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‘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?’
Ransom’s still gazing over at Jen, scowling.
‘Your hair?’
‘My …? Oh, yeah …’ Ransom finally catches up. ‘I was the original golf punk. Man. D’you remember all the fuckin’ stick I got for that?’
‘Absolutely.’ Gene nods.
‘An’ Ian Poulter suddenly thinks he’s the latest wrinkle just ’cos he’s 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 Devil’s Ransom.” Yeah …’ Ransom grimaces. ‘But I loved that goatee. Shaved it off for charity just before my big comeback in 2004 – my new manager’s idea. That twatty comedian did it, live, during Children in Need.’ Ransom scowls. ‘The bald one with the fat collars and all the –’
‘D’you remember that brilliant campaign she did for Burberry?’ Jen turns from the coffee machine.
‘Huh?’ Ransom looks blank.
‘Karma. Karma Dean. That amazing …?’
‘Urgh. Don’t 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 Jen’s tone). ‘It’s dog eat dog out there, kid.’
‘Weren’t you banned from the Spanish Open or something?’ Gene quickly interjects.
‘Huh?’
Ransom looks up, confused.
‘The Spanish Open. Weren’t 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 couldn’t accept the plaits. Everybody remembers the friggin’ plaits! C’mon! Who doesn’t 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 I’m actually trying to make here’ – Ransom ignores Gene’s 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 I’m in the perfect position to know, first-hand, how unbelievably selfish surfing is …’
‘Are they real suede?’ Jen crouches down and dabs at Gene’s 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 can’t 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’ Gene’s 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. ‘Nessa’s asleep next door, remember?’
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. It’s 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 didn’t.’
‘I see …’
Valentine nervously pushes her fringe from her eyes. ‘Then I guess you wouldn’t 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 it’s 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? That’s 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 Jen’s sudden volte face.
‘I was selected for Sam Torrance’s team in 2002,’ he blusters, ‘and we fuckin’ stormed it. Pretty much left the Yanks for dead that year …’
‘That must’ve 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 don’t 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 he’d 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, “I’m 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 don’t.’
‘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 Lenny’s fault!’ Jen shrieks. ‘It was Len who said –’
‘Lenny’s 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 Snow’s a fuckin’ newsreader, you dick!’ Ransom gloats. ‘Everybody knows that.’
‘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 you’re amazing, Carol. I’m addicted to Countdown. I’ve 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 Gene’s 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,’ she’s muttering, ‘that it jolts you – but if we could just …’
She slowly reaches towards the light on the bedside table.
‘A CAT’S COME IN!’ her mother screeches. ‘YOU’VE 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.
