‘How was it?’ she asks.
‘Sticky,’ Valentine murmurs, catching hold of the abaya with her hand and inspecting the hem. ‘I stood on a pile of chewing gum. It was all over my foot.’
Her face is glowing with perspiration. She feels drained and exhausted.
Milah isn’t entirely satisfied by this response.
‘Okay – I felt …’ Valentine tries to think, to analyse. ‘I felt like a little girl playing hide and seek … but there was nobody – nothing – coming to find me …’
Milah nods.
‘I felt free. Then I felt kind of … well … embarrassed – fake. Then I felt …’
She can’t find adequate words to describe her brief experience (even to herself). She frowns, finally settling for, ‘Incredibly bloody hot.’
Milah grins. She pulls on the abaya, then rapidly adds the niqab, adjusting it down over her shoulders until she once again resembles a dowdy, portable, Victorian bathing hut.
Valentine goes over to check her hair and make-up in one of the several, circular wall mirrors. She looks hubcap-ugly. She winces. As she does so she hears the clank of the front gate. Milah hears it too and turns towards her, tensing.
‘That’ll be my brother.’ Valentine gestures, distractedly, towards the sofa and the tea-tray. ‘I should probably …’
She darts into the hallway as her brother comes falling – almost headfirst – through the door.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she stage-whispers, grabbing his arm, expertly, with one hand, while shielding the jardinière with her other. ‘I had to send Nessa to daycare in a cab.’
‘Keep your hair on!’ Noel mumbles, straightening himself up, snatching his arm away, then inspecting his dishevelled sister with an unapologetic smirk (plainly drunk – or stoned – or both).
Valentine grabs him by the arm again and escorts him (past the sitting room) into the relative privacy of the studio.
‘I found the whip,’ she rounds on him as soon as the door is shut, ‘and the wallet.’ She shudders. ‘You swore you’d got rid of them.’
Noel appraises her, dopily.
‘You swore you’d got rid of them!’ Valentine persists. ‘The guy who read the meter …’
‘Ransom’s little sneak!’ Noel snorts, infuriated. ‘I thought you said it was all sorted?’
‘It was,’ she insists, ‘but then he came back again later and the stupid thing just went haywire … I was upstairs with Mum. I swear to God I had no idea …’
Noel just shrugs.
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me about it the other day?’ she demands, incredulous. ‘Warn me, at the very least?’
‘You said it was all sorted!’ Noel repeats, almost indignant.
‘Well it wasn’t. And now it’s just this great, big, ugly mess …’
Valentine looks to Noel for some kind of useful response, but Noel just shrugs again, drunkenly.
‘D’you want us to get sued by the electricity board?’ she exclaims, astonished by his apparent indifference. ‘Or worse? Prosecuted by the police?’
‘That was Dad’s special, little hidey-hole,’ Noel grumbles. ‘I had nothing to do with it. Why’s it my problem all of a sudden?’
‘Because you’re the man of the house now’ – Valentine’s utterly exasperated – ‘and because you swore you’d get rid of the bloody stuff! I trusted you! I thought you’d dumped it or buried it – you promised me, Noel!’
‘I’ve had other shit to deal with!’ Noel growls.
‘Oh yeah?’ Valentine’s not buying it.
‘Yeah!’ Noel insists.
‘But this is really important.’ Valentine tries her best to reason with him. ‘And you promised me,’ she repeats, limply.
Noel appears signally unmoved by this more measured approach.
‘And I was dumb enough to trust you!’ Valentine rapidly loses her cool again. ‘God, what a bloody idiot I’ve been! Now we’re in all kinds of trouble.’
She puts a hand up to her throat. Her lower lip starts to wobble.
‘I said I’ll deal with it and I will!’ Noel stolidly maintains, observing the warning signs (even through the bleary filter of dope and booze). ‘But this shit takes time, Vee.’ He burps, loudly, mid-sentence. ‘It’s a delicate transaction.’
‘You said you’d trash it. Destroy it all.’
Valentine’s shocked to discover that her brother has other plans.
‘Changed my mind.’ Noel shrugs.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I changed my mind,’ Noel snorts, ‘what else?’
