‘There isn’t a gap,’ he mumbles, again, as the moon re-emerges from behind its cloud spitting out joyous cheekfuls of lemon curd. They stand still, barely breathing, drenched – almost submerged – in the sweet intoxication of its dripping yolk.
‘Someone must’ve sealed it up,’ she murmurs.
He lifts his hands from her hips and she pushes herself harder against the back of him.
‘If you let go of me, I’ll drown,’ she whispers.
‘If I don’t …’ he replies –
But the tongue in his mouth is no longer his instrument. It is heavy with longing; unwieldy; a damp, feather eiderdown of desire. It is too late, he tells himself (never more cynical and adept than in this instant): the trigger has been squeezed, the deathly mechanism has been enabled, the fatal course of a bullet has now been set. No amount of bleating or praying or willing or cajoling can halt it or stall it or call it back.
Chapter 6
Sheila has an extremely furtive air about her. She is dressed in her standard, drab black and dog collar, but her hair is down and unkempt, falling over her face – one large segment hastily pinned back with an oversized paper-clip. She is in Stanislav’s room, sitting at his small desk, hunched over his computer, completing an email.
Pressed under her elbow are three editions of a magazine (hailing from some time in the early nineties), poorly printed on low-quality paper, which she has recently dug out of a box in the garage. The magazine is called OnTheRag. The cover of the top copy features a photograph of a bulldog with a tampon dangling from between its lips wearing a Union Jack bikini stuffed with screwed-up pages from the Sun.
Another edition is opened to the contents page where there are four contributors’ mug shots, one of which is of Sheila herself as a student journalist, spitting out her tongue, fists clenched, combatively, at her chin (on the knuckles the words ‘riot’ and ‘grrl’ scribbled in Biro, a lit roll-up clutched between the ‘g’ and the first ‘r’). She wears heavy, black eye make-up and her brutally hennaed hair is carelessly sculpted into a jaunty mohican.
Elsewhere in the house, two phones are ringing.
After an extended period of frenzied typing Sheila re-reads her email, grimaces, re-reads it again, adds a couple of tiny alterations, then presses ‘send’. One of the phones stops ringing. She glances down at her contributor’s photo with a wan smile. The second phone stops ringing. She rises to her feet and goes to stand in the doorway.
‘Bugger off, school governors!’ she mutters, peeking around the doorframe like a naughty child, then checking her watch, guiltily, her shoulders slumping forward slightly.
The second phone starts up again. Its insistent beep appears to be emanating from the general direction of her bedroom. Sheila plods off to answer it, removing an elastic band from around her wrist (which the post had come tied up in that very morning) and arranging her hair into a scruffy ponytail.
Arriving at her dressing table (where the phone currently sits), she swipes an impatient hand over her new hairstyle, encounters the paper-clip, scowls, pulls it out and inspects it, bemused.
Her phone rings on as she drops the clip into a tiny, cracked ceramic bowl (containing a vial of anti-nail-biting solution, a pair of cheap stud earrings and an acorn) which perches to the rear of the table’s protective, glass top. She finally picks up the phone. It falls silent the instant she places it to her ear. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again, shrugs, throws down the phone and leans forward to look at herself in the mirror.
She seems neither depressed nor delighted by the weatherworn sight that greets her there, just rubs a tiny crust of sleep from the corner of her left eye and roughly shoves her fringe behind her ear. The natural curl in her hair refuses to be gainsaid, however, tossing the doughty lock (like a persistent drunk being repeatedly ejected from a nightclub) straight back out on to her cheek again.
Sheila tuts, yanks open a drawer, removes a pair of nail scissors, unties her hair, pulls the fringe over her eyes, grips it between her fingers and hacks off several inches. She stares at herself and then hacks off a further inch for good measure (carefully wrapping the cut hair inside a tissue which she pushes into her pocket to dispose of later). The remaining hair she ties back into a ponytail, then nods at her reflection, satisfied.
She returns to the desk in Stan’s room, perches on the edge of his chair and shuts down the Outlook Express, but hesitates before closing down the entire computer. Instead she opts to access her My Pictures file and goes to her five most recent downloads, one after the other.
