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

huff and been in it ever since. Skinner gulped on his pint like he was swallowing down his bitterness. — The fuckin fandan was puttin it aroond that he was entitled to half. Skinner turned to Traynor then Shevlane, then Kay, then some others in appeal.— Telt the cunt in McPherson’s, ‘If ye want half, I’ll gie ye half . . . if ahcan brek
your
leg, airms, ribs and skull wi a baseball bat. Cause that’s the only circumstances under which you’d be entitled tae half.’ Bastard went aw para eftir that, thought ah wis trying tae threaten him. He pointed at himself as his eyes widened in outrage. — Me. Threaten
that
cunt. As if. I was only trying to make a fuckin point.
    Kay nodded warily. — It’s horrible when friends fall out over money.
    Traynor winked at Kay, slapped Skinner on the back. — Love and money are the only things worth fawin oot ower, eh, chaps? He laughed loudly.
    Two men who were with a young boy who was wearing a green Carlsberg football strip sat at the next table and looked over at them. The men were drinking shorts and pints and the kid was drinking Coca-Cola. Skinner gave them a long, cold once-over and they averted their gaze.
    The sugar turns to alcohol.
    Kay caught the ugliness in his leer, saw the signs. That guy at the bar had soured his mood. She whispered sexily into his ear, — Let’s go back and lie in the bath together.
    — Whae the fuck dae ye think ah am? Ah only
drink
like a fish! Lie in the bath the gither, she says! Skinner had retorted loudly, drawing in the company, but instead of coming out witty, jokey and flirty as he’d intended, through the mask of alcohol it was distorted into a gruff reprimand, which Kay took as him showing off to his pals that
he
was the boy. Humiliation twisted like a knife in her chest and she stood up. — Danny . . . she said in one last plea.
    Skinner, semi-jolted through his heavy-boned pish-head apathy was moved to add in placatory tones, — You go, ah’ll be doon eftir this. He shook his half-full glass of lager.
    Kay turned on her heels, left the bar and stole down Leith Walk. She was wasting her time. She could have gone to the studio, worked on the barre, got her mind and body right for the audition.
    — Birds, Skinner said to his friends. A couple of them nodded knowingly. Most just pulled thin smiles. They were largely from the local younger team who had taken an interest in the fashionable upsurge in football violence. Most were impressed by Skinner and Big Rab McKenzie’s recent tales of hanging out with some of the old school CCS boys. They were as anxious to hear the story of their West Lothian day out with terrace institutions Dempsey and Gareth as Skinner was to tell the tale away from Kay’s ears. He was also keen to get the porn film Traynor had got for him,
The Second Coming of Christ,
and secrete it from her view.
    He had intended to head home after that pint, but Rab McKenzie came through the door and more tales were told and more drinks flowed. No, drink never questioned.
    Until the next morning.
    The next morning when there was no Kay.
    Skinner rose slowly, showered and dressed. Ironically, he wasa tidy, fastidious man who spent hours compulsively cleaning his flat and himself, only to almost completely destroy both with a regularity that to many was simply unfathomable. He surveyed the mess of his flat and cursed in sick self-loathing at the cigarette burn visible on his couch. He’d have to turn the cushion over, but no, there was a worse one on the other side, where somebody had let a kernel of dope burn through.
    A fucking cigarette burn on your couch! A good enough reason to stop smoking for ever. A good enough reason to ban any weak, minging chavy cunt whae even smelt ay fags fae coming anywhere near yir fuckin hoose!
    The handset was covered in sticky beer stains. It was gummed up and it took some time and effort to press and wiggle it into action. The television presenter came up on the screen,