Pratt a Manger (42 page)

After a busy lunchtime at the Café, Henry went home, had a bath, changed, picked up the shirt and jacket carefully selected by Hilary, and set off by taxi to the BBC Television Centre.

*

He couldn’t really believe it. He’d hoped it would be so, of course; he’d feared it would be so, of course; but when he saw her, his heart almost stopped. She was the best part of ten years older than when they had first met, her face was a little more lined, but he could feel the blood rushing to his prick, and his heart was thudding, and just for a moment he thought that he would pass out.

He hardly noticed Bradley Tompkins at first, but then he realised that the man was smiling at him, and the smile looked genuine – he was a rotten actor anyway, so it must be genuine.

After the brief run-through he went to his dressing room and had a shower, washing himself very thoroughly, cleaning his teeth very thoroughly, using his dental floss very thoroughly. Then he dressed very carefully, and brushed his hair very carefully, even though he would be having it done again in Make-up.

All the other chefs were already in the Green Room when he entered. Unusually, Sally was wearing a skirt, and it was quite short. He just couldn’t believe how lovely her legs were. He joined the group, kissed Denise Healey, even though he had kissed her earlier, kissed Sally, even though he had kissed her earlier, gave her a meaningful look, although he would have been hard pressed to say what the look meant, received a meaningful look from her, although he would have been hard pressed to say what
her
look meant, shook hands with Simon Hampsthwaite, even though he had shaken hands with him earlier, and shook hands even more warmly with Bradley Tompkins, even though he had shaken hands with him even more warmly
earlier.
Whatever happened, he didn’t want to go back to enmity with Bradley again. Life was too short.

‘May I have a word, Henry?’ Bradley asked.

‘Absolutely.’

Sally raised an eyebrow as Henry trotted off to a corner quite happily with his red wine and Bradley.

‘They’ve brought that stupid fictional chef round back,’ said Bradley.

‘I know.’

‘I can’t think of anything. I’m absolutely panicking. I just wondered if … it’s asking a lot, I know … if you had any … I don’t know … just thoughts … anything.’

Henry realised that it no longer mattered to him whether he got audience laughter that night or not. He was beyond all that.

‘You can have the one I was going to do,’ he said.

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’

‘Yes, you can. I want you to.’

‘Well, thank you.’

‘If you think it’s funny, of course.’

‘I won’t know if it’s funny.’

‘Well, it isn’t another Anonymous Borsch. It’s much more acceptable to the punters. It’s a chef who specialises in cooking with herbs. Antony Sorrel Thompson. I was going to say that he’d had a long-term relationship with another herb specialist, a very very nice man known to everyone as Sweet Basil.’

‘Is that funny?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think one ever really knows. Humour is always a leap in the dark, Bradley.’

‘Oh God. Why do we do it?’

When they went back to join the others, Henry found himself standing next to Sally. He felt a touch on his arm. Could she really feel for him as he did for her? Was it possible?

‘Is the lovely Hilary not with you?’

It could be a perfectly innocent enquiry.

‘No. Not tonight. She’s giving a talk in Cheltenham.’

‘You must be very proud of her.’

‘Yes, I … I must. I mean I am. Are you driving back afterwards?’

‘No, no. They’ve booked me into a hotel.’

‘Ah.’

‘Well, I don’t like night driving.’

‘No. Nor do I. Horrible.’

‘Absolutely.’

Were they having a meaningful conversation or were they just making social noises? Henry didn’t know.

‘How long is it since we first met on this?’

‘Eight years?’

‘Must be – at least.’

‘Long time.’ Henry wished he hadn’t said that. It didn’t add much to the sum of their knowledge.

‘Yes. We’re a bit older.’

Not one of your most intelligent comments either, Sally.

‘You don’t look it, Sally.’

‘Nonsense. You don’t. I do.’

‘I see it the other way round.’

‘I had a Michelin star then.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that.’

‘I’m not. It was a burden. People expected too much.’

‘Well, good luck. See you later.’

See you later! Everyone said that. It could be as meaningless as ‘There you go.’ On the other hand it might not be. He wondered how much of her he would see later. He wondered how much of her he wanted to see later.

Hilary would be just about ready to start. How could you talk about ‘The Seriousness of Comedy’? Dear God!

They trooped down to the studio. The warm-up man introduced them. He called Henry ‘a controversial figure’.

