Aamilah finally completes her conversation, shoves the phone into her pocket and joins them again. She grabs Valentine’s hand and they continue walking. Farhana is talking about the first time she tried olive tapenade (hated it). Milah passionately holds forth on the subject of avocados. ‘I love tomato salsa, but that slimy, pale green paste? Urgh!’
‘Guacamole,’ Valentine murmurs, struggling to keep her eyes focused steadfastly ahead, icy trickles of sweat cascading down her spine.
All the while the silver car slowly trails them. Bored now of hand gestures, the man on the passenger side is unbuckling his belt and yanking down his jeans (intending to moon them, perhaps).
Valentine is seething with rage. It’s as much as she can do not to fly at the car – kick in the passenger door – pull the man out by his hair – head-butt him in the face – respond like any true Tucker would. She is incandescent. Her fury is white-hot and scalding. The little wasps between her ears are suddenly silent; they’ve been incinerated and replaced by a giant, copper kettle – perched, somewhat precariously, on a fiery hob – which billows steam and whistles.
‘I hate it! It looks like snot!’ Aamilah’s back on the subject of avocados again (after a brief diversion into the virtues of hummus). ‘Tastes like it, too! Revolting!’
‘Perhaps if you added a little more salt and lemon,’ Valentine suggests, ‘a dash of paprika …’
‘No! It’s the texture! Disgusting!’
They eventually arrive – and not a moment too soon – at the outer reaches of the park. Farhana turns the pushchair on to the grass and sets off across the green. Aamilah and Valentine follow. The car sounds its horn.
‘Don’t look back!’ Aamilah warns her. She peeks sideways into Valentine’s face, then performs a quick double-take. ‘Subhaanalla!’ she exclaims, raising her hands. ‘Praise be to God! A little miracle! Your eyes, Hamra! The fear has completely gone – evaporated – pouf!’
‘Because I’m angry!’ Valentine hisses, astonished. ‘That was so horrible! Degrading! How can you bear it?’
‘Bear it?’ Aamilah repeats, equally astonished. ‘But it’s a gift, don’t you see?’ She lightly touches her hand to her diaphragm. ‘Righteous anger – degradation – humility – pity – they’re our fuel! Feel them burning deep inside of you! Here …’ – she taps her chest – ‘in your heart.’
Valentine grimaces beneath the hijab, bemused. She tries to search her heart, but the map is old and the compass is faulty.
‘Now you start to understand, eh?’ Aamilah persists. ‘This is precisely why we do it, Hamra. This is the fight! This is the very essence of what we are! This is for him: for Allah. This is the love …’ She pauses for a second (her eyes briefly fixing on the ever-more-distant Farhana), then scowls, tuts and suddenly yells, ‘Hana! Hana! Under the tree!’ She gesticulates, wildly. ‘Hana! Over there! The tree! Under the … The tree, Hana! Not … No! No! Not next to the dog toilet, you idiot!’
‘I was having the rise out of you, Gene, seriously !’ Jen coos, as he raises an anxious hand to his neck (for the umpteenth time) while she tenderly swipes a touch of pressed powder over his glistening i-zone. He and Ransom are posing by the Hummer, as a duo. Gene (at his own insistence) is in profile, part obscured by shadow, hat pulled down low, golf bag hitched on to his back, military manoeuvres-style.
Ransom has two white stripes painted across either cheek (Jen’s idea) and a skinny black tie (belonging to a wine waiter) tied like a bandanna around his head. He swings his club a couple of times, grimaces (half a canny eye on Jen and Gene), swings again, miscalculates his angles and kicks up a spray of gravel. This hail of stones narrowly avoids hitting Terence Nimrod (who has annexed Israel’s stool – the bored teen having only recently wandered off to watch the closing stages of the Kids’ Comp.) and Del Renzio (who is talking away, emphatically, on his mobile phone).
‘There’s something missing from this set-up,’ Ransom murmurs, dissatisfied (perhaps finally half-registering Esther’s absence).
‘A bugle,’ Jen suggests.
Ransom stiffens. A vague look of surprise, quickly surmounted by a vague look of recognition (imbued with a slight tinge of amorousness), quickly surmounted by a tiny glimmer of fear flits across his face.
‘Or a suppurating tattoo.’ Jen grins.
The golfer reaches over and pushes his hand into Gene’s jacket pocket. He withdraws the old, red bugle tassel and gazes at it, watery-eyed.
