The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs Read Free Page B

have invested my money in commodities. Something popular and durable, I stretch across, poking the tattoo on her arm, — like Indian ink.
    She pulls away, glowering at me through those specs. — Dinnae start, son. And dinnae think you can be paupin oaffay me aw the time. You’ve a good job: ye can pey yir ain credit card bills.
    Every time I come here I get reminded about fucking bills. My Old Girl still likes to think of herself as a punk, but she’s a small businesswoman to her marrow.

3
The Outdoor Life
    THE BRACKEN WAS thinning out as the gradient of the hill rose steeply. Brian Kibby, his too large Aran sweater and waterproof anorak flapping in the wind, wiped some sweat from his brow under a baseball cap, which was fastened so tightly that it hurt. He took a deep breath, feeling the cool, mountain air clearing out his lungs. As the life fused through his wiry frame, he stopped at his vantage point, turning to look back across at the great range of Munros, and the sweep of the valley curling beneath him.
    As he enjoyed his sense of oneness with the world, a righteous notion seized him: this was the best thing he’d ever done, going along to the hillwalking club with Ian Buchan, his only friend from his schooldays, who remained his special companion. They had met through a shared mutual love – video games – and had attempted to convert each other to their own great passions. Ian was one of the few people who had been allowed to set foot in Brian Kibby’s attic, with its much coveted model railway, though Kibby knew he had little real interest. And though he himself only tolerated Ian’s
Star Trek
obsession, his devotion to hillwalking was for real.
    Brian loved his weekends with that wholesome, hearty bunch, rejoicing under their collective title, the Hyp Hykers. It had greatly pleased his ailing father that he was getting out more and had a pal, even if Keith Kibby was doubtful about the somewhat exclusive nature of his son’s friendship with Ian Buchan and even more so about this
Star Trek
obsession. Even up in the desolate hills, his father’s condition seldom strayed farfrom Brian Kibby’s thoughts. His dad was very ill now, and had seemed so weak and frail when he’d visited him in the hospital the previous night.
    Brian Kibby licked at the salt that was tainting his lips, and after the effort of the trek up the path by the side of the hill, raised the bottle of Evian to his mouth. Looking down the valley in some trepidation towards the biggest mushroom cloud of midges he had ever seen, he felt the mineral water massage the back of his dry throat.
    Replete with the sense of himself, he gaped in wonder down across the deep gorge over to the stark, sweeping hills above him, the scene scored by Coldplay’s
Parachutes
album, which played on his iPod. Switching off the machine and pulling out his earphones, he let the natural silence, broken only by the faint squawking of some overhead birds, resonate for a bit. Then a sudden sound of thicket crushing underfoot signalled a presence by his side. Assuming it was Ian, he said without turning, — Look at that, it makes ye feel great tae be alive!
    — It’s beautiful, a female voice agreed, as Kibby experienced panic and elation rising in his breast and vying for dominance. As he turned round he felt his cheeks burn and his eyes moisten. It was Lucy Moore, with her intense blue eyes and those blonde-brown curls, which were whipping recklessly in the wind, and she was talking to
him
. — Eh . . . aye . . . he managed to cough out as his eyes fell on her scarlet slash of a mouth.
    Lucy seemed not to notice Kibby’s awkwardness. Her composed but piercing eyes scanned the mountains across the valley, the tops of which were dusted white with snow, before settling on the highest point. — I’d love to have a go at climbing it, she said, glancing conspiratorially at him.
    — Naw . . . eh . . . hillwalking suits me just fine, Kibby responded lamely,