‘Ten.’ Esther inspects her clipboard.
‘Will anyone be doing make-up?’
‘Some girl from the spa. I roped in Toby to lend a hand. You got him number, an’ ya got mine for an emergency.’
‘So how long are you planning to go AWOL?’ Ransom glares at her, balefully.
‘Twenty-four hour, max.’
‘Oh.’ Ransom is secretly awed by Esther’s bewildering work ethic (and this inevitably contrives to irritate him still further). ‘Well what about your mother?’ he demands. ‘Have you rung the mardy old bitch yet?’
Esther suddenly leans forward, clutching on to her stomach, gasping. It’s another contraction. She checks her watch. Ten minutes. Ransom surveys her violent discomfiture with the haughty, dispassionate gaze of a beach-dwelling iguana watching a suffocating sprat gyrating wildly in the final, liquid millimetres of a rapidly evaporating rock-pool.
‘That quick bunk-up with old Jimbo’s not looking like such a great idea now, eh?’ he quips.
The contraction lasts a full two minutes. Once it’s passed, Esther slowly straightens up again.
‘Me mother not comin’ …’ She’s still slightly out of breath. ‘Her brother contract pneumonia. She nursin’ him at home. Joah an’ Ephie are stuck wid her neighbour …’
‘Hang on …’ Ransom’s confused. ‘So who the hell’s gonna haul the bub back to Jamaica?’
‘Uh …’
Esther carefully considers the likely impact of her answer. Eventually she murmurs, ‘I manage to persuade Vicki.’
She’s virtually inaudible.
Ransom stares at her, blankly.
‘Her lover doin’ some research at the British …’
On ‘British’, Ransom throws down the pillow, leaps to his feet, runs to the bathroom, slams the door and shoots the bolt.
‘Come on, Stu!’ Esther groans. ‘Me cab here any minute now …’
‘If she’s within a two friggin’ mile radius of this room, Esther, I swear to God …’
Ransom gurgles, hysterical.
‘She not coming here,’ Esther insists. ‘She stayin’ in town.’
‘Does she know where we are, though?’ Ransom refuses to be pacified. ‘Does she have the address?’
‘She not give a toss, Stu. Trust me …’
Esther crosses her fingers behind her back. ‘… you name never even come up.’
Nano-second pause.
‘What?!’
Incredulous.
‘Not at all ?’
Ransom unshoots the bolt, opens the door by an inch and peeks through the gap. ‘You seriously expect me to believe that?’
‘Believe what you want …’ Esther shrugs, standing her ground. ‘It a fact.’
‘I thought you weren’t on speaking terms,’ he snivels.
‘We not.’
‘Oh.’
Ransom considers this for a while.
‘She come wid her lover,’ Esther repeats. ‘He’s doin’ research at the British Library. They visitin’ all the museum an’ such wid her boy …’
On ‘boy’, Esther starts, then quickly turns her face away.
‘Vicki’s dating men again?’ Ransom’s astonished. ‘I thought she’d sworn off dick for good …’
Nano-pause.
‘Vicki has a kid ?!’
Ransom opens the door still further and pokes out his head. He’s now dressed in a bathrobe.
‘Yeah …’ Esther nods, determinedly off-hand. ‘Some college professor. Some hot-shot from America. They meet up at a conference. The boy from his first marriage.’
‘What’s his name?’ Ransom enquires.
‘Dr Hilary somethin’ …’ She shrugs. ‘Dr Hilary Wild. Dr Hilary Mane. Dr Hilary Horse …’
She shrugs again.
‘Is he wedged?’ Ransom demands.
‘Sorry?’
‘Is he pelfed?’
Ransom rubs his thumb and his forefinger together.
‘A college professor?!’ Esther chuckles. ‘You serious?’
She quickly checks her watch again. ‘Now before me run off …’
‘Man. I can’t believe you’ve just sprung it on me like this!’
Ransom comes out of the bathroom and throws himself down on to the bed again. ‘My nerves are completely fuckin’ shot …’
He holds both hands out in front of him. They’re shaking uncontrollably.
‘First it’s the friggin’ Tucker kid,’ he mutters, appalled, ‘next it’s the West Indies’ answer to Lorena friggin’ Bobbitt!’
He shakes his head, uncomprehending. ‘Michael bloody Moore with a tan an’ a fanny …’
Ransom’s hand disappears inside his robe for a second.