‘Well if you won’t take care of it then I’ll handle it myself!’ Valentine turns, abruptly, towards the door.
‘No you fucking won’t!’ Noel roughly grabs her arm.
‘I can’t speak to you when you’re like this!’ Valentine shakes him off. ‘I can’t believe that stuff’s still in the house! It makes me sick to my stomach even thinking about it!’
‘I said I’d sort it out, okay?’
Noel’s patience is starting to wear thin.
‘What if he gets in contact with the police?’ she demands.
‘Who?’
‘Gene.’
‘Who?’
‘The meter guy.’
‘We’ve not done anything illegal.’ Noel shrugs. ‘The stuff was Dad’s …’
‘But the meter’s the property of the electricity board.’
‘Big fucking deal! We just plead ignorance …’
‘And what about the business?’ Valentine persists. ‘I’ve only just started getting things back on track. What’ll happen if this gets out? Everything’ll be ruined!’
‘I’ll move the stuff!’ Noel’s exasperated. ‘Stop freaking out! It’ll be fine.’
‘I’ve got an appointment at twelve, Noel.’ Valentine’s almost in tears. Her nerve rash is flaring up. ‘How the hell am I expected to concentrate when I’m feeling so stressed?’
‘Uh … Oh yeah – the appointment.’ Noel looks shifty. ‘I think he might’ve cancelled. His kid’s got flu or something … pneumonia … measles …’
Noel takes out his phone and starts scrolling through his texts.
‘Cancelled?’ Valentine’s aggrieved. ‘When did this happen?’
‘I dunno … Yesterday … Tuesday … He sent an email, then he confirmed by …’
‘Did he reschedule?’
Noel continues searching.
Valentine goes over to an old Apple Mac and printer which are perched on a white, plastic table in the corner of the room (alongside a photocopying machine and a large, metal cabinet full of inks, paper towels, salves, gloves and disinfectants). ‘I’ve been up since four this morning finalizing the bloody artwork.’
She turns on the computer and accesses her messages, searching for the relevant contact details. As she does so, the computer chimes to indicate the arrival of new mail.
‘Next month,’ Noel finally pipes up, reading from his phone. ‘He can do the last two weekends in August, or – failing that – it’ll have to be Christmas. He says he can’t book any more time off work till then.’
Valentine doesn’t respond. She’s reading the new email wearing a look of confusion – bordering on panic.
‘What’s wrong?’ Noel demands.
Valentine turns. ‘Nothing.’ She obstructs the screen with her body. ‘I’m just pissed off you didn’t bother telling me, that’s all.’
‘Isn’t Kafir coming this morning?’ Noel rapidly changes the subject.
‘Karim. He’s upstairs with Mum. His wife’s in the sitting room. She was feeling dodgy after some heavy dental work.’
‘Good-good.’
Noel nods. He looks down at his phone.
‘She’s in all her robes and what-not.’
Noel doesn’t respond.
‘In fact I’m not sure how happy she is about –’ Valentine starts off.
‘Fuck …’ Noel interrupts, glancing up, then back dow
n. ‘Gotta dash, kiddo.’ He shoves his phone into his pocket and strides over to the sink in the corner of the room.
‘Please don’t mess up the sink!’ Valentine’s irritated. ‘It’s meant to be kept sterile.’
Noel ignores her, bending over the basin, turning on the cold tap and splashing water over his face and neck.
‘So you’re definitely going to move the stuff?’ Valentine simply can’t let it lie.
‘Yup.’
‘When? Soon?’
‘Soon as.’
He grabs a white towel (from a nearby rack), dries himself with it, tosses it, carelessly, behind the taps, dashes over to Valentine, gives her a noisy kiss on the cheek, then leaves the room. She wipes away the kiss with her palm as she listens to him ransacking the kitchen cupboards for crisps and biscuits before going for a quick pee in the downstairs toilet and dashing straight back out again.
Once the front door slams, she goes to a full-length mirror on the wall and inspects her reflection in it. ‘Slime,’ she murmurs, focusing in on her nerve rash, touching it, grimacing, then returning her full attention to the email on her computer and re-reading it once, twice, three times.
