Pratt a Manger Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by David Nobbs

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. A Quiet Day at the Café Henry

  2. And So Say All of Us

  3. A Question of Salt

  4. Eggs Benedict

  5. Big Issues

  6. A Family Party

  7. Words in Henry’s Ear

  8. Sod’s Law

  9. Here’s One I Made Earlier

  10. Hooray, It’s Henry

  11. A Difficult Relationship

  12. A Distinct Risk of Mercury Poisoning

  13. Will Success Spoil Henry Pratt?

  14. A Hen is Born

  15. Unhappy Fields

  16. For and Against

  17. An Unwelcome Gift

  18. On the Trail

  19. The Trap

  20. Carry On Up the Crem

  21. At Last

  Copyright

  About the Book

  When pretty young TV researcher Nicky Proctor visits Cafe Henry in London’s Soho, Henry Pratt’s life changes forever. He becomes an instant star of the TV food quiz, A Question of Salt and before long he is given his own series, Hooray, it’s Henry. The book of the series reaches Number Two. He’s a celebrity. Henry Ezra Pratt has come a long way from his humble beginnings.

  But, as usual in Henry’s life, things begin to go wrong. He incurs the deep hatred of rival celebrity chef Bradley Tompkins, with his bad manners, bad wig and no Michelin stars. A war is waged against him, escalating into plots and deceptions which threaten to destroy the reputation and career of the man dubbed ‘The People’s Chef’. It must be Bradley behind all this – or must it?

  On the domestic front, too, there are storms ahead. Henry is blissfully happy in his second marriage to Hilary, but he is sorely tempted by young Nicky and his lovely co-star Sally. Can he resist? Can he become a real man at last? Or will success spoil Henry Pratt for good…?

  About the Author

  David Nobbs was born in Kent. After university, he entered the army, then tried his hand at journalism and advertising before becoming a writer. A distinguished novelist and comedy writer, he lives near Harrogate with his wife Susan.

  Also by David Nobbs

  FICTION

  The Itinerant Lodger

  A Piece of the Sky is Missing

  Ostrich Country

  The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin

  The Return of Reginald Perrin

  The Better World of Reginald Perrin

  Second From Last in the Sack Race

  A Bit of a Do

  Pratt of the Argus

  Fair Do’s

  The Cucumber Man

  The Legacy of Reginald Perrin

  Going Gently

  Sex and Other Changes

  AUTOBIOGRAPHY

  I Didn’t Get Where I Am Today

  For Briget, Mark and Max

  1 A Quiet Day at the Café Henry

  HE SENSED THAT she had come into the Café for a purpose, but he had no idea that she would change his life.

  ‘Is it too early for a glass of chardonnay?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s never too early,’ he said.

  It was eleven forty-five in the morning, and the Café, in Frith Street in the heart of bustling, sexy, sleazy Soho, was still completely empty.

  She was attractive in a rather showy, obvious way. She was wearing tight jeans and a loose, warm leather jacket. He guessed that she was twenty-eight.

  ‘It’s quiet,’ she said.

  ‘Most unusual,’ he said. ‘We’re usually pretty full at this time.’

  On Monday, 13 March, 1995, Tony Blair, the leader of the Opposition, persuaded Labour’s National Executive to replace the party’s historic commitment to wholesale nationalisation with an acceptance of a mixed economy; eighty police officers in London were asked to wear flashing blue lights to help them to be noticed in the dark; the Bishop of London, pressured by the homosexual group Outrage, denied that he was homosexual but referred to his sexuality as ‘a grey area’, and Henry Ezra Pratt, who did not refer to his sexuality as ‘a grey area’, celebrated his sixtieth birthday.

  The girl looked round, taking in everything, and again Henry had the feeling that her reconnaissance was far from casual. What could she want?