‘Astonishing!’ she mutters, her face pressed up close to the screen, her fingers delicately guiding the mouse. ‘It’s all there – fully realized … just needs the odd, tiny … a little bit of … the minutest tweak …’
As she speaks she raises her free hand to her cheek to tuck her unruly fringe behind her ear, but there is no fringe. The fringe is reduced. Yet still, the hand tucks, then tucks again, then tucks for a third time before resting, finally, on her throat. Her throat seems unusually warm to the touch, the tips of her fingers incalculably more sensitive.
‘Just needs someone to step in and shift things around,’ she mumbles, gazing at the screen. ‘Set things into context. A fixer. A visionary. A mediator …’
The downstairs phone starts ringing again.
‘Christ was a mediator,’ she muses, hoarsely, finally looking up.
Somewhat haggard and bleary-eyed after a long and spectacularly unproductive night at the hospital, Toby Whittaker is trying (and failing) to referee an argument between two quarrelsome beauticians in the cramped passageway outside Ransom’s hotel room.
The first beautician (a short, dark-haired Cockney woman with the muscular physique of a serious masseur and an impeccably neat uniform) is haranguing the second beautician (a gangly, impossibly skinny blonde with improbably long lashes, three, thick stripes of white war-paint on each cheek, an eye-wateringly tight white catsuit, silver wedges and the kind of frilly, white apron you might sometimes find – under the label nurse/chambermaid – in an Ann Summers dress-up box).
‘I was booked in on Tuesday,’ insists the brunette. ‘Miss Wilson, his manager, came in and spoke to me herself as a matter of fact.’
‘Well I was booked in yesterday,’ the blonde effortlessly one-ups her, ‘at the very last minute, so I can only guess that she must’ve been harbouring some really serious misgivings about the tin-pot beauty concession you’re running in this joint.’
Joint?
The brunette beautician’s jaw drops.
‘You say you were booked in by Esther?’ Toby interjects, inspecting the itinerary (keen – at the very least – to prevent an all-out fist-fight).
‘Of course by Esther!’ the blonde snorts. ‘Who else?!’
‘But this is a special promotion for the Hotel’s Additional Leisure and Pampering Facilities,’ the first beautician’s smarting, ‘it makes no earthly sense to book someone from outside to do the make-up.’
‘What kind of nutty, half-baked organization books Stuart Ransom to promote their new venture in the first place?’ the blonde retorts (drifting away, somewhat, from the issue at hand). ‘It’s like booking Jack the Ripper to promote a women’s refuge! It’s totally nonsensical!’
The brunette turns to Toby for a snap reaction. The blonde also turns to Toby (before he’s had a proper chance to amass his – no doubt perfectly coherent – thoughts on the matter). ‘It’s crazy!’ she persists. ‘It’s peculiar!’
‘S.P.I.C.E.,’ Toby answers (robot-like).
‘Sorry?’ The blonde blinks.
‘S.P.I.C.E.,’ Toby repeats. ‘It’s an anagram. Each letter represents a word and each word represents an idea about the psychology of persuasion. The I in S.P.I.C.E. stands for incongruity. Things don’t always need to make sense in business. In fact sometimes things work out better if they don’t.’
The blonde ponders this for a second.
‘Okay, so you’re s
aying that by inviting Britain’s most dysfunctional golfer as a celebrity guest in their opening week this club’s barmy management somehow believe they’re persuading people into thinking that they’re bullet-proof? They’re projecting “confident but quirky”? They’re projecting cocksure and “knowing”?’
Even as she implicitly derides this idea the blonde is slowly being seduced by its inherent logic. She starts appraising Toby with a renewed level of interest.
‘It’s an acronym, by the way,’ the brunette beautician gently interjects.
They completely ignore her.
‘S.P.I.C.E. It’s an acronym,’ she repeats.
‘And it can’t just be a total coincidence that every other seasoned British pro-golfer of any repute is off playing on the America Tour right now …’ the blonde blithely continues. ‘I mean beggars can’t be choosers, eh?’
‘That’s an interesting take on it,’ Toby concedes (plainly preferring to try and keep his powder dry on this issue). ‘Although I think I favour “legendary” over “dysfunctional” …’
‘Let’s settle on “notorious”.’ The blonde spits on her palm, then cordially offers him her hand.
