I never watch the news Jen shrugs, unabashed although when Carol Smillie came in just before Christmas, she sighs, dreamily, I was totally star-struck
If I remember correctly, Gene takes up the story, you served her with a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio and then said, I think youre amazing, Carol. Im addicted to Countdown. Ive never missed a single show.
And?! Jen demands, haughtily.
Carol Vorderman presented Countdown, you friggin dildo! Ransom crows.
Oh. Jen scowls as Ransom exchanges a celebratory high-five with her benighted co-worker before he turns on his heel (with an apologetic shrug) and departs for the kitchens. Ransom brimming with a sudden, almost overwhelming exuberance taps out a gleeful tattoo with his index fingers on to the bar top.
She was a real class act, Jen mutters, distractedly (her eyes still fixed on the retreating Gene), beautiful skin, immaculate teeth, and perfectly happy to sign an autograph for my dad
As soon as Genes safely out of earshot, however, she abruptly interrupts her eulogy, places both hands flat on to the bar top, leans forward, conspiratorially, and whispers, I know exactly who you are, by the way.
* * *
Valentine is crawling around the room on her hands and knees, feeling along the carpet in the semi-darkness.
I know the sudden change from dark to light upsets you, shes muttering, that it jolts you but if we could just
She slowly reaches towards the light on the bedside table.
A CATS COME IN! her mother screeches. YOUVE GONE AND LET ONE OF THOSE FILTHY CATS IN!
She leaps from her bed. OUT, YOU DIRTY, LITTLE SWINE! OUT! OUT! OUT!
As her mother chases the cat from the room, Valentine takes the opportunity to dive under the coverlet and sweep her arm across the bed-sheet.
LA VICTOIRE! her mother yells, ejecting the offending feline with a swift prod of her foot, and then before Valentine can throw off the coverlet, draw breath, and commence a heartfelt plea to persuade her to do otherwise: GOOD RIDDANCE! she bellows, smashing the door shut, triumphantly, behind it.
The door reverberates so violently inside its wooden frame that a small ornament (a cheap, plastic model of St Jude) falls off the windowsill on the opposite wall, and a young child starts wailing in a neighbouring room.
Jesus, Mum ! Valentine hoarsely chastises her, starting to withdraw her head from under the coverlet, but before she can manage it, her mother possibly alerted to her daughters clandestine activities by the sound of the falling saint has turned and propelled herself NOOOOOOOOO! (a howling, rotating, silken-apricot swastika), back on to the bed again.
Valentine gasps as her mothers knee crashes into her cheek (although this sharp expostulation is pretty much obliterated by:
a) the cotton coverlet
b) the extraordinary racket her mother is making
c) the traumatized squeal of the bedsprings).
She eventually manages to extract herself and collapses, backwards, on to the carpet.
She eventually manages to extract herself and collapses, backwards, on to the carpet.
Ow! she groans, feeling blindly for her nose. I think you mightve Woah!
Her normal vision is briefly punctuated by a smattering of flashing, day-glo asterisks.
NO BLOOD ON MY NEW CARPET! her mother bellows.
Eh?!
Valentine feels a sudden, inexplicable surfeit of warm liquid on her upper lip. She throws back her head, pinches the bridge of her nose and gesticulates, wildly, towards a nearby box of tissues. Her mother (unusually obliging) grabs a clumsy handful and shoves them, wordlessly, into her outstretched palm.
Didnt you see me? Valentine demands, applying all the tissues to her face, en masse.
See you? her mother clucks. Where?
Where?! Valentine honks at the ceiling, through a mouthful of paper. Under the coverlet! In the bed!
Shocked pause.
You were in the bed?
Her mother affects surprise.
Of course I was in the bed! Valentine squawks (through her mask of tissue). You just jumped on me! You just landed on me! You just kicked me square in the face!
Did I?
Her mother seems astonished by this news.
Yes!
Valentine straightens her head and stares at her, indignant.
Yes! she repeats, removing the tissues. You did!
Oh.
Pause.
Well what the hell did you expect? her mother rapidly changes tack. You were crawling around under there like some huge maggot! I panicked! I was terrified!
But thats hardly Valentine starts off.
I mean you wake me up in the middle of the night, her mother interrupts her, counting off Valentines offences on to her fingers, yell at me, accuse me of stealing the stupid remote
I never yelled at you! Valentines deeply offended. I would never
Then you lure one of your stinking cats into the room. Her mother points to the door, dramatically.
I didnt lure the cat anywhere! Valentine is gently feeling her nose for any evidence of a bump. The cat simply
She shakes her head, frustrated. The point is
You know I dont like those cats in my room! her mother hollers, almost hysterical. You know how much I loathe them! Petits cons! Les chats sont venus du diable pour me tourmenter! Tu es venue du diable pour me tourmenter! Vraiment!
