Shhh!
Valentine glances over towards the door. Her mother clenches both hands into fists and boffs them, repeatedly, against the counterpane.
Id go to the shops, Mum, Valentine struggles to mollify her, but Nessas in bed and
THEN ASK A FUCKING NEIGHBOUR! her mother bellows.
Valentine closes her eyes and draws a deep breath. Why dont we try some of those breathing exercises you learned at the day centre the other day? she suggests, her voice artificially bright. Or I can fetch you your crochet
Hostile silence.
I cant ask a neighbour, Mum. Its way after twelve She pauses, grimacing. And anyway, the doctor
Ah-ha!
Her mother sits bolt upright again. She has a victorious look on her face.
Maintenant nous arrivons au coeur de la question!
He just thinks its advisable for you to try and lay off
Number one her mother lifts a single, accusing digit youre too damn scared to go out on your own, Nessa or no Nessa. Number blue she lifts a second finger youve swapped the live batteries with dead ones on the doctors instructions simply to spite me and stop me from having a bit of fun. Number tree she lifts a third finger Im a gorgeous, healthy
because this thing is much too hard, Valentine interrupts her, and youre rubbing yourself raw with it.
Her mother lifts her nightie, opens her legs and shows Valentine her vagina.
Cest belle! And you should know! Youve seen enough of the damn things over the years!
Mum
Cest belle! And you should know! Youve seen enough of the damn things over the years!
Mum
Valentine is upset.
What?
Her mother is unrepentant.
Will you just ?
What?
Thats not really
WHAT?!
Thats just not really acceptable, Mum.
Her mother drops the nightie. But its acceptable to interfere with my toy and then stand there, bold as brass, and lie to my face about it?
I didnt Valentine begins.
God! Her mother collapses back on to her bed again. You bore me! This is so boring! Im so fucking bored!
Valentine turns to leave.
Menteuse! her mother mewls. Imbecile! Prude!
But of course Ive heard of Karma Dean! Jen scoffs. Are you crazy?! I mean who hasnt heard of Karma Dean? Shes huge!
Well we were an item for about eighteen months. Ransom shrugs, nonchalant. She was still married at the time to some pig-ugly old French actor I forget his name. The tabloids had a fuckin field-day. It was totally insane.
Ransom takes a long swig of his beer. He seems understandably smug at the sheer magnitude of this revelation.
Silence.
But Karma Deans really famous, Jen eventually murmurs.
Yeah. I know. Ransom scowls.
Im serious!
Jen pulls her serious face.
Yes, I know. Ransom struggles to hide his irritation.
But I dont think you do, Jen enunciates slowly and clearly (as if describing something new-fangled to a deaf octogenarian), Karma Deans really, really
FAMOUS! YES! I KNOW! Ransom barks.
Here. Gene chucks Jen her cleaning cloth. She catches it. He points at the machine, and then (when she shows no inclination to get on with the job) he gently but firmly angles her towards it. Jen finally gives in to him (with a cheeky, half-smile) and commences cleaning again.
I remember how you always used to wear it in those two, scruffy plaits Gene gamely returns to their former subject. Hiawatha-style.
Huh?
Ransoms still gazing over at Jen, scowling.
Your hair?
My ? Oh, yeah Ransom finally catches up. I was the original golf punk. Man. Dyou remember all the fuckin stick I got for that?
Absolutely. Gene nods.
An Ian Poulter suddenly thinks hes the latest wrinkle just cos hes got himself a couple of measly highlights! Ransom snorts.
The latest wrinkle?! Jen sniggers.
I still miss the old goatee, though. Ransom fondly strokes his chin (doing his utmost to ignore her).
It was pretty demonic, Gene agrees. I believe you grew that around about the time the tabloids first coined
The Devils Ransom. Yeah Ransom grimaces. But I loved that goatee. Shaved it off for charity just before my big comeback in 2004 my new managers idea. That twatty comedian did it, live, during Children in Need. Ransom scowls. The bald one with the fat collars and all the
Dyou remember that brilliant campaign she did for Burberry? Jen turns from the coffee machine.
Huh? Ransom looks blank.
Karma. Karma Dean. That amazing ?
Urgh. Dont tell me He rolls his eyes, bored. Nude, on a beach, with the teacup chihuahua slung over her shoulder inside a Burberry rucksack? I was there when they took that shot. The dead of winter in San Tropez. She got a mild case of hypothermia lost all sensation in her feet. Believe it or not, journos still pester me about it now, a whole seven years later
What a drag, Jen smirks, tipping a pile of damp coffee grounds into a brown, paper bag.
Yeah, Ransom sighs, glancing down at his phone (seemingly oblivious to the irony in Jens tone). Its dog eat dog out there, kid.
Werent you banned from the Spanish Open or something? Gene quickly interjects.
Huh?
Ransom looks up, confused.
The Spanish Open. Werent you banned from that at one stage?
