Jen shrugs. I mean Im more in the traditional camp myself
Traditional?! Gene snorts. You?!
Yeah. Jen frowns. Like Id much rather have a cartoon on my arm than something more literal
She pauses again, thoughtfully. Although youd be surprised how uptight people get about the whole thing. Theres this massive division in the tattooing world this chasm between the artists who do the traditional stuff and the ultra-realists. Floating around in the middle youve got the mech bunch the nerds who do all the nasty, sinewy, machine-based work
Gene scratches his head, bemusedly, struggling to follow.
My crass, half-baked take on it, Jen volunteers, if youre interested, she adds (with a rare flash of modesty), is that Vee jumped on to the ultra-realist bandwagon to shake off the shadow of her dad. It was a pretty long shadow pretty dark
She pauses for a moment, glancing around her, speculatively (as if finally becoming aware of her immediate surroundings): This is the cleanest, tidiest, most ridiculously anal broom cupboard Ive ever had the privilege of spending time in, she ruminates. Its absolutely spotless. Its psychotic! You could eat off the floors
She inspects Gene, quizzically. Dont take this the wrong way or anything, but dyou honestly think this job offers a sufficient level of challenge for a man of your obvious dynamism?
Gene just smiles, distractedly. Hes still pondering the Tuckers.
Jens eyes narrow a fraction. So youre interested in our little Miss Vee, are you? she wonders.
She inspects Gene, quizzically. Dont take this the wrong way or anything, but dyou honestly think this job offers a sufficient level of challenge for a man of your obvious dynamism?
Gene just smiles, distractedly. Hes still pondering the Tuckers.
Jens eyes narrow a fraction. So youre interested in our little Miss Vee, are you? she wonders.
Interested? Gene echoes, his cheeks reddening.
Considering a nice sleeve or a back piece, maybe? she teases.
Absolutely not! Genes horrified.
I guess there are worse people you could go to, Jen maintains. I mean did you check out the detail on Noels chest piece? That weird kind of wicker effect? It was stunning. Just like the real thing. And did you notice the snake?
I caught a brief glimpse of it. Gene nods.
Well that was her early stuff. Shes got way better since. Although I think its only fair to warn you she grins up at him, mischievously word on the street is shes addicted to quims these days.
Quims? Gene echoes, frowning.
Yeah, quims. She specializes in merkins. And nipples post-surgical. Thats where the real money is.
Im sorry ? Gene shakes his head, confused.
Vagina wigs merkins, Jen smirks. She simulates hair on baldy vaginas. Its an Eastern thing. In the West we cant wait to get rid of it. In the East theres this craze for tattooing it on.
Gene laughs, incredulous, but then his mind rapidly turns back to the previous morning: the cream room; the padded table; the mirror; the torch.
Im serious! Jen insists. Theres this huge market for it over in Japan. A certain percentage of Japanese girls never develop genital hair the Japanese arent a particularly hairy race and they feel completely self-conscious about it
But I thought Japan was the original home of the tattoo, Gene interrupts, suspicious. Why travel halfway across the planet?
Because the practice is so closely associated with the underworld over there that its still considered really disreputable to get tattoo work done, Jen explains. Vees a serious artist and very discreet. Her reputations spread chiefly through word of mouth. The stuff she does looks totally real. Shes the best. Go to her site on the internet. Its just amazing. Ill give you the address if you like She pauses for a second as if summoning it up from memory: www.baldytwinkle.com.
Hilarious. Gene smiles.
Its true! Jen squeals, slapping his arm. Gene winces. She draws back her hand and quickly checks her watch. Balls. Im rotad on at ten. Its five past.
She bends down and pulls up her socks again.
Dodgy elastic? Gene speculates.
My kid sister said my knees are looking bony, Jen grumbles. Dyou think my knees are looking bony? She hitches up her short skirt. Am I too thin? Be honest. My mum says its all the stress of the exams
Youre not serious about going to the papers? Gene firmly sidesteps the contentious subject of Jens knees.
Give me a break! Jen drops her skirt, insulted. Although feeding muscle relaxants to a minor? Thats fucked up! Its heinous! The poor kid was flopping around like some kind of crazy rag doll when I found him.
You didnt mention that to Sheila, did you? Gene anxiously interjects.
Mention what? That he was all floppy?
Jen flops forward, to illustrate.
The muscle relaxants.
How dyou mean? Jen straightens up, frowning.
You didnt happen to mention to Sheila that hed taken
Of course I did! Jens horrified. Shes his mother for heavens sake! She has every right to know what sick kinds of mischief the little twit is getting up to behind her back!
Genes face falls.
Pause.
