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