Pratt a Manger (5 page)

‘Make it? Make what?’

‘The cocoa. I am sixty, after all, and we can’t expect miracles.’

As they sipped their cocoa in their luxurious bed, Hilary said, ‘You must do that show, darling. I’ve realised that I have to do publicity.’

‘Yes, but that’s to support your publishers.’

‘It’s to support me. You must.’

Wrong, Hilary. I mustn’t.

3
A Question of Salt

ON 6 JUNE,
1995, Lord Harold Wilson was buried on the Isles of Scilly; the National Lottery operator, Camelot, paid its executive directors £677,000 in salaries and £358,000 in performance related pay; Bosnian Serbs freed one hundred and eight hostages; a Jewish policeman, the only Jew among two hundred in his division, told an industrial tribunal that he had been driven to bulimia by the taunts of his fellow officers; a Church of England report said that living in sin was no longer sinful; and Henry Ezra Pratt took part in his first recording of an edition of
A Question of Salt
.

Why on earth had he agreed to do it? This could have been a nice ordinary cosy evening at the Café Henry. Why was he walking across the foyer of Main Reception at the BBC Television Centre, with a stomach full of large moths and a brick in his throat?

Was it vanity? If it was vanity, why wasn’t he more confident? Even Hilary, with her history of withdrawals and depressions, was more confident than him.

‘Henry Pratt for
A Question of Salt
,’ he said in a nervy, squeaky voice.

The receptionist looked through a list of names and couldn’t find him there.

‘How do you spell your name?’ she asked unpromisingly.

‘P R A T T.’

‘No. Sorry. I … Ah! There you are. Lurking under Jeremy Paxman.’

She laughed. He tried to join in. She handed him a key. He looked at it blankly.

‘For your dressing room,’ she said, as to an imbecile.

‘Ah. I hadn’t …’

‘A researcher from the programme will fetch you and take you.’

His heart leapt. He’d be seeing Nicky again. He didn’t want his heart to leap. It was ridiculous that it should leap.

He wasn’t interested in Nicky.

He smiled at a rather solemn, pompous man with a large nose, small eyes, heavy black eyebrows and a wig. Henry could never understand what possessed men to buy bad wigs. Who could they possibly fool?

Mr Wiggy had a suit carrier, which he was holding level with his head so that it didn’t trail on the floor. He looked very uncomfortable. Just as Henry was smiling at him, he transferred the suit carrier to his other hand. He did not return Henry’s smile.

Seated at one of the tables in the reception area was another man with a suit carrier, but his was folded easily over his arm. He was wearing expensive jeans and a leather jacket. He looked worldly, confident, cool.

A tall, slim woman entered through the swing doors and went up to the desk. She had long legs, and hair that was pale without quite being blonde. She was wearing an expensive dark green trouser suit. She too had a suit carrier. What was this? Some consumer programme testing different makes of suit carrier?

When Denise Healey entered in all her magnificence, and Henry saw that she too had a suit carrier, the dreadful truth struck him. The people with suit carriers were his fellow contestants. He alone had brought no clothes to change into, having had no idea that he would have a dressing room. He alone was a naïve son of Thurmarsh.

Denise Healey didn’t look in his direction and he hadn’t the courage to approach her. God, this was all a mistake – and what on earth had possessed him to invite Hilary to witness it?

The researcher wasn’t Nicky, but a vapid young man with acne. Henry’s relief was enormous, almost as enormous as his disappointment.

‘Chefs? Any chefs?’ enquired the unprepossessing youth. ‘Chefs this way, please.’

The chefs converged on him. The moment Mr Wiggy realised that Henry was one of the chefs, he returned Henry’s smile some ten minutes after it had been given.

The spotty young man walked rapidly and vapidly down labyrinthine corridors. Henry with his relatively short legs could just keep up, and he was relieved to note that Mr Wiggy was panting.

Henry found himself beside Denise Healey. It would be the simplest thing to say, ‘Hello. You came to my café’, but he couldn’t. He felt naked without a suit carrier. This was dismal.

He’d never had a dressing room before, with his name on it, ‘Mr Henry Pratt’. Just for a moment, as he turned the key, he felt that he was already a celebrity chef. Then
he
saw how small and empty and bleak the dressing room was, and his brief sense of assurance slipped away.