  He looked round too, wondering how it seemed to her. There was a large mirror on the left-hand wall, making the place seem much bigger than it was. Facing the door was a wall covered in a cheery jumble of pictures and notices. Against the wall was a cold counter with a splendid array of salads and cakes. To the right was a well-stocked bar, with several tall stools. Behind the bar was a notice stating, ‘You are in a no privacy area. If you don’t wish to talk to your fellow human beings, please sit at a table.’ The tables were wooden and simple, some square, some round, some large, some small. When it was full everything worked, and it was cheery and unpretentious. When it was empty, well … he dreaded what she would think.

  ‘Dreaded’? Why should it matter what she thought?

  ‘It’s just like Denise described it,’ she said.

  ‘Denise?’

  ‘Denise Healey.’

  ‘Ah! I thought it was her!’

  The girl looked puzzled. She looked more attractive when she was puzzled, more vulnerable, less assertive.

  ‘Sorry, you thought who was her?’

  ‘Denise Healey.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m still not with you. You thought who was Denise Healey?’

  ‘Denise Healey.’

  ‘You thought Denise Healey was Denise Healey?’

  The conversation was not developing as intelligently as he would have wished.

  ‘Exactly. She came in one day,’ he explained, ‘and I thought, “That’s Denise Healey, the Goddess of the Aga.” But we were busy – as we usually are – and she didn’t introduce herself and neither did I. Somehow I couldn’t. I’m still very shy at heart.’

  ‘That’s why you’d be so perfect for us!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘It’s my turn not to be with you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I work for Fantasia Television. My name’s Nicky.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ he said absurdly.

  ‘Have you ever thought of appearing on television?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really? Not in your dreams even?’

  ‘Especially not in my dreams.’

  ‘Oh. Well, you’d like to appear on television, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘But everybody wants to appear on television.’

  ‘Not me. Sorry.’

  ‘But you’d be so … I don’t know … so “right”.’

  Her glass of wine looked tempting.

  ‘I think I’ll join you,’ he said. ‘It is my birthday.’

  ‘Is one permitted to ask how old you are?’

  ‘No. One isn’t.’

  He cursed himself for having mentioned his birthday. He didn’t want this young woman to know that he was sixty. He didn’t look sixty. People didn’t look sixty at sixty these days, unless they were bank managers or tramps. Was it sexual vanity or … worse … the fact that she wouldn’t want him for television if she knew how old he was? Was a little corner of him, deep down, excited by the possibility of celebrity? He shivered. No good could come of that.

  She took her coat off, revealing a white blouse that was decidedly scanty for March. He had an uneasy feeling that all her movements were rehearsed.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to be a celebrity and be packed out every day?’ asked Nicky from Fantasia Television.

  ‘We usually are packed out,’ he protested.

  ‘But not today.’


  ‘It’s only ten to twelve,’ he said. ‘Soon we’ll have as many people as we can cope with.’

  ‘Are you frightened of the challenge?’ she asked.

  ‘I think it extraordinarily presumptuous of you to assume that my motives are as low as that,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not frightened. I’m just not interested.’

  She leant forward to pick up her glass. He could see the tops of her milky, slightly blotched breasts.

  ‘I’m just not interested,’ he repeated.

  But the awful thing was that he was, and she knew it.

  Her skin was so young. Sometimes he found it hard to resist the touch of young female skin.

  He did resist it. He had his pride. He hated gropers. He knew how much women despised middle-aged gropers, even subtle ones who barely touched them, perhaps particularly subtle ones who barely touched them. Sex had destroyed his first two marriages. He’d been so jealous of Hilary’s success as a novelist that he’d believed that she was having an affair with her editor. He’d destroyed his second marriage by making drunken love to a married female journalist on a pub snooker table! He wasn’t fit to be allowed out alone. It would all be far too dangerous.

  ‘I haven’t told you what we’d be interested in you for,’ she said. ‘I know you aren’t interested, but I may as well tell you. We make A Question of Salt for the BBC.’

  ‘A Question of Salt?’