‘Are we ready yet?’ the photographer boredly chivvies them along. Gene snatches back the tassel (message duly received) and they each return to their former places.
‘So you don’t think this tattoo thing has legs, then?’
Ransom finds his light and strikes a pose as Jen rapidly retreats.
‘Hold that!’ the photographer calls.
‘The tattoo thing? Nah. Not even stumps.’ Jen goes to stand alongside a jittery-seeming Del Renzio. ‘I mean no offence to the lovely Sheila, Gene,’ she modifies, ‘but this idiot nearly kills the girl’s mother’ – she thumbs, dismissively, towards the golfer (much to his evident disgruntlement) – ‘neglects to pay his insurance premiums which does kill the dad, plays a cruel game of tabloid ping-pong with the brother for several years – sending him into a tragic, narcotic funk – then some hare-brained C of E minister with too much time on her hands comes up with the crazy notion that the exchange of a tattoo – a tattoo of all things – will finally – miraculously! – set things straight between them; become some grand symbol of redemption, a Band-Aid to all their problems; so they’ll finally make their peace and live happily ever after …’ she snorts, disgusted. ‘It’s delusional – deranged, even.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Terence Nimrod exclaims (having listened to Jen’s snarky diatribe, completely agog). ‘Your wife’s a genius, Gene!’ He quickly reaches for his notepad. ‘This idea’s dynamite! Pure tabloid gold! Is the Tucker girl much of a looker by any chance?’
‘I mean what kind of tragic, screwed-up, half-cocked morality is that?!’ Jen sneers (including Nimrod’s recent contribution in her general, critical overview).
‘Great – keep holding it!’ the photographer repeats.
‘In Sheila’s defence …’ Gene suddenly starts off (straightening up and thereby inadvertently ruining the shot). The photographer curses (he’s using an old box camera with an especially slow shutter speed).
‘Oh dear. Very sorry.’
Gene returns to his pose, chastened.
‘There is no defending it, Gene,’ Jen persists. ‘It’s just crass, and weird, and wrong, and kind of … well … creepy.’
‘And conceptually brilliant!’ Nimrod adds (his former enthusiasm evidently undimmed).
This time it’s the golfer’s turn to straighten up, perplexed.
The photographer curses again, exasperated.
‘Are you still managing to feature the main body of the hotel in the background?’ Del Renzio (for reasons unknown – except to himself) decides to choose this awkward moment to make his organizational presence felt.
‘The far end of the portico,’ the photographer confirms, scowling.
‘And we’ve not even started to factor in your embarrassingly girlish fear of needles,’ Jen adds.
‘Brilliant!’ Nimrod grins, pen blazing like a plastic meteor across the page.
‘It’s just that when we initially brainstormed this shoot at HQ,’ Del Renzio confesses (to nobody in particular), ‘we didn’t really envisage the tank in the shot, or the whole “post-apocalyptic” angle for that matter –’
‘It’s a friggin’ Hummer, you imbecile!’ Ransom interrupts (hitting the fastidious PR man with all the suppressed wrath and hostility he’s plainly harbouring for his skinny neighbour in Lycra). ‘And for your information,’ he adds, flicking a couple of stray thunder-flies from the pristine, white hide of his golfing glove, ‘there’s no “angle” with Stuart Ransom, okay? This isn’t simply “an angle”. It’s who I am. It’s not a questio
n of “degrees”, yeah? You can’t measure it with a friggin’… a friggin’ set-square. It’s real. It’s all real …’ He gesticulates, grandly. ‘This is real life not some phony piece of cooked-up, two-bit PR bull-crap.’
Brief silence.
Ransom recommences posing. Jen burps, then apologizes.
‘I’m a sportsman’ – Ransom straightens up again, unable to let this thing pass – ‘I’m an artist, not some grinning, little monkey who’ll just dance around to order. When you hire Stuart Ransom you hire a Master Spirit, yeah? A Social Lion, a legend – a tiny piece of folklore …’
‘Master Spirit?!’ Jen echoes, incredulous.
‘You hire a giant, yeah?’ Ransom barges on, oblivious. ‘A friggin’ monster, a Tyrannosaurus Rex …’
‘A dinosaur!’ Jen sniggers.