The applause for Henry was not as warm as it had been in his heyday. He had been involved in too many controversies. Mud sticks.

He wondered if he ought to be feeling nervous. Maybe top executives would be watching him very carefully, to see just how popular he still was, before making a decision on whether to go ahead with a prospective television version of his prospective book about a chef’s tour of Europe.

Sally naked beneath him in a bed in Dubrovnik.

Sally naked above him in a bed near Lake Bled.

Sally beside herself beside him in a bed beside Lake Como.

Don’t even think about it.

The programme began. Henry didn’t feel remotely nervous. That was bad. You had to be nervous in order to perform.

‘Good evening and welcome to another edition of
A Question of Sport
. Oh shit!’ said Dennis Danvers.

The audience roared. The panellists had to mime being helpless with laughter. Oh God. This was the thirty-seventh time Henry had heard it, and still he had to laugh.

When it came to the round of the fictional chefs, Dennis Danvers said, sarcastically, ‘Bradley Tompkins, what is your inspired piece of invention tonight?’

Henry could hardly bear to listen. He didn’t mind if he got laughs or not, but if Bradley died a death …

He didn’t. There was a laugh at Antony Sorrel Thompson. Bradley suddenly gained in confidence. Sweet Basil went down surprisingly well. They cut to Henry for a reaction shot in close-up, as he had known they would. He hoped that his laughter looked unforced. Bradley was off now on a tour of herbs. He mentioned a war-time film called ‘Dill Met By Moonlight’, and the great herb classic ‘Tarragone with the Wind’ and the well-known musical ‘Rose-Mary Poppins’. Oh do stop, Bradley. Don’t overdo it. Have sense.

He did stop.

‘That was really very good, Bradley,’ admitted Dennis Danvers. ‘Henry, we all know what good friends you and Bradley are. Can you top that?’

‘We are good friends, yes,’ said Henry. ‘We weren’t once, but now we are. Now my fictional chef …’

His mind went blank. He suddenly realised with a shock that he hadn’t seen Nicky and he hadn’t even expected to see her and he hadn’t even given her a thought and he couldn’t care less about her. ‘Er … what did you ask me?’

There was a ripple of uneasy laughter. The audience didn’t know whether he was fooling or whether he really had lost the plot.

‘Your fictional chef, Henry. Do try not to go to sleep.’ Dennis Danvers felt that it was safe now to venture a little
light
mockery. The People’s Chef was no longer untouchable.

Henry dredged up a thought that he had abandoned on the grounds that the studio audience wouldn’t know what he was talking about. Well, it would do. It would have to.

‘It’s not generally known that Rick Stein’s mother Gertrude was a literary figure in the Paris of Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald,’ he said, not caring whether the audience had heard of Gertrude Stein or not. ‘She gave him sound advice about fish. “Rick, my boy,” she said. “A bream is a bream is a bream. Never forget that.” “Brill,” he said. “That’s brill, mum.” “No, bream, you silly boy,” she said,’ said Henry.

He got a lower mark than Bradley for the very first time, and he was glad.

There was no point in trying to fight his desire for Sally Atkinson. He would give in to it gloriously. Oh God. Supposing she hadn’t meant anything by her remarks earlier. Supposing something got in the way yet again. Supposing they were doomed never to consummate their … their what?

‘Henry!’

Dennis Danvers’s voice came from a very long way away.

‘Sorry. What?’

Again there was a smattering of laughter. Again it was uneasy.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘So sorry, Denzil. I was miles away.’

‘Dennis. It’s Dennis.’

‘Absolutely. Of course it is, Denzil. What was the question again?’

‘Which country is associated with the dish called “red curry”?’

Red. Ah! Reds under the beds. Sally in the beds. Stop it.

‘Russia.’

He didn’t know how he got through the rest of the programme. He felt sick inside.

He was amazed that his legs took him all the way to the Green Room, where he had to sit down.

Sally hurried over to him. His prick leapt.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Fabulous.’

She was holding a glass of red wine, and her hand was shaking.

‘Are you coming to my hotel with me?’

‘If I may.’

‘If you may! Oh yes, you may, Henry.’

Oh, the relief. It swept over him and took all the strength from his body. He knew that if he stood up his legs would collapse. Besides, if he stood up his erection would be obvious to everyone in the room.

Bradley Tompkins came over and sat beside him.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Never better. Fabulous.’

