The Yips

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 shouldn’t swallow it,’ Valentine mutters. She’s just flushed the cat mess down the toilet and is now washing her hands, fastidiously, under the hot tap.

‘I’ve 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.

‘You’re not meant to swallow it,’ Valentine persists, ‘you’re meant to spit it out.’

‘Really? Il dit ça sur le tube?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Does it say that on the tube?’

Valentine shrugs. ‘I don’t 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 shouldn’t swallow?’

Her mother peers at the tube over Valentine’s shoulder.

‘No.’ Valentine frowns. ‘But that doesn’t 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 you’ve 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 you’ve 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 Valentine’s 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. That’s 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. That’s double, too.’

‘And twice times –’

‘You generally say two times,’ Valentine interrupts, ‘and it’s always double. Two of anything is always double. That’s 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.’

‘We’ve talked about this before.’ Valentine gently takes the toothbrush from her. ‘You just think they aren’t clean, but they are. Remember how the dentist …?’

‘You’re 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 n’ai pas t’élevée 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! It’s 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 don’t believe you! This shade of pink? Taramasalata pink? Vomit pink? It’s vile! Disgusting!’

‘You’re finding an awful lot to be disgusted about tonight,’ Valentine observes, dryly.

Her mother considers this notion for a moment, and then, ‘Because there’s a lot to be disgusted by, I suppose,’ she sighs.

‘You know it’s 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 Ransom’s bar-snacks, ‘that golf doesn’t 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 it’s a completely different order of game to proper tennis.’

‘Well there’s 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 isn’t stupid,’ he protests. ‘What’s so bloody stupid about it?’

He turns to Gene. ‘Do you think it’s 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 snooker’s a table sport, so it can’t be entirely about the furniture, can it?’

Gene opens his mouth to respond and then closes it again, stumped.

‘I don’t 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 Jen’s 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 I’ve always liked the javelin,’ Jen presses on. ‘In fact I love the javelin. There’s something really … really basic and primeval about the javelin.’

To illustrate her point, Jen lobs an imaginary javelin towards Eugene’s head.

‘Okay. So the theory’s 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 …’

‘Didn’t 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 must’ve 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.

‘I’m really sorry, Mum,’ she eventually murmurs, ‘but the battery’s completely dead.’

Her mother’s mouth starts to quiver. Her eyes fill with tears.

‘I’m really, really sorry, Mum,’ Valentine repeats.

‘Can’t we just take one from the video?’ her mother wheedles. ‘We’ve done that before, remember? Just take one from the remote control!’

‘I don’t think that would work.’ Valentine speaks softly and in measured tones. ‘It’s a different size battery.’

‘No! No it’s not!’ Her mother stamps her foot. ‘You’re lying! You’re just fobbing me off again, same as always!’

‘I’m not lying, Mum. In fact I’m pretty certain –’

‘Stop calling me that!’ her mother snaps.

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m not your “mum”. How many times do I have to tell you? I’m a person! I have a name! My name is Frédérique!’

‘Like I was saying,’ Valentine persists, ignoring this last interjection, ‘I’m 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 I’M TO BE REDUCED TO?’

‘Shhh!’

Valentine glances over towards the door. Her mother clenches both hands into fists and boffs them, repeatedly, against the counterpane.

‘I’d go to the shops, Mum,’ Valentine struggles to mollify her, ‘but Nessa’s in bed and –’

‘THEN ASK A FUCKING NEIGHBOUR!’ her mother bellows.

Valentine closes her eyes and draws a deep breath. ‘Why don’t 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 can’t ask a neighbour, Mum. It’s 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 it’s advisable for you to try and lay off …’

‘Number one’ – her mother lifts a single, accusing digit – ‘you’re too damn scared to go out on your own, Nessa or no Nessa. Number blue’ – she lifts a second finger – ‘you’ve swapped the live batteries with dead ones – on the doctor’s instructions – simply to spite me and stop me from having a bit of fun. Number tree’ – she lifts a third finger – ‘I’m a gorgeous, healthy –’

‘… because this thing is much too hard,’ Valentine interrupts her, ‘and you’re rubbing yourself raw with it.’

Her mother lifts her nightie, opens her legs and shows Valentine her vagina.

‘C’est belle! And you should know! You’ve seen enough of the damn things over the years!’

‘Mum …’

Valentine is upset.

‘What?’

Her mother is unrepentant.

‘Will you just …?’

‘What?’

‘That’s not really …’

‘WHAT?!’

‘That’s just not really acceptable, Mum.’

Her mother drops the nightie. ‘But it’s acceptable to interfere with my toy and then stand there, bold as brass, and lie to my face about it?’

‘I didn’t …’ Valentine begins.

‘God!’ Her mother collapses back on to her bed again. ‘You bore me! This is so boring! I’m so fucking bored !’

Valentine turns to leave.

‘Menteuse!’ her mother mewls. ‘Imbecile! Prude!’

‘But of course I’ve heard of Karma Dean!’ Jen scoffs. ‘Are you crazy?! I mean who hasn’t heard of Karma Dean? She’s 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 Dean’s really famous,’ Jen eventually murmurs.

‘Yeah. I know.’ Ransom scowls.

‘I’m serious!’

Jen pulls her ‘serious’ face.

‘Yes, I know.’ Ransom struggles to hide his irritation.

‘But I don’t think you do,’ Jen enunciates slowly and clearly (as if describing something new-fangled to a deaf octogenarian), ‘Karma Dean’s 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?’

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.

‘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 daughter’s 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 mother’s knee crashes into her cheek (although this sharp expostulation is pretty much obliterated by: