Authors: Monica Ali
'What do I employ you for?'
Mr James carried on smiling.
'Go on, remind me. Because it's not at all obvious.'
Gabriel pretended to look at a magazine on the coffee table, but kept watching Mr James. His smile was painful to see. It was the same way he always smiled and it was nervous, involuntary, like the twitch in Damian's right eye.
Mr Maddox passed his hairy fingers over his face. He lost interest. Didn't go for the kill.
'Go back to Marketing, Gareth. Say you've had a word with me. See if you can sort it out.'
Mr James went off clutching at his clipboard and his dignity.
Mr Maddox left his desk and took up the leather armchair opposite Gabe. It seemed to shrink as he sat down.
'I'm trying to curb it,' he said.
'What's that?'
Maddox rolled his head then grabbed it between his hands and twisted in either direction until his neck clicked. 'Came up the hard way, Chef. Old habits, you know.'
'Yes,' said Gabe. He'd come to talk about Gleeson and Ivan, the fact that they were using still using, Gabe had kept intermittent watch the guest room without authority.
'Back when,' said Maddox. His eyes went far away. They came round again.
'Respect, you see, was something you had to earn. Usually by beating the shit out of someone.'
Gabriel looked at Mr Maddox's brow. You could use it for hammering nails.
Maddox had probably hammered a few heads with it in his time. Maybe it would be better not to say anything about Gleeson and Ivan at the moment, better to wait until he had a solution, or at least knew exactly what the problem was.
'Anyway, had a little lapse there with Gareth. I don't know.'
Gabe wondered what reason he could give for coming up and bursting in.
Mr Maddox, though, seemed in no hurry. He offered Gabriel a cigar. 'My grandfather,' he said, 'was in service, and my great-grandfather and his father before him, back and back. Servants, every one.' He paused for a while.
'What do you think of the smoke, by the way?'
'Good flavour,' said Gabe, 'red meat, roasted nuts.'
'Sometimes,' said Maddox, 'I think I'm still in their footsteps. Think I haven't put enough distance ... inspecting bedsheets in the penthouse, a couple of hours ago. How's that for a chip on the shoulder? Impressive or what?'
'It was common enough, in those days,' said Gabriel, 'to be a servant. My family were all in the mill.'
'Interesting fact for you, Chef. As many people nowadays in service
cleaning, cooking, nannying, gardening as there were in the 1860s. Progress, eh?'
The cigar was making Gabriel a little light-headed. He kept forgetting not to inhale. He nodded along.
'My granddaughter,' said Mr Maddox, 'she's ten years old. She said to me, Granddad, why are you angry all the time?' He stirred his feet and pulled at his trousers. 'Well, what could I say? I said, pickle, I'm not angry. I said, I've never been angry with you.'
'And? Did she believe you?'
'She's bright, you see,' said Maddox, 'she's top of the form.'
'Good for you,' said Gabriel. 'Good for her.'
'She's set up a swear box. Keeps the takings. Fucking raking it in.' He laughed unhappily. 'Now,' he said, 'what was it that you wanted to talk about?'
'Oh,' said Gabriel, 'I wanted to tell you that all-night room service is starting up this week. Benny's going to do the first shifts.'
He'd sort out Gleeson. He didn't need to take it up with Maddox. What he needed to do was act, force a confrontation, stop burying his head in the sand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SPRING WAS COMING. IT WAS IN THE SNAP OF BLUE SKY BETWEEN THE buildings, it was in the gently ruffled air, it was in the passers-by who lifted hopeful faces to the light. Gabriel was reminded, as always, of the ski season he'd worked in some wainscoted Tyrolean town. One morning he'd woken and heard ticking, the rooftop snow counting down the moments before it slid with a whoosh to the ground. When he looked out of the window he saw in the spangled white garden a miraculous little trapezium of green.
Cinnamon rolls, he thought, stepping lightly down the street from the back entrance of the Imperial. Must have made a thousand in that place. He could smell them still. He pulled up short on the pavement, bobbing on a wave of nostalgia for a kitchen and colleagues he could barely recall.
