Must be some kinda glutton for punishment!
She tries to make light of it.
You know what your problem is? Ransom directs an utterly insincere, saccharin-coated smile her way. One might even go so far as to call it your Achilles heel, Esther: loyalty. Youre just way too loyal. Loyal to a fault. And while its extremely sweet
He nudges a tiny fleck of foam from the tip of his nose with his knuckle. almost touching, on occasion, it sometimes borders on He pauses, pensively. It borders on the annoying. Youre like one of those irritating, little burrs that gets snagged on my trouser leg when Im stuck in the rough. Those pesky little fuckers that wont come off no matter how hard I pick away at them.
He wrinkles up his nose, fastidiously.
Pick all you wan, darlin, Esther mutters, falling still deeper into her smooth, honey-coated patois, cos I aint goin nowhere wit-out dem nine an a half mont outstandin back pay, ya hear?
How much is that in total? Ransom wonders, idly. In old money, I mean: pounds and pence? I dont even know what Im paying you. I dont even know if youre worth that amount. I dont even know what youre doing for me nowadays He glances at her in the mirror. What are you doing for me? Whats your role? Whats your official title?
Chump, Esther answers, effortlessly.
Thatd be right Ransom addresses himself in the mirror again: Stuart Ransom, Professional Golfer, Chalk-talked by Chump!
He rolls his eyes, drolly. I mean transitioning, Esther? Seriously? Is it any fucking wonder my game has gone to shite?
He returns to his shave again.
Me not chalk-talkin ya, Stu, Esther mutters, wounded, just offerin some tiny scrap of encouragement at the start of a long week
She glances over her shoulder with a significant look. I dont see nobody else here clamouring to do it.
Is this how low weve sunk? Ransom addresses himself in the mirror again. My idiotic PA catches half of Happy Gilmore on Sky Movies Gold and suddenly starts thinking shes Dr Bob fuckin Rotella?!
All Im sayin Esther reaches out and adjusts the angle of the spotlight above the mirror to render the golfers complexion in a more congenial pallor is Jimmie had a fair point to make about
Yeah. Baby steps. Ouch.
Ransom winces as she inadvertently jogs him with her bump. The razor nicks into the side of his lip. She promptly leans down and grabs a square of toilet paper from the roll, tears off a tiny corner, crumples it up, and applies it to the wound.
So far as I recollect, Ransom mutters, Jimmie had a lot of fair points to make. If only hed kept his cock in his pocket he couldve still been making them.
Jimmie cock never enter into it! Esther snorts, withdrawing. The man a fine coach a great coach an cheap at half the money. Truth is, you just couldnt handle what he was dishin out.
Lucky you were there to handle it, then, eh? Ransom purrs, eyeing her distended belly, meaningfully.
Esther doesnt react.
And while were on the subject, Ransom continues, Jimmie? A great coach? Seriously? A great coach?! He wasnt even a good coach! He was average, at best. And he was the worst kind of drunk: boring, stupid, charmless A hectoring drunk. The man was a total, fucking liability, Esther. He was also twice your age and happily married when he knocked you up. Remember?
Change the record, Stu, Esther mutters, flushing. Me not got nothin to do with it. It was all about you an your precious swing.
Oh really? Ransom half turns to face her.
Jimmie was a damn fool tryin a mess with it. She rolls her eyes, sardonic. Nation may rise an nation may fall, she sings, but the Lord knows: Stuart Ransom swing that precious swing of his transcend it all!
I know youre not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Est, Ransom grumbles, but dont you find it even a little bit ironic that my swing was the thing Jimmie most admired about my game when we first started working together? Jimmie loved my swing! Jimmie said my swing was at the heart of who I was as a golfer! He said my swing had I quote a superabundance of character! I mean what a friggin wheeze! What a rib-tickler! What a monumental, fuckin card the old boy was, eh?
Ha ha, Esther laughs, hollowly.
Hows that famous saying go? Ransom wonders. The one about people always killing the things they love?
Aint got a clue.
Esther is implacable.
Its a famous saying, dick-head! Look it up on Ask Jeeves or something if you dont believe me.
Ill be sure an do that Esther nods on my next schedule day off.
(Esther hasnt been scheduled a day off in the previous thirteen months.)
Ransom digests this sullen observation, without comment, before: Wheres the latest edition of Golf World got to? Did you unpack the rest of my stuff yet? I wanna show you that Butch Harmon piece I told you about in the cab. The one where he says nobody gives a flying fuck about swing knowledge any more. The one where he says swing knowledge is yesterdays chip paper
Aint stop him floggin that Swing Memory device of his all over the golfin channel every chance he get, Esther demurs.
Thats just a sop for the punters! Ransom snorts. Hes all about maximizing your ability nowadays which means doing more of what you do well, basically
Baby step. Esther shrugs.