‘You can’t house-train Stuart Ransom!’ the golfer snaps. ‘He’s not tamed and neutered, jumping around to order like some cuddly, little spaniel, he’s a savage, friggin’ beast, yeah? A big, fat, black grizzly tearing through your trash …’
Ransom holds up his bear paws. ‘You get hair on the friggin’ walls with me!’ he growls. ‘Eight, giant, yellow claws impacted with filth tearing up your bed-sheets! You get a huge pile of stinking dung on your manicured lawn! Because Stuart Ransom always brings the shit, yeah? He brings fear ! He brings excitement ! He brings integrity! He brings the Game – the heart ! – the Full Sporting Legacy!’
Another brief silence.
The golfer strikes a pose. The photographer readies himself to take the shot.
‘Eight claws? Can that be right?’ Jen idly muses, turning to Toby.
‘My gut instinct is ten,’ Toby Whittaker answers, apologetically (from his customary – and suitably anonymous – position behind the light reflector), ‘five on each of the front paws, another ten on the back. Twenty, all told – but you certainly shouldn’t quote me on that.’
‘I will quote you, Tobe,’ Jen insists gazing over at him, adoringly. Toby blushes.
Ransom straightens up, with a sneer, ruining yet another shot.
‘Do bears build nests or dig holes?’ Jen wonders.
‘They live in dens’ – Toby nods – ‘they scratch them into hillsides or under the root systems of large trees. Sometimes they inhabit caves … In fact by a weird coincidence I was actually discussing the strange reproductive life of bears with Esther only yesterday.’
He surreptitiously glances over towards Ransom to gauge his reaction (there is none).
‘That is odd,’ Jen concurs.
‘I’d bought her a little toy bear for the baby,’ Toby continues (another glance. Still no reaction).
‘How sweet!’ Jen interjects.
‘… and she mentioned how she’d had this chat with an obstetrician the other week who told her that when female bears mate they go through a process called “delayed implantation” which basically means that the female’s fertilized egg floats around in her uterus for a period of anything up to six months. Then, when she goes into hibernation, the foetuses – usually a couple of them – attach to the wall of the uterus and the cubs arrive approximately eight weeks later while the mother’s still asleep.’
‘A pain-free delivery!’ Jen gasps. ‘You gotta love it!’
‘Exactly.’ Toby chuckles. ‘Another really fascinating detail is that if the female isn’t physically heavy enough to survive the winter while simultaneously providing milk for her young, the body automatically terminates the pregnancy and the embryo is simply reabsorbed back into her body again as a form of nutrition.’
‘Can you hold that thing a little higher, please?’ the photographer demands (Toby has let the reflector slip during the course of this conversation).
‘Yeah, Whittaker’ – Ransom glowers – ‘we’re not just standing here for fun, you dick.’
‘So okay … uh … maybe just a couple more of these’ – Del Renzio quickly steps forward (desperate to take control of their wayward schedule) – ‘a few relaxing at the spa, a handful standing by the front desk wearing the club shirt and tie and … uh … yes … I think we can probably call it a day after that.’
‘Time to head on up to your room and chop us out some sweet, fat lines!’ Nimrod gleefully quavers, making ‘street-style’ gun gestures with both hands.
‘You’re not seriously considering undertaking this procedure on club premises?’ Del Renzio interrupts, horrified. ‘Because we’d definitely need to pass the idea by management, first.’
‘Just imagine the health and safety implications!’ Jen clucks.
‘Give me a friggin’ break!’ The golfer straightens up, indignant (yet another shot ruined). ‘Pass it by management my friggin’ arse!’
‘I’m just not sure if it’s the kind of image we’re keen to project.’ Del Renzio doggedly stands his ground (Nimrod still mugging away, theatrically, to the rear).
‘I mean it’s hardly what you’d call “five star” behaviour,’ Jen eye-rolls.
‘I’ve already had to contend with a deluge of complaints about your blonde friend here.’ Del Renzio tips his head, disparagingly, towards his staunchest supporter.
‘She’s no friend of mine!’ Ransom snorts.
‘Sorry? Complaints about moi ?’ Jen’s astonished.
‘Yes,’ Del Renzio confirms.
‘Is it the shoes?’
Jen points to her wedges: ‘Do they breach the dress code?’
‘How about the shoes, the transparent leotard, the gold bra and the fact that you were sighted by several of our younger players earlier openly urinating in the rough.’