Across the road a demolition team in fluorescent vests flagged the all-clear to the crane. A young woman click-clacking down the road saw the builders and grew defensive. She folded her arms. The crew took no notice. She glanced around.
The hoardings shook as the crane ground forward. A thin shout went up. The unlovely houses gaped open, snaggle-toothed with doors here and there. Gabriel watched the crane's arm swing. The wrecking ball swept back, gathered itself in thought for a moment and then it was on its way, a long and languorous journey filled with mild encounters, remembered in ghostly white clouds.
The rucksack weighed cosily on Gabriel's shoulders, packed with food from the fridges and larders at work. He was going home after lunch service to spend the afternoon with Lena, and to cook a civilized meal. So many things to do.
The important ones came first. You put in the foundations. You selected cornerstones. Last night he had been convulsed by thoughts of Gleeson, as if the straitjacket had been no mere taunt, as if he were bound and tied by rage.
He'd struggled free. Gleeson was on his list. List upon list. Give the lists a structure, see how they stacked up, joined. See it, visualize it, hold it in your mind. Some tasks supported others, laid the groundwork, some ran together in an arch. It was like building a house. Let in light, generate heat, keep the rain off your head. It was a matter of architecture and food was no different, the molecular structures, the way you ordered a plate, you had to build, and when you organized a kitchen, pulled together a team, you had to see the architecture, have a blueprint, keep it tight and strong.
Before he turned the corner Gabriel looked back at the site. As he watched, a wall collapsed in slow motion with a vague, protesting sigh.
The flat was empty when he got home. Lena must have gone to the shop. He waited for fifteen minutes and then he rang her mobile. He left a message and made a cup of tea. He went down to look for her. He tried her mobile again.
He stood by the long sitting-room window and every moment expected her to come into view. Then he grew superstitious and thought she would not come as long as he stayed there. Sitting on the sofa he stroked his knees and waited for the sound of the key in the door.
She would come exactly at the point he had stopped thinking about her. That was how these things always were. She might have gone to the cinema. She had done that once or twice and told him about it. He had encouraged her.
He jumped up and went to the bedroom and flung open the wardrobe doors. All the dresses he had bought her were there. To be sure he opened the drawers.
Back in the sitting room he paced steadily. The more he looked at the furniture the less familiar it felt. The hard green sofa belonged in a waiting room, the black chaise was hideous, the lacquered shelves were empty and the white-cube coffee table was pretentious beyond belief. Who would want to live here? Who could call this place a home?
There was a sound in the corridor. He ran outside. Across the hall his neighbour fumbled with his key.
'Oh, sorry,' said Gabriel, 'I was expecting someone.'
'Hi,' said the neighbour, smiling absently. He went into his flat.
It was typical, thought Gabriel. That was how selfish people were. Wouldn't exchange a few words. Wouldn't give you the time of day. Those neighbours, whenever he saw them, they didn't even break their stride. Hi and that was it.
Gabe hadn't done much better, he admitted, but at least it was in his mind to invite them over, he'd been on the point of doing it, nearly asked them round for dinner when he'd first moved in.
He resumed his pacing. The fact was things had gone downhill. When he was growing up it wasn't like this at all. In those days people took an interest.
They rallied round. They knew your name, at least. Now nobody had the time.
They didn't keep an eye out for anyone.
If he went over and knocked on the door and said, have you seen her? they would smile politely and say, who? Gabriel chewed on his fingernail. He smoked a cigarette. He looked out of the window, which put the jinx back again. He had to stay away.
He found himself standing in the kitchen, turning the tap on and off. The rucksack was on the counter. He hadn't unpacked it yet.
When he had a son he would say to him, when I was growing up, and the boy would think to himself, that was the last century, the last millennium. He'd take the boy to work sometimes, if he wanted to come.
Where was Lena? Stop worrying. Without money, how far would she get?
What would he show the boy at work? Would the boy have been proud of him yesterday? Well, there were pressures, too complicated for a child to understand.
It was nearly seven o'clock. Where was she? If she didn't come by seven she wasn't coming. That was clear enough.
When he used to go to Rileys with Dad it was different. He preached loyalty, honesty, respect, as if those things were woven into the fabric of his work.
But now it wasn't like that. The world was a different place.