‘I swear to God,’ he gasps, ‘my balls have disappeared inside my body cavity!’
‘You gotta listen, now, Stu.’ Esther’s gazing down at her clipboard. ‘Nimrod tell me there gonna be a big piece runnin’ in the Daily Sport tomorrow …’
‘Right here in Luton of all places!’ Ransom jabbers on, regardless. ‘What the heck did Luton ever do to deserve this?’
‘… some crazy bullcrap sayin’ ya had a bust-up on the club outdoor chessboard with this week tournament event sponsor …’
‘Sorry?’
Ransom withdraws his hand and looks up, sharply.
‘Full mark for imagination!’ she concedes, smiling to herself, wryly.
‘An article in the Sport?’ he echoes.
‘Don’t worry,’ Esther promptly reassures him. ‘You was practisin’ on the range when it all happen …’
‘Ah.’
Ransom gently cups the back of his head with his hand in a classic gesture of self-comfort.
‘I already phone the lawyer …’ Esther continues.
‘The outdoor chessboard …’ Ransom softly reiterates (as if struggling to call this architectural landmark to mind). ‘There was a bit of playful rough-housin’ with some fans at one point – on my way over to the range this’d be … A young fan …’ He frowns. ‘I guess you could say it was in the general vicinity of the chessboard …’
‘No mention of a kid.’ Esther reappraises her notes. ‘They sayin’ you assault the event sponsor after he thrash you in a game …’ She turns over the page. ‘Mr Chris Padgett, MD for Knott/Beevers Holdings plc,’ she reads.
‘Thrashed me?! Are you havin’ a laugh or what?!’ Ransom’s outraged. ‘That’s friggin’ libellous! I wasn’t even playing! I was just having a quick …’
‘Of course ya not playin’!’ Esther snorts. ‘How ya gonna play chess? Game of Kings! Domino more your style – quick hand of rummy …’
‘I resent that!’ Ransom’s riled.
Esther shrugs, indifferent.
‘I resent that!’ Ransom repeats – for want of anything more fruitful to contribute (aside from pure – and patently groundless – indignation).
‘Then a couple hour later,’ Esther continues, returning to her former subject, ‘followin’ “a long, liquid lunch”,’ she reads, diligently, ‘you was spotted in the club bar …’ – she clears her throat – ‘“offerin’ a grovelin’ apology to Mr Padgett after he threaten to press assault charges an’ pull you from the tournament.”’
She gazes up at him, one brow slightly raised.
‘Complete bloody hokum!’ Ransom squeaks. He crosses his legs, then uncrosses them again. ‘Is there a photo by any chance?’
‘Photo?!’ Esther demands, her eyes slitting. ‘Photo of what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ransom’s jumpy. ‘An artist’s impression – something hashed-up on a computer …’
‘A cartoon, maybe …’ Esther gamely hypothesizes. ‘Alice in Wonderland theme …’ She rubs her chin, thoughtfully. ‘Stuart Ransom playin’ Alice, wid his long, blond hair an’ his frilly, blue-checker dress. Mr Padgett playin’ a fat Cheshire Cat, guardin’ him a nice sack of cash … Big, banner headline: “No Cheque, Mate!” an’ a small puff underneath sayin’ …’ She holds up her
clipboard and reads directly from it: ‘“Yet more humiliation for troubled ex-golden boy of British golf …”’
It takes a few seconds before Ransom gets wise to the fact that this neatly posited scenario isn’t just a baroque flight of fancy on Esther’s part.
‘Call that panty-waist Del Renzio!’ he yells, springing to his feet, incensed. ‘We gotta tear the little bitch a new arsehole!’
‘Call him?’ she snaps, withering. ‘Why me do that when he already phone this afternoon an’ tell me all about it?’
Pause.
‘Huh?!’ Esther juts out her chin, combatively.
‘The slimy, little grass!’ Ransom mutters, somewhat cowed.
‘ME LEAVE YOU FOR HALF ONE HOUR, STU,’ Esther bellows, ‘AN’ NOW LOOK WHA’ HAPPEN!!’
‘YOU’RE HAVIN’ A BABY, ESTHER!’ Ransom bellows right back. ‘I DIDN’T WANNA STRESS YOU OUT!’
‘BULLSHIT!’ Esther yells.
Nano-pause.
‘What the hell ya thinkin’?!’ she groans, dismayed, hand pressing her brow. ‘The event sponsor, Stu! The event sponsor of all people!’