Bingo! Ransom snaps his fingers. The German Open. They tried to ban me! It was all over the papers. Because of the plaits. They couldnt accept the plaits. Everybody remembers the friggin plaits! Cmon! Who doesnt remember the plaits?! The plaits are legendary
As Ransom holds forth, Jen passes Gene the bag of grounds to dispose of. Gene takes the bag and then curses as it drips cold coffee on to his loafers.
Although the point Im actually trying to make here Ransom ignores Genes muted oaths is that I was a professional surfer a successful surfer on the international circuit for two, solid years before I was wiped out in South Africa, so Im in the perfect position to know, first-hand, how unbelievably selfish surfing is
Are they real suede? Jen crouches down and dabs at Genes shoes with a used napkin.
Yeah, Gene mutters. My wife got me them for Christmas.
Oops.
Jen grimaces, apologetically.
way more selfish than golf, Ransom stubbornly persists, infinitely more selfish.
Well, I cant pretend to be much of an expert on the matter, Jen avers, screwing the damp napkin into a ball and rising to her feet again, but I generally find the most efficient way to delineate between a so-called normal sport and a selfish one she paints four, ironic speech marks into the air with her fingers is by employing the handy axiom of sex versus masturbation she flings the ball, carelessly, towards the bin and then sorting them into categories under similar lines.
On axiom Genes jaw slackens. On sex his eyes bulge. On masturbation his grip involuntarily loosens and he almost drops the grounds. Stuart Ransom is struck dumb for a second and then, MASTURBATION IS SEX! he explodes.
Exactly, Jen confirms, with a broad grin (like a seasoned fisherman reeling in a prize-winning carp), but selfish sex.
Mum?
Valentine tentatively pushes open the bedroom door and peers inside. The room is dark. Her mother appears to be asleep in bed with the coverlet pulled over her head.
Mum? Valentine repeats.
Her mother begins to stir.
Mum?
Huh? Her mother slowly pushes back the coverlet and yawns.
Valentine slowly moves her hand towards the light.
NOT THE LIGHT! her mother yells.
Shhh! Valentine frantically tries to quieten her. Nessas asleep next door, remember?
Her mother sits up.
Her mother sits up.
What is it? she demands.
Did you take the remote by any chance? Valentine enquires.
The what?!
The remote. The video remote. Its gone missing.
You think I took the remote? Her mother looks astonished.
Pause.
Yes.
You woke me up when I was fast asleep to find out if I took the remote?!
Yes.
Vraiment?!
Pardon?
Seriously?
Yes.
Longer pause.
Oh. Fine. Her mother crosses her arms, defiant. Well I didnt.
I see
Valentine nervously pushes her fringe from her eyes. Then I guess you wouldnt mind if I just ?
She slowly inches her way into the room.
Good Christ! her mother exclaims, drawing the coverlet up to her chin like an imperilled starlet in an exploitation movie. What is this?! Who the hell are you?! The fucking remote Gestapo?!
I hardly think its fair to compare Gene slowly starts off, shaking his head, evidently bewildered.
But what about match-play? Ransom interrupts him. What about the Ryder Cup? Thats team golf, right there!
Pause.
Good point, Jen concedes, then returns her full attention back to the coffee machine.
Ransom is initially gratified, then oddly deflated, by Jens sudden volte face.
I was selected for Sam Torrances team in 2002, he blusters, and we fuckin stormed it. Pretty much left the Yanks for dead that year
That mustve been an incredible feeling Gene tries his best to buoy him up.
It was, Ransom confirms.
To be perfectly honest with you Jen peers over her shoulder I dont even know what the Ryder Cup is
She pauses for a moment, thoughtfully. Although when Andy Murray exaggerated the severity of his piddling knee injury to pike out of playing in the Davis Cup the other year Urgh!
She shakes her head, appalled.
Ransom gazes at Gene, befuddled. Is she always like this? he demands, hoarsely.
We had Jon Snow in here the other week, Gene confirms, and Jen spent the whole night labouring under the misapprehension that he was her old science teacher from Middle School
Mr Spencer, Jen interjects, helpfully, from Mill Vale.
which was pretty embarrassing in itself, Gene continues, but then she swans off to the kitchens
I just kept asking if hed kept in contact with Miss Bartholomew my Year Seven form teacher, Jen butts in, and he was totally polite about it, bless him. He kept saying, Im not really sure that I have. Which I thought at the time was kinda weird I mean you either keep up with someone or you dont.
So she heads over to the kitchens, Gene repeats, and one of the waitresses mentions having served Mr Snow for dinner. Jen puts two and two together, makes five, and then sprints back to the bar to apologize: I thought you were my old science teacher, she says, I had no idea you were a famous weatherman.
SHIIIT! Ransom covers his face with his hands.
That was Lennys fault! Jen shrieks. It was Len who said
Lennys still struggling to come to terms with the trauma of decimalization, Gene snorts. Is he really the best person to be taking direction from on these matters?
Jon Snows a fuckin newsreader, you dick! Ransom gloats. Everybody knows that.