  ‘The new culinary quiz show. You must have seen it.’

  ‘No. I don’t get to see much television.’

  ‘Well, you must have heard of it.’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  She looked quite shocked.

  ‘It sounds,’ he said, ‘like a straight pinch from A Question of Sport. A pinch of salt, one might say.’

  Nicky didn’t look as if she might say that. She looked offended.

  ‘I wouldn’t describe it as a pinch,’ she said. ‘It’s a natural development, one thing flowing into another. That’s what TV does. But you’d be brill. You’re everything Denise said you were.’

  ‘Oh. And what exactly did she say I was?’

  He’d tried to sound casual, but she smiled, and he knew that she’d recognised the vanity behind his question. Damn!

  ‘She said you were different. Odd.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Marvellously odd.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘She said, “He’s middle-aged, plump, hair greying …” ’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘ “Not good-looking …” ’

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘ “Which makes it all the more fascinating that he’s so attractive to women.” ’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And she’s right.’

  Nicky smiled coquettishly. He wanted to believe that her coquettishness wasn’t part of her recruitment drive. He wanted to believe that she wasn’t a hard little go-getter. Why should he want to believe this? What was she to him? Nothing. Ridiculous.

  ‘She said you had fabulous muscles.’

  ‘She must have meant mussels with two esses. I haven’t any muscles with a C.’

  ‘She did. I realised that eventually, and I felt I’d been stupid.’

  Henry didn’t comment. He decided to talk about his mussels instead.

  ‘I use cider instead of wine, and no cream. I think cream is wrong with mussels. Their texture is creamy, they need something which works against that – but it has to be dry cider, the very best dry cider. You can never cook well with bad alcohol. That’s why big drinkers often make bad chefs. They can’t bear to waste good booze on food.’

  ‘You see!’ said Nicky triumphantly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She said you talk with wonderful enthusiasm about food. I won’t give in till I’ve got you.’

  How Henry wished that he hadn’t stolen a quick glance at Nicky’s crotch at that moment. If only somebody else would come in. It was twelve now. Where were they all? Ding, the Vietnamese waiter, sauntered in and stood under the blackboard, at a loss what to do. A group of people peered in, saw it was empty, and moved on. People were like sheep.

  ‘Have you decided what you’d like to eat?’ he enquired.

  ‘Ah.’

  The change of subject threw her. He felt that she hadn’t been intending to eat, but that she’d been outmanoeuvred. It would be a bad move, recruitment-wise, if she didn’t eat.

  ‘Salads are in the display counter, and the dishes of the day are on the blackboard. We usually do three starters and four mains. It’s a very simple operation. I’m not a potential celebrity.’

  ‘I won’t have a starter,’ she said, ‘but those main courses all sound tempting.’

  As Nicky considered the blackboard, with its choice of boeuf bourguignon, chicken with mango sauce, hake Lampo and fennel casserole, Henry looked across his empty kingdom and saw himself, in the mirror, looking across his empty kingdom at himself – middle-aged, plump, with greying hair, and not at all attractive to women. Maybe he ought to take himself in hand, lose some weight and dye his hair. Or, more simply, remove the mirror.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to have?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so. I don’t eat much red meat. Chicken with mango. Is it free-range?’

  ‘Of course. I deplore battery chickens.’

  ‘You could talk about that. Great. Hake Lampo. I think I had that once in Spain.’

  ‘Now that amazes me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s my invention. I created it for a great friend of mine called Lampo Davey. I don’t see how you could have had it anywhere.’

  Nicky blushed. Her cool poise deserted her. Half of Henry was sorry that he’d embarrassed her, because he wasn’t cruel. The other half of him was pleased, because he found her blushing attractive.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘You caught me out there – but I just hate seeming ignorant about menus.’

  The discovery that she was less secure and confident than she had appeared to be sent a little frisson of desire coursing through Henry’s veins.