‘You reckon that vindictive, little dwarf Padgett leaked the story?’ Ransom wonders.
‘HOW YOU EXPECT ME TO KNOW?!’ Esther explodes again. ‘WHEN YA NEVER TELL ME NOTHIN’ WHAT’S GOIN’ ON?!’
‘Fuck off !’ Ransom squawks, his voice fluting, schoolboyishly.
‘YOU MAKE ME LOOK A DAMN FOOL, STU!’
Esther squares up to him, steaming, brandishing her clipboard.
‘THINK ABOUT THE BLOODY BABY!’
Ransom takes a quick step back, hits the bed, sits down and curls his top half into a defensive ball (using both arms to shield his head) while Esther repeatedly smacks his upper back with the clipboard, her hugely distended belly banging into his face from down below.
Although patently tempted, Ransom neglects to register any further comment at this stage.
Esther finally pauses for breath. ‘Me know you does foolish thing, Stu,’ she reasons (as much for her own benefit as the golfer’s). ‘It your nature to do foolish thing. You are a damn fool! And God knows, me well accustom’ to chargin’ about the place cleanin’ up all your ignorant mess. But the event sponsor, Stu? The sponsor?!’
‘I didn’t lay a finger on him, Est.’ Ransom lifts his head slightly, wincing.
Esther clouts him in the face with the clipboard and then drops it on to the bed, leaning over him, still breathing heavily, her hand resting on his shoulder for support.
‘Me suppose to be ya manager, Stu,’ she pants, ‘for God’s sake jus’ let a girl manage, will you?’
Ransom slowly lifts his hand to feel his nose for any evidence of permanent damage (the hand – as a matter of pure, scientific interest – is no longer shaking).
‘“A grovellin’ apology in the bar”?!’ he grumbles, while she shifts her weight from his shoulder and slowly straightens up (grimacing as she does so and massaging her hip). ‘I’d eat my own liver first. Wait till the next time I see the little twerp. I’m gonna screw his head off like it’s the lid on a kid’s-size bottle of friggin’ ketchup!’
‘Unbelievable!’ Esther steps back with a derisory snort.‘An’ ya wonder why Poulter warmin’ himself up for the British Open in Illinois – John Deere Classic; seven hundred grand up for the takin’ – an’ where Stuart Ransom? Huh? Right here! Luton! Stony broke! Wid his precious swing, an’ him stinkin’ feet an’ him belly putter!’
‘Lighten up, will you?’ Ransom’s indignant. ‘What happened to your infernal, bloody mantra of “all publicity’s good publicity”, eh?!’
He stares at her suspiciously. ‘Had a sudden change of heart, have we? Or maybe …’ – a sly look enters his eye – ‘maybe you’re just a teensy-weensy bit miffed because you didn’t get to painstakingly stage-manage every detail of this sordid, little scenario for yourself?’
‘Stage-manage?’ Esther’s almost lost for words. ‘You think me want this kind of coverage?’
‘Of course you do!’ Ransom snorts. ‘You moved my meeting with Noel Tucker to the Thistle for Christ’s sake!’
‘How many times I have to tell you?!’ (Now it’s Esther’s turn to be indignant.) ‘Noel aks me to move it there!’
She’s sweating, heavily, and as she speaks (Ransom coolly notes) two expansive, damp patches are bleeding outwards from under the armpits of her shirt.
‘Sorry, Est, but I’m not buyin’ it,’ he mutters, ‘and the fact that I’m not buyin’ it sets off a whole series of alarm bells in my head.’
‘Alarm bell?’ Esther echoes, dumbfounded.
‘Such as why I needed to stay in town that night,’ Ransom continues. ‘I mean why couldn’t I just turn up at the club a day early like we originally scheduled?’
‘We already discuss this, Stu.’ Esther’s exasperated. ‘The club had some last-minute fire licence issue.’
‘Okay. Then why didn’t you come and join me at the Leaside?’ he persists.
‘We not afford it, Stu.’ Esther’s growing increasingly frustrated. ‘Me stuck in a crummy B&B, other side of the ring-road, wid no transport.’
‘Nah’ – Ransom’s still not satisfied – ‘there are definitely some unresolved issues here …’ (He’s patently incapable of coming up with any, just off the cuff.) ‘… fundamental issues, Est, critical issues, connected to trust.’