‘This is crazy!’ she whispers, standing stock-still for a couple of minutes, staring up at the ceiling, before turning and walking over to her black, padded tattooing bench, climbing on to it and lying there, face-down, silently, for what feels like an age, feet together, arms pinned to her sides, face crushed into the synthetic fabric.
Chapter 7
‘There are two kinds of women,’ Ransom informs her, posing, raffishly, on the state-of-the-art driving range while she carefully applies a touch of concealer to a large, red spot which is erupting – like a brave, little sunrise – from between the clefts of his chin.
‘There’s the women who will have sex with you, and the women who won’t have sex with you because they think that if they do have sex with you then you won’t respect them afterwards. This second kind are the worst, because they actually think that by not having sex with you they represent more of “a challenge”, so when they do finally have sex with you (and – let’s face it – it’s only a matter of time), it will somehow be more “meaningful” …’
Ransom enunciates the word ‘meaningful’ in much the same way a normal person might enunciate the word ‘diarrhoea’.
‘Gracious!’ Jen steps back and appraises the golfer, awed. ‘Golfer/businessman, golfer/role model, golfer/philosopher, golfer/psychologist …’ She winks at Toby Whittaker who stands nearby holding a large, white, light reflector, several changes of clothes and a furled umbrella. ‘Is there really no end to your talents?’
‘Golfer/chauvinist,’ Israel mutters from his nearby perch – a small, portable sports-stool – where he is diligently ploughing his way through the final chapter of his book.
Ransom inspects the sullen teen (as he poses) from the corner of his eye.
‘Where’d the kid come from?’ he demands. ‘What’s his function? Spear-carrier? Messenger boy? Eunuch?’
‘He’s my protégé,’ Jen clucks (as Israel delivers Ransom a look of searing condescension, then returns, with an eye-roll, to his reading matter).
‘Haughty!’ Ransom avows.
‘Into the light, please!’ the photographer yells.
‘Strange how that’ll happen sometimes,’ Jen muses, ‘when you blithely cast aspersions on someone’s racial, emotional and sexual integrity …’
‘What the hell does he look like?’ Ransom wonders, inspecting Israel’s pink tie and mauve shirt combo with a slightly curled lip.
‘That’s his style,’ Jen sighs. ‘He’s sensitive – artistic …’
‘Toby?’ the photographer yells. ‘Toby, is it? A couple of inches higher with the …’
‘What’s he reading?’ Ransom demands, swatting at his cheek.
‘I think you’ll find it’s …’ – Jen lowers her voice as she moves in closer to pick off the remains of a tiny gnat (which has just been embedded into his foundation) – ‘a proper book.’ She pats him on the shoulder, reassuringly. ‘Not anything you need to worry your pretty little head about.’
‘Looks weighty,’ Toby amiably interjects as Jen rapidly retreats and Ransom quietly admires her slim but jaunty rump.
‘Into the light!’ the photographer yells, again. ‘And raise the club just a fraction …’
‘It’s no Ulysses,’ Israel avers (with a nicely judged measure of condescension), ‘but still fun for all of that.’
‘Where’d you nab the stool from?’ Ransom grumbles, jealous.
‘The light!’ The photographer’s voice gives slightly under pressure.
‘It’s mine. I brought it with me.’ Israel’s suitably smug.
‘How old did you say he was?’ Ransom turns to Jen again.
‘To the front, please!’ the photographer yells.
‘Thirteen.’
‘A fraction higher with the reflector!’ the photographer persists.
‘You’re thirteen years old and you carry a fold-up stool about the place?’ Ransom’s appalled.
‘It packs down into a very convenient size,’ Israel maintains, ‘which fits neatly into my briefcase.’
‘Fuck me!’ Ransom’s astonished. ‘Who’s he think he is?’ He turns to Jen, indignant. ‘The black Quentin Crisp?!’
‘His parents are guests at the hotel.’ Jen scowls. ‘They’re caught up in some big family crisis, so I’m baby-sitting. I promised them I’d take him to the Hat Factory, but he wasn’t especially sold on the idea –’
‘No need to go to a factory – we’ve got plenty of hats here!’ Ransom interrupts. ‘Toby, throw the kid a hat.’