‘And another thing …’ Toby continues, grasping the hand (with a girlish wince), then promptly forgetting what he’s about to say (perhaps being momentarily stricken with conscience over what the handshake actually represents).
‘Where’s your bag?’ The squat brunette takes full advantage of this hiatus. ‘And why are you dressed in that ridiculous outfit?’
‘Where’s your manners?’ the blonde promptly snarls. ‘And why is your uniform the colour of cat vomit?’
‘Given your extremely low opinion of the client,’ (Toby finally remembers his second point), ‘why are you so eager to do his make-up?’
‘Because I’m a true professional, stupid!’ the blonde exclaims, rolling her eyes. ‘Duh!’
‘Well there’s no mention of the booking on Esther’s itinerary.’
Toby glances down at Esther’s clipboard, smarting.
‘I flew in on the red-eye from Glasgow.’ The blonde raises the stakes a level. ‘I’ve been doing some intensive restyling work on …’ – she pauses, struggling to conjure up the correct calibre of celebrity – ‘… Lulu,’ she eventually volunteers. ‘It was incredible – totally life-affirming. We finally waved bye-bye to her safe but boring trademark faded-ginger thatch.’
‘What shade is she now?’ the other stylist can’t resist asking.
‘I call it “balsamic vinegar”,’ the blonde explains. ‘It’s a very unusual, very rich, very radical black/burgundy tone of my own devising.’
‘On a redhead?’ the brunette clucks. ‘Doesn’t that just really bleach her out?’
‘Lulu?!’ Toby chuckles. ‘What on earth is the old girl doing with herself nowadays?’
‘How odd!’ the blonde retorts, sarcastically. ‘That’s exactly what Lulu said when I mentioned your name! She said, “What on earth is …”’ – she leans forward to read his badge – ‘“… what on earth is Toby Whittaker doing with himself nowadays?” But with her trademark cute, geriatric Scottish accent, obviously.’
‘And what did you tell her?’ Toby wonders (sensibly paranoid).
‘I said, “I’m not entirely sure …”’ the blonde sighs. ‘“Probably sticking his tongue half a mile up Stuart Ransom’s arse, same as always.”’
A difficult silence follows.
‘I always thought Lulu lived in the Home Counties,’ the Cockney eventually pipes up, ‘near Elton.’
‘Eltham? Isn’t that in south-east London?’ The blonde scowls.
‘Sorry?’
‘Eltham Palace …?’
‘No, no, not Eltham – Elton. As in John, the singer.’
‘You have this tendency to really swallow your words when you speak,’ the blonde informs her, bluntly, ‘it’s quite off-putting.’
The brunette stares at her, perplexed.
‘I actually run a Sports Strategy website,’ Toby pipes up (plainly still wounded by the ‘Ransom’s arse’ quip).
‘I know’ – the blonde nods – ‘and it’s not half bad, either. Straightforward layout, good colour palette, not too much copy, snappy graphics …’
‘You like the graphics?’
Toby’s embarrassingly grateful.
‘I researched you online. Last night. And for the record’ – she fluffs out the frill on her apron – ‘I think nine-hole’s a great idea, in principle. But you’ll definitely need to rethink the name – “Turbo’s” just way too petrol-heady for the Green Brigade …’
While she continues to hold forth, emphatically, on this subject, the door to Ransom’s hotel room is gently eased open. The golfer (still in his bathrobe and brandishing a toothbrush) stands and blearily appraises the three of them, his tired, bloodshot eyes finally resting (somewhat quizzically, even fearfully) on the loquacious blonde.
‘By the way’ – the blonde focuses in on her rival beautician – ‘I fibbed about Lulu. The hair’s still bleached-out ginger – the colour your pee goes after a chronic bladder infection …’ She turns to Toby Whittaker: ‘And she has no idea who you are. Not the slightest clue. She has no idea who Stuart Ransom is, either …’ The blonde tips her head towards the golfer. ‘Sport just isn’t her bag. Although she’s passionate about yoga – likes to keep her hand in at netball –’
‘You …’ Ransom brusquely interrupts (after swallowing a mouthful of spit and foam). ‘Inside.’
