Free The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs by Irvine Welsh Page B

hesitation, could cost you your credibility, he thought in self-contempt. But why? It was more than the fact that the row was instigated by McGrillen, whom he didn’t like and didn’t regard as one of them.
    For a second, all I saw was Kay, my mother, my job, my Christmas and my whole fuckin life: all going down the tubes. I let it get into my head, all that stuff of real life that we row to get away fae. What the fuck am I
–
    When he got home there was no sign of Kay. Skinner sat up most of the night drinking, before crashing into an uneven sleep on the couch. A trip to the toilet helped orientate him, making him get into his bed. When he awoke, what seemed like only about fifteen minutes later, fully clothed and feeling battered and broken, he tried to phone Kay on her mobile but again he was greeted by her answering service. He fired off a text, wondering if he’d got the wording right:
    K, call me. Dx
    He showered and dressed, and headed out on to Duke Street and down Junction Street. — Merry Christmas, son, a squat, white-haired woman said as he passed her. He recognised her as Mrs Carruthers, who lived in his mother’s stair.
    Although he felt like a microwaved corpse, Skinner managed to cough out a gracious, — Aye, you n aw, doll.
    When he got to his mother’s tenement flat, he found Busby, the old insurance man whom he heartily despised, just leaving.
    That vile creature with the bandy walk and that nauseous cheery smile, heading out my mother’s stair! There’s six houses in my ma’s stair, but I ken which one Busby’s been visiting. What does that odious little fart want at this time . . .?
    Skinner loathed Busby for reasons he could never bringhimself to conceive. Thinking about this as he sat in his mother’s cosy, compact living room/kitchen, he started to laugh to himself as she produced two plates full of turkey and trimmings and put them on a table which she had pulled out from a recess and decorated especially for the occasion.
    His mother was obviously well nipped, as she had also set a place for Kay. Danny Skinner watched her swollen hands, her fingers pink like uncooked sausages, slam the plates on to the table. Beverly Skinner had never been a big woman until she’d hit forty, then she had swollen up into obesity. She blamed an early hysterectomy, while Skinner attributed it to the wedges of pizza and the TV dinners she consumed. She always said it was pointless cooking for one.
    Beverly had gone to a lot of trouble with the food and had put her new dress on, even if it was black like all her others, Skinner noted. Her disapproval at Kay’s non-show hung heavily in the air, and she knew who was to blame, whatever he said.
    She went back to the oven to switch it off, pointing at the cat, lying in front of the fire. — Dinnae let Cous-Cous up on that couch, he’s moulting.
    As soon as she was in the recess, the blue Persian stood up and stretched, arching its body. Then it jumped on to the couch beside Skinner. It walked over his legs then turned and repeated this act. He picked the lighter out of his pocket and singed the fur on the beast’s belly. It crackled and gave off a smell, and the cat sprang away into a corner of the room. Skinner stood up and knocked over a lit candle, which was on the coffee table, spilling the wax.
    Beverly stood back out from the kitchen area, a dish full of sprouts in her hands. Her nose wrinkled at the odour of burning fur. — What was that?
    — The cat. He pointed at the coffee table. — Daft fucker knocked over the candle.
    — Aw, Cous-Cous, ye didnae . . . She scolded the animal as she put the sprouts on the table.
    Mother and son went through the twisted rigmarole of pulling a cracker each and sticking paper hats on their heads. The hollow, shabby frivolity of the gesture seemed to mock them both, as the day was already a tense disappointment to each. Skinner munched his way tentatively through the dinner, trying to get into the Bond movie