It was seven. This could not go on. He seized a knife, the devil's own blade, and plunged it into the solid beech worktop with all his God-given strength.
The black handle shivered as he retreated, issuing a silent plea. If you're out there, if you can hear me, let me not be mad.
He opened a bottle of wine and forced himself to sit on the sofa with the television on. He was OK. He was rational. Lena was probably at the cinema.
She wouldn't expect him back until after ten. If she could see one film then why not two, a double bill? Everyone got wound up once in a while. It hardly made them insane. Gleeson ... why should he even think about anything that viper had to say? Jenny ... well, Jenny, bless her, had got hold of the wrong end of the stick. She said it runs in families. But he wasn't Mum. He didn't go on crazy spending sprees. He didn't run off with the milkman. No, his life was still his own.
He shifted uncomfortably, tried a cushion behind his head, removed it, put his feet on the coffee table and then down again. He swung his legs on to the sofa and stared up at the ceiling.
What if his life were a series of blunders based on misreadings, on misconceptions, on a series of childish mistakes? If he made choices without understanding, what kind of choosing was that? It was like some madman, believing himself the King of Spain, carefully deciding if he should wage war on France, or if it should be Brazil. Working out his options in his padded cell, weighing and deliberating, playing with his own shit.
When he looked back it seemed to him ... no, wait, better not to look. Things were better the way he used to remember them.
If he'd listened to Dad, he would have gone to university. One thing followed on from another. You didn't walk a path, you got on a train and the stations were few and far between.
What happened between you and Dad? You couldn't reach a finger into your past and touch something and say, there, that's it, right there. There were too many reasons, too many ways of looking, thinking, remembering. Ah, yes! What was important was not what happened but how you remembered it. It was Dad who told him that. You're so right, Dad. Dad, do you know how true that is?
Gabriel rose from the sofa and resumed his pacing. Now all he had to do was choose the right way to remember. It was clearly up to him. Although, having said that, it wasn't so easy to put thoughts out of your mind. What he needed, no, what he needed was an adjudicator, someone who knew him, who knew what he was really like. A friend, you see, a friend could say impartially, oh, you were always destined, you were cut out, there'd be no stopping you. Someone with faith in him.
He had friends. He'd call one now. Of course he had friends. Did he? But what he needed was a witness. Someone who knew what made him. Someone who would stand up and say it. Yes, I vouch for this man.
When Jenny picked up the phone she was still speaking to someone at the other end.
'Jen,' said Gabe, 'it's me.'
'Oh, Gabe,' said Jenny, 'hang on a minute.'
Gabriel heard raised voices, followed by a muffled bang.
'Like World War Three in here,' said Jenny. 'Bailey's grounded, but she's just walked out the door and I said to her, Bailey, don't even think about it because there'll be hell to pay and she looked at me like ... yeah, go on then, and off she goes and Harley, don't get me started ...'
Gabe smiled. 'What's he done now?'
'He's only gone and ... no, don't get me started. I'll tell you when you come up because I've the ironing to do tonight. You coming up, Gabe? Dad's not doing so good.'
'I will,' said Gabriel. 'Soon.'
'Don't leave it too long.'
'Jenny,' said Gabe, 'I was thinking about when we were kids.'
'You saying I'm too strict with mine?'
'No,' said Gabe. 'I was just thinking when we'd go down and play by the railway track ...'
'Which definitely wasn't allowed.'
What could he say to make her understand? Jenny had worries of her own. 'Those summer days, they went on for ever. Remember how long they were?'
'I get it,' said Jenny, 'we were no angels, never home on time. But Harley and Bailey, they think they're grown-ups, think they can do whatever they like, and I suppose they're right but not under my roof is what I tell them, there's lines you cannot cross. Gabe, when do you think you'll come?'
'Soon,' said Gabriel. 'Next week or the week after, whenever I can get away.'
'Good. I best get on,' said Jenny, distracted, 'nice to hear your voice.'
'Yours too,' said Gabe, trying to keep the misery out of his. A deep hole opened inside him, a big black space. Everything he tried to hold on to was sucked into the vacuum and he stayed empty, this hollow at his core.