He glares at her, balefully. ‘Bottom line is, I’m vulnerable right now. You know that – better than anybody. I need people around me I can depend on. People I can trust. People I can take at face value. I need reliable back-up, Est. I don’t wanna just feel exploited. I need to be cosseted – nurtured – cherished, even – to feel like I’m the captain of my troops again. I need a proper team – a real team – with an unshakeable faith. A unity of purpose. A coherent –’
‘Bullshit!’ Esther’s had enough. ‘An army only as good as its leader, Stu. Face it: your game gone to shit. Your life gone to shit. An’ I’s the only troop you got left standin’ right now. Jus’ own it, boy, then deal with it!’
A short silence.
‘My game’s a little unpredictable,’ Ransom finally concedes (struggling to remain calm in the face of this sudden onslaught), ‘I’m the first to admit that …’
‘Me gone.’ Esther suddenly grabs a hold of her distended belly and wheels towards the door (like she’s planning to use it to ram her way out of there; which – on a symbolic level, at least – isn’t too far from the truth).
‘Did you remember my Lamisil?’ he calls after her.
Esther’s fingers are clutching on to the door handle. ‘Bathroom cabinet …’ she grunts. ‘Oh yeah, an’ me got Del Renzio to call in a favour …’ She blinks a couple of times (sweat is dripping from her brows and down into her eyes). ‘… some local kid to carry your bag, gratis. He come at breakfast …’
‘But there’s no need …’ Ransom’s irritated.
‘How so?’ Esther glances over her shoulder, with a grimace.
‘Because I’ve already got someone lined up.’
‘This exactly the problem, Stu!’ Esther spins back around again, steaming. ‘Communication! Ya know?!’
‘I was just about to tell you …’ Ransom starts off.
‘You think me born yesterday?’ Esther scoffs. ‘I seen your man in the car park, dressed up like some gay rookie soldier-boy from Platoon.’
‘Totally wrong era,’ Ransom interjects.
‘Sorry?’
Esther doesn’t appreciate the interruption.
‘Wrong era. The cap and the jacket …’
‘ME DON’T CARE, STU!’ Esther yells.
Ransom gazes at her, hurt. ‘Wow!’ he eventually mutters. ‘You’re always the one bangin’ on about how the devil’s in the details …’
‘Well here a lickle detail for ya,’ Esther hisses. ‘Me tore him off a strip, then sent him packin’. He not comin’ back here any time soon.’
Ransom doesn’t immediately react.
He fiddles with the cord on his bathrobe for a moment, then looks up, coldly.
‘You do gotta go,’ he says.
Esther checks her watch, prepares to say something, then bends over, gasping. Ransom turns and glances at the bedside clock.
‘Seven minutes,’ he murmurs.
There’s a sharp rap at the door.
‘Cab’s here!’ Toby yells, trying the handle. ‘I’ve thrown your suitcase …’
He enters the room, espies Esther, and quickly leaps forward to offer support.
‘Is she okay?’
He looks to Ransom, shocked.
‘She’ll be fine.’ Ransom waves his hand, serenely. ‘She’s just hamming it up because I sacked her.’
Nano-pause.
‘You did …
‘You say …
WHAT?!’
Esther and Toby each enunciate their own, uniquely individual three short syllables in a perfectly timed – almost farcical – conjunction.
An attractive, well-presented middle-aged woman answers the door. Gene starts (somewhat taken aback), then formally introduces himself, apologizing, sincerely, for the lateness of the hour. She puts a finger to her lips and says (alternating between English and French, but with the former language spoken in a heavy, almost theatrical French accent), ‘Hush! Faites attention! The child sleeps! Welcome! I’m Frédérique,’ then cordially invites him in.
Everything about Frédérique seems perfectly normal, except for her dressing gown which she appears to be wearing the wrong way around (her arms pushed uncomfortably forward, her shoulders slightly hunched: like a surgeon bewilderingly disabled by his surgical scrubs).
She leads him through to the sitting room where she indicates towards the sofa and offers him refreshment. He politely declines. He repeats (for the third time) that he is eager to see Valentine. She nods but does nothing, just stands there, openly devouring him with her eyes, her entire face illuminated – transfigured, even – by a wide, slightly intimidating, sixty-watt smile.
To break the impasse, Gene changes his mind and asks for a glass of water. She nods again, then carefully bends down and starts laboriously removing something from beneath her nightdress. It is a nappy.
The Yips Page 26