He could see Bradley looking at his crotch. Was his erection obvious even when he was sitting down? He saw Bradley look round towards Sally. A half smile stole across Bradley’s face.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘What for?’

‘Antony Sorrel Thompson.’

‘It went quite well, didn’t it?’

‘For me, very well.’

Henry lowered his voice.

‘I wasn’t going to say this, Bradley, but we haven’t seen Mrs Scatchard recently.’

‘I’ve tried to ditch the old girl.’

‘Really?’

‘She didn’t seem necessary any more.’

‘Good. That’s good.’

‘But I can’t ditch her, Henry. She’s my twin, for God’s sake. I’ve given her life. I can’t take it away again. Besides, there’s Jackie.’

‘Jackie?’

‘From Bicester.’

‘Ah. Of course. Your tongue twister from Bicester.’

‘Well, I must get home,’ said Bradley, to Henry’s great relief. He didn’t want Bradley to see him leaving with Sally. He wasn’t utterly sure, yet, if he could trust Bradley completely.

‘Well,’ he said, as Bradley stood up. ‘See you in the Coach and Horses some time.’

‘Terrific.’

In the taxi he put his hand up her skirt, and inside her knickers. She contented herself with kissing his ear.

Her hotel room was pleasant if impersonal. The bed was large.

They undressed quickly, urgently, silently. He gasped at her beauty, which seemed to him at that moment to be untouched by age.

‘Henry!’ she said with admiring surprise at the size of his erection. He bent down and kissed her on the knee, then ran his tongue up the inside of her long, soft, elegant, pale, slender legs. He was on fire. He began to shake. She was shaking too.

His shaking grew worse. He gasped.

He kissed the tops of her legs, at the very edge of her pubic hair. Then he stood up, gasping.

His erection slowly subsided as if demolished by Fred Dibnah.

‘Sally!’ he said. ‘I’m awfully sorry. This isn’t going to work.’

‘You’ve not lost your bottle!’

‘No!’ he almost shouted. ‘No. I’ve found it.’

‘What?’

‘Oh Sally, Sally, I’m so sorry, I should never … I must go. I … this is … Oh dear. Oh Lord. Oh Sally!’

‘It’s the lovely Hilary, isn’t it?’ said Sally drily.

‘Yes. No. Well, yes, but … no. But you understand, don’t you?’

‘Oh God! Yes. Yes. Damn it, sod it, fuck it, I understand.’

She tried to smile. He began to get dressed. She sat on the bed. She looked wonderful.

‘I would have gone back to her anyway, afterwards, so it’s better this way. Isn’t it?’

‘From my perspective, darling, that is a very moot point.’

It wrung his insides when she said, ‘Darling’.

‘I’m not being noble or anything,’ he said. ‘If I was, I wouldn’t have started. I’m being selfish. I know that what
I
gained from this would be so much less than what I lost. An hour of pleasure …’

‘As long as that?’

‘… a lifetime of regret. Oh, Sally, if I wasn’t married, if I’d never met Hilary …’

‘Please! Go!’

‘No, but … yes. Yes.’

‘No! Don’t kiss me. Go. Not another bloody word. Please.’

‘Right. Yes. Not another word. Sorry.’

‘Especially that bloody word.’

He didn’t think it could be so far from a bed to a door. It felt like a scene in a dream, when you run and run and get no nearer your destination.

‘Henry?’

‘What?’

‘Your shirt’s caught in your zip. It’s the right way to remember you, but … I thought I ought to tell you.’

‘Thank you. Thank you, Sally.’

‘One more?’ asked Nigel Clinton, in the bleak, over-lit bar of their hotel.

‘I shouldn’t,’ said Hilary.

‘Just one more. You deserve it. You were brilliant tonight.’

‘Was I? I thought it was a bit heavy.’

‘They wanted heavy. They loved it.’

‘It wasn’t full.’

‘It was almost full.’

‘It would have been full for Henry.’

‘I hoped we could forget Henry tonight, Hilary.’

Their eyes met briefly.

The Hungarian waitress approached their table, smiling. She had been eating out of their hands since they’d praised Lake Balaton.

‘Same again, please,’ said Nigel Clinton.

He went into the house, checked his answerphone, checked his emails. Nothing from Hilary. Why should there be? He felt a quite astonishing stab of disappointment, though.