‘The Hat Factory is an arts centre,’ – Jen’s withering – ‘they hold drumming and dance classes …’
‘Chuck the kid a hat, Tobe,’ Ransom repeats. Toby hesitates (he’s struggling to hold up the light reflector).
Ransom grabs a couple and throws them himself. One hits Israel square in the face, the other lands on his lap. Israel adjusts his glasses, lifts his book, clears his throat and continues to read.
‘Put one on,’ Ransom suggests.
Israel ignores him.
‘What’s his friggin’ problem?’
Ransom turns to Jen again, exasperated.
‘It’s a very general rule of thumb,’ Jen confides, ‘but hats don’t always tend to combine well with glasses.’
‘Spike Lee seems to manage okay,’ Ransom snits.
‘And anyway,’ Jen runs on, ‘his mother probably wouldn’t approve.’
‘His mother? What’s she got to do with the price of beef?’
‘She’s one of those intellectual types. Dogmatic. A real stickler. Hates sports. Especially gol-ol-ol-olf. Thinks it’s …’
‘Oh here we go,’ Ransom mutters, promptly returning to his posing.
‘What?’
Jen looks faux-insulted.
Ransom just smiles, cheesily, for the camera.
‘Fine!’ Jen faux-huffs, going to stand next to Toby. Toby continues to hold the light reflector aloft.
‘Gol-ol-lluf!’ Jen quietly intones.
Toby glances over at her.
‘Gol-ulf!’
Jen faux-retches.
‘It’s a funny word,’ Toby agrees, slightly uneasy, ‘there’s no fixed etymology –’
‘Etty-botty-whatty?’ Ransom butts in, scowling.
‘Word origin. The history of the word. Where the word originally comes from … like …’ Toby thinks for a second. ‘Like rugby, for example – the word and the game have a fairly precise historical origin …’
‘You don’t say?!’ Jen gazes up at him, lashes fluttering.
‘Yeah … The word comes from the name of a school – Rugby School in Warwickshire …’
‘Maybe just leaning on the club, now,’ the photographer suggests, ‘taking a break, peering out into the deep, blue yonder, hand shading your eyes …’
Ransom obliges.
‘There was a pupil at the school, a boy called William Webb Ellis, and he was out on the sports field playing a football match when he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to just pick up the ball and run with it. This was circa 1820-something …’
‘But why did the school have that name in the first place?’ Ransom demands.
‘Sorry?’
‘Why was the school called Rugby?’
‘Duh!’ Jen responds, with a derisory tooth-kiss. ‘Because it was destined to become the name of an internationally renowned team sport, obviously.’
‘Uh … I’ve no idea,’ Toby admits (slightly thrown off-kilter by Jen’s interjection), ‘it was probably named after a wealthy, local benefactor …’
‘Pah!’
Ransom returns to his posing.
‘Gol-ol-olfff,’ Jen belches.
‘From what I’ve read,’ Toby continues, ‘it’s generally held that the word “golf” is a derivation of two medieval words that were used to describe various stick and ball games current at around that time … I can’t remember them both, off-hand, but one was definitely “kolf” which relates to the Germanic “kolbe” or “club”, and is probably also related to the Dutch game “kolven” …’
‘When’s Gene planning to turn up?’ Ransom grumbles (still posing).
‘Cricket’s another quite interesting one,’ Toby notes (pleased to see Israel listening, intently, to his brief explication). ‘It’s thought the Old French for “stick” is “criquet”, although they aren’t really sure whether the term refers to the actual bat or the wickets.’
The photographer strolls over (as he deftly changes the reel of film in his camera). ‘We should probably move on to a new location while the weather’s still holding up,’ he suggests.
‘I’ve got someone bringing a Hummer,’ Ransom tells him. ‘I’m very keen to project this certain “look”.’
‘Great – a theme!’ the photographer notes, dourly.
‘Kind of pared down. Uncompromising. Mean. Mysterious,’ the golfer persists. ‘Me in black. Very enigmatic – I might swap the cap for a bandanna at some point …’
(Jen snorts.)
‘My caddie’s in military gear. Antique. Then there’s this old Hummer – like I said – which we’ll definitely use as part of the backdrop.’
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