Another shock awaited him on entering the vast studio with its high ceiling, studded with equipment. What were all those seats for?

‘What on earth are all those seats for?’ he asked the vapid youngster.

‘The studio audience.’

‘Ah. I hadn’t realised there was one.’

‘Ain’t you never seen the show?’ There was incredulity in the young man’s voice.

‘No. Sorry. The series hasn’t been on air since I was asked to do it, so I haven’t been able to.’

‘Should have asked for tapes. Should have been sent them. But your wife’s coming. Where did you think she was going to sit?’

The young man’s voice sounded as acne would sound, if acne had a sound. It irritated Henry, but what irritated him far more was that Nicky hadn’t sent him tapes. She had failed him. She was a selfish cow. He had suspected it all along.

He was introduced to the chairman, who was the famous TV quiz programme chairman, Dennis Danvers. Henry had never seen him perform, but he knew of him, of course. Every spat that Dennis Danvers had with every girlfriend was recorded in the tabloids.

‘You’re in Simon’s team,’ Dennis Danvers told him.

Henry hid the fact that he hadn’t even known that there were teams. Why hadn’t he asked for tapes? Why had he been so naïve and unprofessional?

It turned out that Simon was Simon Hampsthwaite, the
self-confessed
Bad Boy of British Catering. Henry had never see him perform, but he knew of him, of course. His every tantrum was recorded in the tabloids.

The third member of his team was the tall, slim lady in the dark green trouser suit. Seen at close range she was older than Henry had thought, probably well into her forties. Her face was sagging ever so slightly, and she had a few worry lines, but she had a disturbingly kissable mouth. Her name was Sally Atkinson and she had the only Michelin star in Dorset.

The rival team was captained by Denise Healey. Its other members were the cool smooth man in jeans, whose name was Jean-Paul Gascaud, and by Mr Wiggy, whose name was Bradley Tompkins.

Henry felt much better for a moment when Denise Healey realised who he was and blew him a friendly kiss, but before they could talk they were all shepherded to their seats in the scallop-shaped set.

The floor manager called for ‘Silence’ and ‘Action’, and the rehearsal began.

‘Welcome to another edition of
A Question of Salt
,’ said Dennis Danvers, suddenly all smiles. ‘Today we welcome two debutants, two debutants who are making their very first appearance on the show,’ he added tautologously. ‘Jean-Paul Gascaud of the Moulin Verte in Putney, and Henry Pratt, of the Café Henry in Soho. Our first question is for you, Sally, blah blah blah. Blah blah blah. Correct. Two points. Jean-Paul, a nice easy one from the world of French letters. What French writer blah blah blah?’

Henry was relieved to find that they weren’t actually going to be asked questions during the rehearsal.

‘And now, a brand new round,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘We ask all our contestants to give us the CV, the life story, of a fictional chef invented by them. We’ve given them advance notice beforehand of this one, so that they can come up with something really good. This should be enormous fun.’ He gave them an evil smile. ‘What gems have you conjured up for us, Henry Pratt, blah blah blah, blah blah blah?’

Henry shivered. He had thought that the little idea he’d been working on was brilliant. Suddenly it seemed desperately unfunny.

As they drifted away at the end of the perfunctory rehearsal, Henry approached the other debutant.

‘Have you ever seen the programme?’ he asked.

‘Of course not. It’s terrible,’ said Jean-Paul Gascaud.

‘How do you know it’s terrible if you’ve never seen it?’

‘I sent for tapes. I could hardly watch. For idiots. About idiots. By idiots.’

Arrogant French bastard, thought Henry.

‘I’ll tell you how bad it is,’ said Jean-Paul Gascaud. ‘It’s a hit on French television. You will be brilliant. I will be brilliant. It will be, as you English say, a piece of piddle. Excuse me.’

He went off and kissed Denise Healey suavely on both cheeks. Henry found himself walking beside Bradley Tompkins.

‘Nervous?’ asked Bradley Tompkins sympathetically.

‘A bit.’

‘It’s natural first time. I was very nervous when I began,’ said Bradley Tompkins, and he smiled warmly. Henry thought that he might have been wrong to dislike
the
man on sight. ‘I was thrust straight in at the deep end, of course, starring in my own show. You’ll remember it:
Bradley on the Boil
.’

‘No. I must have missed it. Maybe I was out.’

‘Four series of thirteen programmes. Fifty-two programmes in all.’

