Bloody golf! Jen exclaims, slapping the pad down, forcefully. Even the word is ridiculous like a cat vomiting up a giant hair-ball: GOLLUFF! she huskily intones, rolling her eyes while making an alarming retching motion with her throat. Both men turn to stare at her, alarmed. Just name me any game, Jen challenges them, I mean any sport on the planet more selfish than golf is.
Silence.
Formula One, Gene finally responds.
Shooting, Ransom suggests, cocking and aiming an imaginary gun at her.
Yeah Jens plainly not convinced. But could you really call that a sport, as such?
KA-BOOM!
Ransom fires. Its a clean shot.
They have an Olympic team, Gene says, snatching up the pad again, opening it and proffering it to her.
Its not only golf, though. Jen waves the pad away. I cant stand tennis, either. I hate tennis. To my way of thinking its just a game invented by idiots, for idiots. Simple as.
Before Jen can further substantiate this hypothesis, Gene has grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face the back wall of the bar. Whats got into you tonight? he hisses.
Jen gazes up at him, wide-eyed. I hate tennis, Gene. She shrugs (raising both hands, limp-wristedly, like a world-weary Jewish dowager). Is that suddenly such a crime?
Gene studies her face for a second, grimaces, releases her arm, then slaps the black notebook shut and tosses it defeated back under the counter.
Ransom downs the remainder of his beer in a single gulp, then burps, majestically, from the other side of the bar. Jen snorts, ribaldly. Gene shoots her a warning look.
Her mother swallows the paste and then gently belches.
You really shouldnt swallow it, Valentine mutters. Shes just flushed the cat mess down the toilet and is now washing her hands, fastidiously, under the hot tap.
Ive always swallowed it, her mother maintains.
Well, you taught me not to swallow it. Valentine turns the tap off.
Her mother inspects her teeth, critically, in the bathroom mirror.
Youre not meant to swallow it, Valentine persists, youre meant to spit it out.
Really? Il dit ça sur le tube?
Pardon?
Does it say that on the tube?
Valentine shrugs. I dont know.
Have a look.
Her mother grabs the tube and proffers it to Valentine. Valentine shakes the water off her hands, takes the tube and inspects it.
Does it say you shouldnt swallow?
Her mother peers at the tube over Valentines shoulder.
No. Valentine frowns. But that doesnt necessarily
Her mother recommences brushing again. Valentine places the tube back into the tooth mug. She watches her mother for a while and then: I think youve probably been brushing for long enough now, she says.
Really? Her mother stops brushing. How long is enough?
Valentine shrugs. Two minutes?
And how long have I ?
About four.
Her mother stares at her, blankly.
Four minutes. One, two, three, four
Valentine slowly counts the digits out on to her fingers. So youve basically been brushing for almost double the amount of time you need to.
Valentine illustrates this point, visually, by dividing the four fingers into two.
Her mother stares at Valentines fingers, intrigued. If two twos are double, she wonders, then what about three threes? Are three threes double?
Uh no. Valentine shakes her head. Three times three is nine. Thats triple. Two times three is double.
Two threes are six, her mother says.
Exactly. Valentine nods, encouragingly. Two times three is six. Well done.
She holds up six fingers and divides them in half.
Okay her mother is now concentrating extremely hard and twice times fifty-fivety?
Two times fifty-five is one hundred and ten. Valentine nods again. Well done. Thats double, too.
And twice times
You generally say two times, Valentine interrupts, and its always double. Two of anything is always double. Thats the rule.
She turns to dry her hands on a towel.
My teeth still feel furry, though, her mother murmurs, taking a small step forward and staring, fixedly, into the mirror again. I want them to feel clean. I want them to feel toutes lisses.
Weve talked about this before. Valentine gently takes the toothbrush from her. You just think they arent clean, but they are. Remember how the dentist ?
Youre being unbelievably patronizing, her mother exclaims, suddenly irritable.
She pauses.
Condescendant! And by the way, she continues, I find it really disgusting that you flushed the cat mess down the loo.
She goes and peers into the toilet bowl.
Je nai pas télevée comme ça! Ça fait trop commun.
Valentine is inspecting her own, clear complexion in the bathroom mirror. The cat sitting closest to the doorway commences scratching itself, vigorously.
The toilet bowl is filthy! Its disgusting, her mother grumbles. She turns to inspect the cat. And these cats are disgusting, too. So many of them, et tellement poilus! In fact this entire room is disgusting. All the fitments are disgusting. The light-fitment, the blind, even the colour is disgusting. Especially the colour.
You used to adore these tiles, Valentine tells her. The bathroom was one of the main reasons why you and Dad first fell in love with this house.
Please! her mother snorts. Impossible! I dont believe you! This shade of pink? Taramasalata pink? Vomit pink? Its vile! Disgusting!