Aw come on, Gene! Jen guffaws, tenderly cuffing his cheek. Dyou think I was born yesterday?
Well you blabbed about the dope. Gene jerks his head to one side, irritated. You told her the house was wall-to-wall vomit
Did I?
Jen ponders this for a moment. Oh. Yeah. I suppose I did She shrugs. Well I sincerely apologize if I inadvertently violated your precious wall of silence.
She pulls an apologetic face.
There isnt any wall, Gene snaps.
Then Im sorry if I unwittingly served a tiny ball of truth over the sagging but dependable net of lies that is your marriage, she neatly modifies.
I always intended to tell her, Gene murmurs, palpably wrong-sided. It was simply a question of finding the right
Its entirely up to you what you choose to keep from your wife, Jen announces, blithely.
She takes things so much to heart. Genes suddenly almost emotional. She always blames herself
Aw. Shes very sensitive.
Jen sticks out her lower lip.
Yeah. She is. Gene falters, feeling inexplicably stupid.
If I can change the subject for just one second, Jen rapidly interjects, stepping back and appraising him, appreciatively, from top to toe, dyou have any idea how incredibly hot you look in that uniform?
Genes initially surprised, then embarrassed, then nonplussed by this declaration.
I mean Raylons such an awful, non-breathable fabric, dont you reckon? she twinkles, tweaking his collar as she saunters past him. Then, as she exits his office, Is it only me, she sighs, glancing winsomely over her shoulder, fanning her face with her hand and winking, saucily, or has your central heating just gone haywire?
Spice?
Stuart Ransom cocks a mildly jaundiced eyebrow. He and two other men are sitting at a table in the golf clubs second-best restaurant (caps off, no tie) having just shared a sumptuous breakfast together. It is almost ten oclock.
Yeah, spice, the first man gawky, skinny, bespectacled, pale yet heavily freckled, wearing baggy, brown cords and a lightly checked, brushed cotton shirt with the buttons fastened right up to the collar tentatively expands, its an anagram. S.P.I.C.E. Each letter represents a different concept.
Not an anagram, you fool! Esther brusquely interjects from a nearby table (speaking through a mouthful of her third pain au chocolat). It an acronym. You never done a crossword before? Lord! What they teaching you people at school these days?
At Esthers intervention, the skinny man who is twenty-five years old and whose name is Toby Whittaker blushes right down to the roots of his hair.
Fuck me, Esther, Ransom snaps, exasperated, either join us or butt out, will ya?
Esther promptly returns to her puzzle book.
The second man older, heavy-set, blond, charming, expansive, slightly degenerate chuckles under his breath. Dont you just love her? he murmurs, eyeing Esther, appreciatively.
Love her? Oh yeah. Like a dose of the bloody clap, Ransom rejoins.
S stands for simplicity, Toby continues, somewhat haltingly.
Well ya certainly know all about that Esther grumbles (sotto voce, but still clear as a bell over the clatter of cutlery and the ceiling fans). She places down her puzzle book and commences checking the messages on her phone. James Ray just message me, she calls over. He want forty-four per cent an a first-class flight from Dublin on top
Well ya certainly know all about that Esther grumbles (sotto voce, but still clear as a bell over the clatter of cutlery and the ceiling fans). She places down her puzzle book and commences checking the messages on her phone. James Ray just message me, she calls over. He want forty-four per cent an a first-class flight from Dublin on top
Forty-four per cent?! Ransoms agog. Just for humping my bag around like some glorified friggin hod carrier? Has the world finally gone mad?!
You got a better idea? Esther demands (rotating her head with the full complement of Jamaican sass like some kind of enraged cobra).
I do, as a matter of fact. Ransom glowers back.
Yeah?
A difficult silence follows.
Are we talking mind-control techniques, here? The blond man a journalist called Terence Nimrod tries to jolly things along.
Uh, no. More like methods of persuasion, Toby explains (still pink from Esthers earlier insult), tools of persuasion.
Gotcha. Terence Nimrod picks up his coffee cup, notices that its empty, then puts it down again, slightly deflated.
Sorry, Tobe old boy Ransom inspects his own cup (still half full) but whose bullshit idea did you say this was again?
There youve got me. Toby looks abashed. I heard him on the radio while I was driving down, but I didnt quite catch
You passed your test! Hallelujah! Ransom proffers a high-five.
I got a lift. Toby pulls his collar away from his throat with a nervous finger. My mother drove me. She has an old college pal in Dunstable
Dont you find brushed cotton a little warm during the summer months? Nimrod queries.
I love brushed cotton. Ransom lowers his hand, his expression wistful. My grandmother always had brushed cotton sheets on the beds when I was a kid