The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs by Irvine Welsh Read Free Book Online

those weird and wonderful men who just drank and drank and drank. It was as if some of them had never set their bloodshot eyes on a woman before while others had seen at least one more than they ever wanted to. It didn’t concern Kay that much; she was just happy to be with the boy that she loved, wherever they went. She couldn’t be like them though. She needed to watch her weight, to stay fit, so that she could dance. She would say, You don’t understand, I need to stay fit. He’d say, But you
are
so fit, babe.
    But with each drink Skinner had got more boisterous and pedantic. He was arguing with his mate, Gary Traynor, a wiry young man with close-cropped fair hair and a harsh but mischievous face. — They huvnae got a proper mob these days. How many could they pull the gither?
    Traynor shrugged, a faint smirk on his face, and sucked at his beer. Alex Shevlane, a torpedo-headed gym rat of a guy who looked like he overdid the weights, surreptitiously clocked his biceps in the wall mirror as he raised his bottle of beer to his mouth. — Last time we wir through thair the cunts never showed up. Fuckin waste ay time, he hissed.
    — You’re eywis oan aboot that, Traynor grinned, slapping Shevlane’s broad back heartily. — Let it go. Ye want tae sue thecunts for damages? Emotional damages for wreckin yir weekend, he laughed, nodding towards a well-dressed, shifty-looking young man who was drinking alone at the bar. — Dessie Kinghorn thair’s yir man!
    Skinner turned round to clock the solitary Des Kinghorn, who caught his glance with hard, penetrating eyes. Skinner rose and walked over to him as Traynor’s face expanded in glee.
    — Dessie, how goes it, mate?
    Kinghorn looked him over, checked the Aquascutum jacket and new Nike trainers. Gave a slow, evaluating nod. — Awright, he said gruffly. — New threads?
    Three years and the cunt’s still got the cream puff, Skinner thought. — Aye . . . want a drink, mate? He nodded towards the bar.
    — Naw, yir awright, got tae head, Kinghorn said, killing his beer, nodding curtly and moving to the exit.
    As he went out through the door into the street, Traynor looked across at Skinner, pursing his lips and rolling his eyes. Shevlane’s grin mirrored the shark motif on his black-and-white-striped jumper. Skinner shrugged and opened his palms in appeal. Kay was taking this entire scene in, trying to work out what was happening and why this guy had snubbed her boyfriend. — Who was that, Danny? She asked.
    — Just an old buddy, Dessie Kinghorn, he said. Noting that this response satisfied nobody round the table, least of all Kay, he was forced into recounting a tale. — Mind I told you, the summer before we met, I got run over by a motor? Broken leg, broken airm, two ribs, fractured skull?
    — Yes . . . she nodded. She never liked to think of such injuries. Not just to him, but in general. She had an important audition coming up. Who could recover after such injuries and dance again? How long would it take? Even now, she sometimes imagined that her boyfriend had an unevenness to his gait, perhaps a legacy of the accident.
    — Well, I put a claim in for the injuries. Dessie works ininsurance and he put it through for me, like got me the forms and that, put me in touch with a photographer.
    Kay nodded. — Like to take pictures of your injuries?
    — Aye. I mean, ah wis grateful, telt him there would be a drink in it for him. Well, I got fifteen grand, which I was chuffed about, dinnae get me wrong, but ah wis off work for six months, in traction, the lot, Skinner appealed. — I went tae gie him five hundred quid when it came through. Ah mean, ah appreciated what he did, but every cunt was gaun oan tae me aboot claiming compensation, I just did it through the insurance company Dessie worked for. The way ah saw it was ah put a bit ay business the cunt’s way, n offered him a nice wee backhander. The bastard wouldnae take it. ‘Forget it, ’eh goes. Took the