‘Ah.’

‘Maybe you go out a lot.’

‘No, I … well of course, as a chef, I am busy most evenings.’

‘They were on at 3.30 in the afternoon.’

‘Ah.’

Henry had run out of excuses.

‘I bet you’ve got something really funny worked up for your fictional chef,’ said Bradley Tompkins.

‘Well, I don’t know. It did seem funny. I’m not so sure now.’

‘Would you like to run it past me? Would that be a help?’

‘Well …’

Henry longed to try his routine out on a friendly face. Even in the corridor he felt embarrassed about launching into it, but he forced himself to sound confident.

‘It’s about a very shy Russian chef called Anonymous Borsch,’ he said. ‘That’s his nick-name, of course, and he was called it because there was an exhibition of the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch in Moscow.’

‘That’s very good,’ said Bradley Tompkins. ‘No, that’s really clever. Hilarious. That’ll go down a storm.’

They had reached the door of Bradley Tompkins’s dressing room.

‘Are you going to the Green Room for a drink?’ Henry asked.

‘No. I daren’t drink before a show.’

‘I daren’t not.’

‘Actually I have a rather rigid routine on these occasions,’ confessed the bewigged chef. ‘Shit, then shave, then shower. Usually in that order. Not always, though. Occasionally I shave before I shit, but I always shave and shit before I shower.’

‘Thank you for sharing that with me,’ said Henry.

‘I believe in routine, but I don’t believe that one should be too rigid.’

‘I’m sure you’re never too rigid.’

‘Absolutely right. Got it in one.’

And with that utterly meaningless remark, Bradley Tompkins entered his dressing room.

Henry entered his dressing room too and thought, ‘I haven’t got a razor. I can’t shave. I’m scared shitless so I can’t shit – and as for a shower, what’s the point if I haven’t got any clean clothes to put on afterwards? Oh God, I’ve done this all wrong.’ He hung his jacket on the one twisted wire coat-hanger thoughtfully provided for just such a purpose, took off his shirt, folded it neatly on the one elderly armchair, smelt his armpits, grimaced, washed as effectively as was possible without soap or a flannel, knelt down by the radiator to speed up the drying of his top half, tried to think of more hilarious things about Anonymous Borsch, failed, stood up, put his shirt and jacket back on, sighed, rinsed his mouth, sighed again, and left his dressing room.

The first person he saw as he entered the Green Room was Nicky. His heart almost stopped. Nicky in the flesh
was
smaller than the Nicky he had carried around in his mind, but even more curvaceous and attractive. She was, it seemed to him, unfairly perfect.

She approached him, kissed him demurely on the cheek, said, ‘Hello, again,’ and moved on. The vapid young man approached him and asked, ‘Red or white?’

Even this simple question caused Henry to hesitate for a moment.

‘Red, please,’ he said at last.

The red wine tasted as acne would taste, if acne had a taste.

In order to avoid having to talk to anybody, he went over to a table covered in things no self-respecting chef would touch – sausage rolls, Scotch eggs, crisps, stale egg sandwiches, eighths of pork pies, and nuggets with their tasteless unidentifiable innards concealed by their breaded exterior. He took the smallest piece of pork pie, and then ate three crisps, one at a time, because it was better than standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, talking to nobody.

To his surprise he found that he had finished his red wine, despite its taste. The spotty youth came over and refilled his glass, and then Hilary entered, escorted from Main Reception by Nicky. Henry was so unbelievably pleased to see her.

They sat in a corner, beside the unappetising snacks. Gradually, other chefs arrived, showered and immaculate in clean clothes. Sally was wearing another expensive, elegant dark green trouser suit.

Henry had no desire to talk to any of them, even Sally, at that moment.

The spotty young man returned.

‘Top-up?’

‘Please.’

‘Should you?’ asked Hilary anxiously.

‘I need a bit more. Thanks, that’s enough. Don’t worry, darling, I won’t have too much. That really is one lesson I’ve learnt.’

‘I saw Lampo and Denzil in the queue as I came in,’ she said, hoping that it might cheer him up, but it had the opposite effect.

‘What? How did they get here?’

‘They must have applied for tickets.’

‘I didn’t even know there were tickets. I didn’t even know there was a studio audience.’

‘Where did you think I was going to sit?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t think. Oh God, why am I doing this?’