eyelids and pressed her lips to the microphone as though it were the object of her every desire. A bald man at a table close to the stage rose to his feet and saluted her with his tumbler. He swayed for a moment and then sat down.

'You like her, then, do you?' The punter at the bar had a heavy gold watch and heavy, hairy wrists.

'Yes,' said Gabe. 'She looks good to me.'

The stranger drained his glass. He slid closer to Gabe. He wore a good suit, silk t
ie.
'Listen,' he said, 'I can judge a character. In my business, if you can't do that, might as well cut your own throat. If you're interested ...' He cocked two fingers in Charlie's direction and fired them like a gun. 'I could tell you the SP.'

Gabe laughed. 'Go on,' he said. 'Get me off the blocks. Give me the starting price on her.'

The man leaned against the bar. He squinted and burped and Gabe suddenly saw how drunk he was. 'Three Campari and sodas or one dry martini. Tha'sall you gotta do. She'll suck the tongue from your head, fuck like a rabbit and if you're lucky only steal the cash from your wallet, leave the bloody cards.'

If he had laughed Gabe would have punched him but the man was quiet now and looked sad. They both looked at Charl
ie.
She was singing a love song, a Burt Bacharach number, loading every word with heavy irony; that was the way it sounded to Gabe.

For a moment he wondered if she had slept with this man.

'Well,' said the punter, 'best of British.' He tried to drain his glass but discovered he had already done that. 'I'd have a go myself but – got to be honest – she's out of my league, she is.'

Charlie's hair fell to her shoulders in thick waves. It was strong red, like an Irish setter, and her skin was creamy white. 'How was it today?' she said.

'How was work?' She laid her arm along the bar and took Gabe's hand in hers.

'Fine,' said Gabe. 'What do you want – red or white?'

She perched on the bar stool and crossed her legs. The dress was tight. It made her sit up straight. 'You're kidding me,' she said. 'Fine?'

He thought about the girl, Lena, darkness hollowing her cheeks. He raised his beer and drank slowly, as if to hide the picture in his mind.