‘Oh that’s classic!’ Ransom is richly entertained by this detail. ‘That’s friggin’ hilarious!’
‘Are you completely positive that was me?’ Jen’s sceptical.
‘Sure he is!’ Ransom scoffs.
‘From the detailed descriptions we received, I think we’re fairly certain.’ Del Renzio nods.
Ransom strikes another pose, enlivened.
Del Renzio inspects his watch again. ‘The Kids’ Comp. is due to finish in an hour or so,’ he informs the golfer, ‘and you’re officially scheduled to –’
‘“The club shirt and tie?!”’ Ransom suddenly expostulates, haughtily. ‘Just what kind of brain-dead, castrated, cheese-ball d’you think you’re dealing with, here?’
Del Renzio opens his mouth to answer.
‘Did Esther sanction that?’ Ransom interjects (before he has a chance to), then, ‘Fuck it! Bollocks to it! You and your friggin’ schedule can go hang for all I care!’
Del Renzio closes his mouth again.
‘Screw you!’ Ransom persists (in case Del Renzio hasn’t quite got the message yet). ‘And screw your management committee! And screw the friggin’ sponsor, and screw the Kids’ Comp., come to that …’ He pauses, thoughtfully. ‘Although I may opt to check out the spa a little later on if I feel so inclined,’ he concedes.
‘Maybe we can make an exception for the Kids’ Comp.,’ Toby nervously pipes up. ‘It’s always nice to spare a bit of time for the kiddies, eh?’
‘Stipulated in the contract?’ Ransom enquires, jaundiced.
‘Yup,’ Toby confirms.
‘Fine – whatever,’ Ransom snaps.
‘I’m sorry to be a pain’ – Gene pushes back his cap – ‘but I’m actually meant to be collecting Mallory from ballet in just over half an hour.’
He raises his hand to his neck again.
‘Remember,’ Jen cautions, ‘we’re talking about a woman with serious mental problems, a grudge and a tattoo gun, here.’
Ransom blanches. He turns to Gene for confirmation.
‘She’s slightly agoraphobic,’ Gene admits, ‘or so I’m led to believe,’ he quickly adds.
‘And even if you do manage to get her on board with the whole idea,’ Jen continues, ‘she’ll want complete creative control. Then there’s still the psycho brother to contend with …’
‘Whadda you think?’ Ransom turns to
Gene.
‘I dunno.’ Gene shakes his head, somewhat torn.
‘You got any ink yourself, Gene?’ Nimrod wonders.
‘None. You?’
‘Big back piece. Kuniyoshi tribute – “Hatsuhana Prays under Waterfall”. Got it done in Brighton about seven years ago. Took over sixty hours.’
‘You’ve got a big tattoo?’ Toby’s fascinated. ‘I had no idea you were into all that.’
‘Big back, big tattoo,’ Nimrod confirms, smugly. ‘Fortieth birthday gift from my wife. Never regretted it,’ he adds.
‘Although I do think that when a man reaches a certain age …’ – Jen winces – ‘what with the loose texture of the skin – the tags – the sun spots – the moles …’
‘So this Tucker girl’s a bit of a looker, then?’ Nimrod persists.
‘Utterly gorgeous’ – Jen nods – ‘but barmy. Mad as a box of frogs – think Kelloggs Fruit Loops with extra nuts.’
‘Perhaps you need to sleep on it,’ Gene volunteers, darting Jen a warning look.
‘Good idea,’ Toby agrees.
‘Yeah. Take your time – think it over.’ Jen nods. ‘Be careful. This is a big decision. Tattoos are permanent, remember? The very last thing you want is to come over looking like some sad, old publicity hound desperately trying to recapture their long-distant youth.’
‘Why change the habits of a lifetime?!’ Nimrod murmurs, with a husky chortle, then stops chortling, in an instant, as Ransom shoots him a killer scowl.
‘Before this goes any further’ – Del Renzio tries to instil yet a further note of caution – ‘I’m definitely going to need to have a quick word with our lawyers about the various legal ramifications of –’
‘Fuck it!’ Ransom yanks off his bandanna and slams it to the ground. ‘Let’s do this! Let’s make this shit happen! Right here! Right now! Before I change my friggin’ mind! Ring the mad bitch!’
He throws Gene his club, then drags the paint down his cheeks with both palms.
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ Jen trills.
The Yips Page 42