Valentine reapplies the tissues to her face again. After a few seconds she removes them and subjects them to a close inspection. The sudden flow of blood appears to have abated. She wiggles her nose and then sniffs, experimentally.
Im very sorry about the cat, she finally volunteers, glancing up, it just followed me in here out of habit, I suppose.
You know how much I hate them! her mother hisses.
Of course, Valentine acknowledges, its just She hesitates, plainly conflicted. Dyou remember that conversation we had the other day about all the various adjustments weve been making ever since She pauses, delicately. Her mother simply grimaces.
Well, one of the adjustments I obviously need to make, Valentine doggedly continues, is to understand that your feelings have changed about the cats, that youre not
I HATE THOSE BLESSED CATS! her mother yells.
I hear you.
Valentine dabs at her nose again. Although there was a time, she murmurs, smiling nostalgically, when you used to actively encourage them into this room. You used to love having them in bed. You used to lie there with them draped all over you. In fact you and Dad were constantly at loggerheads about it
I dont care! her mother growls. That was her. Cest hors de propos à ce moment!
Yes, Valentine sighs, standing up. She glances around the room and spots the fallen saint lying in a muddy patch of moonlight on the carpet. She grabs it and returns it to its original place on the windowsill, then cautiously picks her way around the foot of the bed, preparing to make her exit.
On her way out, she bumps into a wastepaper basket and almost upends it. She tuts, catches it before it tips, sets it straight, then impulsively pushes an exploratory hand inside it. Her idly swirling fingers soon make contact with something small, rectangular and plastic.
She calmly retrieves this mysterious object and holds it aloft, balefully, like a down-at-heel court official tiredly displaying an especially incriminating piece of criminal evidence to judge and jury.
Huh?
Ransoms virile tattoo slows down to a gentle pitter-pat.
I know who you are, Jen repeats (struggling to repress a grin), Im just pretending that I dont to wind Eugene up.
Eugene?
Ransoms tattoo stops.
Eugene. Gene. The barman. I love taking the mick out of him when someone famous comes in. Its just this sick little game we like to play She pauses, thoughtfully. Or this sick, little game I like to play she chuckles, naughtily kind of at Genes expense.
Ransom stares at Jen, blankly, and then the penny suddenly drops. Oh wow he murmurs, instinctively withdrawing his fingers into his fists. Oh shit.
I mean dont get me wrong, Jen chunters on, oblivious, I love Eugene to bits, but hes just so infuriatingly laid back she rolls her eyes, riled and gentle and polite and decent, that I can never quite resist
She glances over at the golfer as she speaks, registers his stricken expression and then pulls herself up short. Oh heck, she mutters, shocked. Didnt you realize? But I made it so obvious! I mean all the stuff about about tennis and leeches and and Norfolk. God. I thought I was telegraphing it from the rooftops!
Long pause.
Oh, yeah. Yeah. Ransom flaps his hand at her, airily (although both cheeks by sharp contrast are now flushing a deep crimson). Of course I realized! Dont be ridiculous!
Really?
Jen isnt convinced.
Of course I fuckin realized! Ransom snaps, almost belligerent.
Jen grabs his empty beer bottle, tosses it into a crate behind the counter and then fetches him a replacement (flipping off the lid by hitting it, flamboyantly, against the edge of the bar top).
Jesus! Ransom is leaning back on his stool, meanwhile, a light patina of moisture forming on his upper lip. Jesus! he repeats, glancing anxiously over his shoulder, towards the kitchens.
Here.
Jen hands him the fresh beer.
Cheers. The golfer snatches it from her and affixes it, hungrily, to his lips. Jen watches him, speculatively, as he drinks.
FUUUCK! he gasps, finally slamming down the empty bottle, with an exaggerated flourish. What a gull, eh?
Pardon?
What a sucker!
Jen looks baffled.
A gull a stooge a patsy! Ransom expands.
Jen still looks baffled.
Eugene. Gene. Your barman. What a gull! What a royal fuckin doofus!
Ransom wipes his mouth with the palm of his hand and then burps, majestically. That poor fucker was totally duped back there!
You reckon? Jens understandably sceptical.
Yeah. Yeah. Absolutely Ransom chuckles, vindictively. He didnt have the first friggin clue.
I dunno. Jens still not buying it. Genes a whole lot smarter than you think. Could just be one of those double-bluff scenarios
But Ransoms not listening. His eyes de-focus for a second, and then, My God! he erupts. What a performance! You were completely friggin nuts back there! You were truly demented!
Jen merely smiles.
And the stuff about selfish sports was a fuckin master stroke! Ransom continues. It was brilliant! Insane! How the helld you just spontaneously come up with all that shit?
Im a genius. Jen shrugs.