Youre finding an awful lot to be disgusted about tonight, Valentine observes, dryly.
Her mother considers this notion for a moment, and then, Because theres a lot to be disgusted by, I suppose, she sighs.
You know its always struck me as ridiculous, Gene says, removing a large jar of salted cashews from under the counter, unscrewing the lid and then carefully topping up Ransoms bar-snacks, that golf doesnt have the status of an Olympic sport yet.
I do quite enjoy the odd match of ping-pong, Jen quietly ruminates from the rear, but then its a completely different order of game to proper tennis.
Well theres the table part, for starters, Gene mutters (although his voice is pretty much obliterated as Jen commences flushing a clean jug of water through the coffee machine).
Golf, Ransom is sullenly addressing his beer bottle. Goll-oll-llolf.
He frowns. It isnt stupid, he protests. Whats so bloody stupid about it?
He turns to Gene. Do you think its stupid?
Gene shrugs, helplessly.
Goll-lluf, Ransom repeats, exploring each individual letter with his tongue and his teeth.
Although I do find snooker quite selfish, Jen suddenly interjects (as the water finally completes its noisy cycle), and snookers a table sport, so it cant be entirely about the furniture, can it?
Gene opens his mouth to respond and then closes it again, stumped.
I dont even understand what you mean by selfish, Ransom grumbles, checking his phone and sending a quick text.
Well Jen carefully adjusts an eyelash (which has briefly become unglued) by selfish I suppose I mean She gnaws on her lower lip, thoughtfully. I dunno. Selfish Self-centred. Self-obsessed. Self-indulgent. Self-absorbed
I think we might best summarize Jens position, Gene quickly interjects, as a borderline-irrational hatred of all so-called individual sports.
Ahhh. Ransom finally starts to make sense of things.
Although I do quite like bowling, Jen demurs.
People generally bowl in a team. Gene shrugs.
And gymnastics. I like gymnastics.
Ditto.
And Ive always liked the javelin, Jen presses on. In fact I love the javelin. Theres something really really basic and primeval about the javelin.
To illustrate her point, Jen lobs an imaginary javelin towards Eugenes head.
Okay. So the theorys not entirely watertight, Gene concedes, flinching.
And surfing Jen persists. I really, really
I USED TO BE A SURFER! Ransom suddenly yells, tossing down his phone and leaping up from his stool. I USED TO BE A BLOODY SURFER! EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT!
Uh Could you just ? Jen raises a sardonic hand to her ear.
I did! I DID! Ransom is bouncing, hyperactively, from foot to foot. Everybody knows that. Ask anybody! Ask Ask him Ransom points at Gene. Surfing was my life. I was a total, surfing freak. I loved it. I lived it. I had the tan, the boarding shorts, the flip-flops, the bleached hair
The hair was pretty extravagant, Gene concurs.
All the way down to there, it was Ransom lightly touches his chest with his free hand. I kept it that length for years. It was like my talisman, my trademark, my signature
Didnt you insure it at one point for some inordinately huge amount? Gene asks.
Half a million squid. Ransom nods. Although it was just some cheap publicity stunt dreamed up by my ex-manager.
Ah Gene affects nonchalance.
But I was in all the fashion mags, Ransom persists. Started my own clothing line. Had lucrative contracts with two types of styling gels. Modelled for Westwood in London, McQueen in New York, Gaultier in Paris which is where I first met Karma
He stares at Jen, expectantly.
Karma, he repeats, Karma Dean? The model? The muse? Come on! You mustve heard of Karma Dean!
Hmmn?
Jen just gazes back at him, blankly.
Her mother is perched on the edge of the bed, her slight but curvaceous frame encased in a delicate, apricot-coloured silk nightdress. She is staring at Valentine, expectantly. Valentine is standing close by, looking puzzled. She is holding a small, black vibrator in her hand.
Im really sorry, Mum, she eventually murmurs, but the batterys completely dead.
Her mothers mouth starts to quiver. Her eyes fill with tears.
Im really, really sorry, Mum, Valentine repeats.
Cant we just take one from the video? her mother wheedles. Weve done that before, remember? Just take one from the remote control!
I dont think that would work. Valentine speaks softly and in measured tones. Its a different size battery.
No! No its not! Her mother stamps her foot. Youre lying! Youre just fobbing me off again, same as always!
Im not lying, Mum. In fact Im pretty certain
Stop calling me that! her mother snaps.
Sorry?
Im not your mum. How many times do I have to tell you? Im a person! I have a name! My name is Frédérique!
Like I was saying, Valentine persists, ignoring this last interjection, Im pretty certain that the ones in the remote are several sizes smaller
Her mother hurls herself on to her back. JESUS CHRIST! she hollers. IS THIS WHAT IM TO BE REDUCED TO?