He thumbs over his shoulder (completely ignoring the other two). The blonde promptly sashays past him and into the room, still talking, nineteen to the dozen.
‘Fact is, I think she just really enjoys showing off her pins in her dinky little netball outfit. The legs are apparently always the last thing to go. She has this special, funky, tartan bib …’
As the door slams shut again, Toby hears Ransom muttering, indignant, ‘You do know I was standing behind the door for that entire conversation?’
‘That’s handy,’ the blonde rejoins, unabashed, ‘it’ll save me from having to repeat myself. My throat feels a little strained.’
‘What’ve you come dressed as?’ the golfer demands (piqued). ‘An extra from the Cirque du Soleil? A maggot? Adam friggin’ Ant?’
‘What’ve you come dressed as?’ the blonde retorts. ‘An old has-been? A sore loser? The unholy dick-head who sacks his manager of fourteen years’ standing in the final stages of a near-fatal labour?’
Whittaker cringes as he hears this, his free hand moving down, guiltily, to the phone in his pocket.
‘How’d you find out about that?’ Ransom snaps, somewhat taken aback.
‘The web, stupid!’ the blonde retorts.
‘And you believe everything you read?’
(Ransom tries to sound withering.)
‘Everything about you? God, yes – and worse.’ The blonde chortles.
‘Well that’s very reassuring.’ (Ransom is poignant.)
A brief silence follows. Toby Whittaker turns to the brunette beautician and prepares to speak (first clearing his throat).
‘What’s that racket?’ the blonde mutters (before Toby can follow through).
‘Nothing. I left the shower running.’
‘Why?’
‘Why else? Because I’m waiting for it to heat up!’ Ransom answers, defensive.
‘Shockingly un-environmental!’ the blonde grumbles. ‘Bloody typical!’
‘I’ll turn it off, then …’ he mutters, his voice fading, temporarily. ‘In fact the sight of you in that dreadful catsuit’s just reminded me …’ he yells, over the squeak of new taps turning, ‘… I’m nearly out of toothpaste.’
‘Has your hairline receded even further since Monday,’ the blonde calls after him, ‘or is it just the criminally unflattering light in this hotel room?’
‘We’ve just come from the dentist,’ Karim explains, somewhat flustered, ‘the appointment overran. She’s feeling a little woo
zy. She had some root-canal work done. All she needs is a cup of sweet tea and a seat in the corner. She won’t be any trouble …’
The woman in the burqa wobbles slightly on her feet. Karim grabs her arm and mutters something, gruffly, in what sounds like Arabic. The woman doesn’t answer just glares down at the floor, sullenly.
‘Of course! Come inside!’ Valentine exclaims, concerned. She turns and leads the way down the corridor. ‘Through here – she can stretch out on the sofa. I’ll put on the fan …’
They follow her into the sitting room where Karim gently assists his wife to sit down. She props herself, stiffly, on the very edge of the seat, then hisses, sharply, when a cat pads towards her.
Valentine apologizes, shoos the cat through the door and then moves a large, free-standing Art Deco fan across the room, plugs it in and turns it on.
‘It’s such a hot day again,’ she murmurs, angling it towards the woman. ‘Stuffy …’
The woman – Aamilah – pointedly turns her face away from the breeze of the fan, then fastidiously picks a cat hair from the knee of her black robe.
‘Like I say,’ Karim repeats, irritated, ‘just get her a cup of sweet tea – maybe a biscuit …’
He addresses Milah again in his own guttural tongue. She doesn’t answer, just shakes her head.
‘No biscuit,’ he qualifies.
Valentine nods. She is immaculately attired in a full-skirted red gingham dress with built-in petticoats and a pair of red, strappy, gladiator-style sandals with a little inch-high heel. Her wrists clack with heavy, plastic bracelets. Her fringe is curled. Her hair falls in ringlets over her shoulders. Her make-up is immaculate. She seems completely at her ease; beatific – even joyous – the epitome of effortless femininity (although the overall effect is somewhat compromised by a large, blotchy stress rash which stands out, starkly, across her breastbone).
The Yips Page 28