Baby steps my arse! Its a completely different psychological approach! Ransom scoffs. Fuck baby steps! Leave baby steps to the babies! Look at Westwood for Christs sake! He got his game back by just allowing himself to feel again
Feel again?! Esther echoes, disparagingly. Lee rebuild his game from the ground up, an lost himself three stone while he was at it!
Esther slaps Ransoms belly with the back of her hand. You want his dietician number so you can fire her, too?
What is it with you and paternity? Ransom hits back where it hurts most. Three kids by different dads, and each time its like some major, friggin whodunnit a bad episode of friggin Poirot! A stupid game of friggin Cluedo! Whos the daddy, Esther? Eh? Whos the daddy? He pokes at her belly with his forefinger. Professor Plum in the map room with the laser-pointer? Colonel Mustard in the pantry with the turkey baster?
What is it with you and paternity? Ransom hits back where it hurts most. Three kids by different dads, and each time its like some major, friggin whodunnit a bad episode of friggin Poirot! A stupid game of friggin Cluedo! Whos the daddy, Esther? Eh? Whos the daddy? He pokes at her belly with his forefinger. Professor Plum in the map room with the laser-pointer? Colonel Mustard in the pantry with the turkey baster?
Esther sucks on her tongue in such a way as to render a verbal response unnecessary.
I wouldnt even mind Random smirks but just as soon as you push the little buggers out you ship them straight back to Jamaica to live with your bloody mother!
Esther snatches a clipboard from its temporary resting-place on top of a nearby towel rail and appraises it, frowning, struggling to maintain her composure. Don Hansard phone, she informs him, indicating towards a yellow Post-it note glued to the top page.
Ransom pays her no heed. He is inspecting her bump with a look of morbid fascination on his face. Man! That things incredible, he exclaims (as if seeing it for the first time in all its magnitude). Its huge! Its multi-dimensional! Are you sure you got a kid in there and not a litter of bulldogs? Its mad! Its like three bumps all in one. Its like youre about to give birth to a giant, horizontal turd
Don Hansard phone, she repeats, half an octave higher.
Perhaps that wily, old piss-head didnt knock you up after all, Ransom muses. Wanna know who Im putting my money on?
She stares at him, stony-faced.
Mr fuckin Whippy! Ransom cackles, then commences whistling a childs nursery rhyme (to simulate the approach of an ice-cream van). Esther doesnt crack a smile. She peers down at her clipboard again, blinking.
In fact dyou have any idea what a bloody state you look? Ransom demands, stepping aside so she can appraise herself in the mirror. Youre a mess! Your face is covered in acne. Your hairs just a mop. Your groomings gone fuckin haywire. I mean who the hell told you it was okay to combine fuchsia with apricot? Eh? Youre Stuart Ransoms manager, woman! Start acting like it! Develop a bit of self-respect! Just look at your top! Its worn out. Its a fucking rag. The fabrics all thin and bobbly where its been stretched over the
He runnin a Course Management seminar, Esther butts in, reading from the board, an he think you might
What?! Ransom scoffs, returning to his shave again. Hansard wants me to help run a seminar on Course Management?! Has he gone totally doo-lally? I couldnt Course Manage a piss-up in a fuckin brewery!
He pauses for a second, inspects his face in the mirror, does some final clearing up around his jawline, then adds, How much?
How much? she echoes.
The fee, Dumbo!
No fee.
Come again? Ransoms incredulous. He expects me to do it f nowt?!
Esther shakes her head. He want you go as
As his patsy? His mentor? His bitch?! To offer moral, fuckin support?! Ransom interrupts. Gratis? Out of the goodness of my own heart?! With my fuckin overdraft? Is he nuts?
As a student, Esther finally finishes off.
Ransoms smile fades. He stares at her, blankly.
A student, she repeats. Don student. I said you probably wouldnt.
Probably? Ransoms jaw drops. You told him I probably wouldnt ?
Its four thousand for the week dollar. No board. Then flight on top. We still in dispute with American Airline, remember? Don offerin ten per cent reduction for some promotional DVD he been cookin up. I tell him even with full complimentary we be stretchin our budget
Hang on a second Ransom scowls. Please tell me you didnt actually let slip to that gobby, talentless little pip-squeak that Stuart Ransom is strapped for cash?
Strap?! Esther echoes, astonished. We stony-broke, Stu! We mortgage to the hilt! We strugglin to find cash for last night bar bill!
And you reckon thats okay, do you? Ransoms almost hoarse with rage now. I mean you reckon its perfectly acceptable, as Stuart Ransoms manager, as Stuart Ransoms chief representative on fuckin earth, to go around cheerfully informing complete, friggin strangers what he can and he cant afford?!