  ‘I always have at least one dish that is my invention,’ he explained, ‘and sometimes I call them after friends or people who’ve been important in my life. It’s a way of not forgetting people.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ she said. ‘I like that very much. So would the viewers. Fennel casserole!’

  ‘We always have a vegetarian option. I have the greatest respect for vegetarians.’

  ‘I can’t conceive what it’ll be like.’

  ‘Try it, then. It’s got crushed pistachios and pernod to fight with the fennel, and green peppercorns and balsamic vinegar to fight against it.’

  ‘It sounds more like a battlefield than a meal, but I’ll try it. Look, you do need publicity. The crowds you speak of aren’t here, are they?’

  ‘But honestly, they usually are. We’re rushed off our feet all the time. I’ve never known it like this.’

  At last another customer arrived.

  ‘Oh good,’ said the new arrival. ‘Quiet again.’

  ‘ “Again”?’ said Nicky.

  ‘It was pretty quiet last Tuesday,’ said the man, who had a heavy beard to hide his weak chin.

  ‘Good afternoon, Peter,’ said Henry, trying to sound civil.

  ‘My God, I suppose it is,’ said the man, whose name was Peter Stackpool, though he was more often known as PS, which had led his wife, after one of their many arguments, to say scornfully, ‘You know what you are. You’re just a PS tagged on to the end of the great letter of life.’

  ‘Your usual?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Please.’

  Boring nerd!

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong,’ said PS. ‘I like it like this. I don’t like it when it’s heaving.’

  ‘As it usually is,’ said Henry.

  ‘Don’t you do the cooking?’ asked Nicky. ‘I rather thought you did.’

  ‘I have another chef and we share it. Unfortunately Greg’s not very good at front o
f house. No confidence. No conversation. I’m giving him lessons, but he isn’t quite ready to face his public yet.’

  PS ordered a ham salad and took a glass of sauvignon blanc over to a far table, where he sat in front of a notice which read, ‘The Hermits’ Ball was a disaster this year. Neither of the hermits could stand crowds, so they both left.’

  Nicky was reading another notice, which stated, ‘I’ve just taken my sex test. Failed the written, passed the oral.’ Just then Henry deeply regretted that notice.

  ‘You haven’t grown up, have you?’ said Nicky.

  ‘No. I forgot.’

  It was his turn to blush.

  ‘Why are you blushing?’ she asked.

  ‘When I was eighteen I said to my army sergeant, “I’m a man.” After I’d married Hilary for the second time I felt I’d found maturity. There are times when I think I’m no nearer to it than I was when I was born.’

  A third customer entered. It was Lampo Davey.

  ‘Good lord!’ he said. ‘Where is everybody?’

  Henry beamed.

  ‘Lampo!’

  ‘Not he of the hake!’ exclaimed Nicky.

  Lampo looked at Nicky in puzzlement.

  Henry introduced them.

  ‘Lampo, this is Nicky. She’s in television.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ said Lampo absurdly.

  ‘Lampo, Nicky wants me to appear on TV.’

  ‘Priceless!’

  ‘No, Lampo, it isn’t priceless. It’s not on.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I was Lampo’s fag at school, Nicky,’ said Henry. ‘I introduced him to the arts correspondent of the newspaper I worked on, and they’ve lived happily ever after.’

  ‘Happily!’ exclaimed Lampo. ‘Happily? I live in constant fear.’ He turned to Nicky. ‘I’m terrified of breaking his knick-knacks, Nicky. Denzil is very attached to his knick-knacks.’

  Ding, thrilled to have something to do at last, came in with Nicky’s fennel casserole.

  ‘Where are you sit?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, over there, I think.’

  Nicky pointed to a table as far away from PS as possible. She knew that he was gazing at her lustfully.

  ‘Very nice to meet you, Nicky,’ exaggerated Lampo.

  ‘You too, Lampo,’ lied Nicky.

  As soon as Nicky had gone to her table, Lampo began to look very serious. He seemed somewhat embarrassed.