Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘She’s territorial.’ Toby nods, mournfully.

‘She’s been with him for an awfully long time,’ Gene observes. ‘The bond between them must be very powerful.’

‘How d’you mean?’ Toby scowls.

‘They’re a real partnership.’ Gene shrugs. ‘She must’ve given up an awful lot to be with him — family, home-life, her financial security. It can’t have been easy all these years.’

‘She has two kids living with her mum in Jamaica,’ Toby affirms. ‘She hardly ever gets to see them.’

‘Which naturally leads one to think that her feelings might be a little bit more … dunno … more complicated than those that are habitual between a manager and a client.’

Toby looks alarmed. ‘You think she’s in love with him?’

‘Well you said yourself that you thought it was “one of the great sporting romances”.’

‘Did I?’ Toby now seems shocked by his earlier pronouncement.

‘She’s made sacrifices’ — Gene shrugs — ‘and people don’t generally do that for no good reason.’

‘Unless they’re in some kind of a rut,’ Toby avers.

‘Or lack confidence,’ Gene hypothesizes.

‘Can’t envisage any alternative,’ Toby adds.

‘Or maybe if they think they’ve burned all their bridges …’

‘I’m gonna be completely honest with you, here …’

For the first time during their conversation, Toby half-turns to face him. ‘I don’t respect Ransom any more, Gene,’ he confesses. ‘In fact I’m not sure I ever did. And I know it’s shocking — disloyal, even — but I just really need to get it out there, in the open.’

‘Everybody needs to let off a little steam sometimes,’ Gene murmurs, uneasy.

‘I think I was just blinded by the big spiel, by all the hoopla and the celebrity,’ Toby runs on, emboldened. ‘The truth is that I think he’s just a bully and a sneak. And a fat-head — incredibly selfish. And that he uses people —’

‘People use him, too,’ Gene interrupts.

‘It’s the culture,’ Toby concedes.

‘He’s a performer.’ Gene makes a feeble attempt to defend the golfer. ‘It’s all swagger for the most part — just a front.’

‘A front for what, though?’ Toby smiles, somewhat cynical.

‘Who knows? Feelings of inadequacy — impotence — humiliation — loneliness — wounded pride …’

‘I really want out of the whole thing,’ Toby mutters, ‘I just wish I had some kind of …’ — he shakes his head, frustrated — ‘an incentive — some kind of … of encouragement — a sign …’

‘I thought you said there was this other opportunity,’ Gene reminds him. ‘Maybe it’s time you looked into that in more detail.’

‘I’m just racked by uncertainty, Gene!’ Toby slaps his hands on to his thighs, frustrated. ‘I’m a mess. I lack the confidence. I just need …’

He shakes his head again.

Long silence.

‘D’you want me to look at your palm?’ Gene finally asks, exhausted.

‘No!’ Toby exclaims, almost offended. ‘I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that!’

He stares straight ahead of him, stiff with desire, silently counting the dead flies on the windscreen.

‘Just a very quick look,’ Gene sighs, ‘while we’re stuck in …’

Quick as a flash Toby is holding out his left palm, then his right, unsure which of them Gene will want to inspect. Gene straightens up in his seat, pushes back his shoulders, smiles the most keen, most professional, palmist’s smile he can possibly muster, then reaches out his own hands and gently takes them both.

Vicki Wilson is transporting bulging bagfuls of baby provisions from the boot of her hire car to a temporary berth by the reception desk when Israel and Jen turn up, sweating heavily and slightly out of breath. She peers down at her watch.

‘You’re over an hour late,’ she grumbles. ‘What happened?’

‘We’re so sorry, Mrs Wilson,’ Jen gushes. ‘The class overran. There was an impromptu performance at the end. Some of the parents came along. Israel didn’t want to back out — let the other kids down … I swear.’ She gazes over at him, beaming. ‘Your son was quite the star of the show!’

‘Congratulations.’ Vicki delivers him a wan smile. ‘You took to the drumming, then? Or were you dancing?’

‘Drumming,’ Israel responds.

‘Dancing,’ Jen also responds, at exactly the same time.

‘Both,’ Jen then rapidly elucidates (as Israel gazes down, fixedly, at the floor). ‘It was wild. Unstructured. Totally free-form. We all tried a bit of everything — myself included …’

She performs a winsome little twirl.

‘Wonderful.’ Vicki smiles, indulgently. ‘Now here’s the thing,’ she continues, ‘I spent all my spare cash at Mothercare in the Arndale so I’ll need to run upstairs and get a few extra notes to pay you, but I left the hire car unlocked in the multi-storey …’ She proffers Jen the keys. ‘It’s a red Kia, second floor, just next to the lift. You can’t miss it. Would you mind heading up there and keeping an eye on it for a couple of minutes?’

‘Second floor?’

Jen takes the keys.

‘That’d really help me out.’ Vicki nods. ‘The girl’s a Godsend!’ she turns and informs the receptionist behind the desk who hands them their room key as Jen happily scampers off.

‘Will ya help wid these baby ting here, Israel?’ Vicki drops the posh accent, points to the pile of bags, takes his briefcase by way of exchange, then goes to call the lift. Israel does as he’s asked — slightly nervous — and once they’re both inside and comfortably ensconced, she turns to inspect her reflection in the mirrored back wall, checking her nostrils and pushing back her hair. ‘Now you want tell me where you really been all day?’ she asks, her manner easy, her voice still casual.

‘ Wha’? ’ Israel instantly looks panicked.

‘I was early an’ I drove myself down to the class. You not there. Man say you not been there all day.’ She turns to face him. ‘So where was you exactly, son? Eh?’

‘Me not want dance,’ Israel starts off, terrified.

‘ Where? ’ his mother repeats.

‘Nowhere. We just hung out at a golf course all day.’

His mother freezes.

‘You never tell me Aunt Esther haemorrhage,’ he adds, indignant (possibly hoping to gain some kind of moral advantage).

‘What happen there?’ she demands, her voice low now, and ominous.

‘Nothing happen! I just read my book is all! There was some kids playin’ a tournament …’

The lift arrives at the correct floor and the doors automatically open. Israel steps out. His mother places his briefcase in the hallway beside him but stays put herself.

‘What else?’ she asks.

‘Nothing.’ He shrugs. ‘It was boring. I read my book.’

‘What else ?’ she persists.

‘There was a golfer — being photograph. Jen help him with his make-up.’

‘You speak with him at all?’ his mother demands.

‘No.’

Israel shakes his head.

‘He speak with you?’

‘No.’

His mother lifts one, profoundly suspicious brow.

‘No!’ he insists.

‘You got anything else you need to tell me?’ she asks.

‘No.’ He shakes his head, then quickly reconsiders. ‘Only I’m sorry.’

‘That it?’

‘Uh. Yes.’ He frowns. ‘Me think so.’

‘Fine.’

She releases the doors-open button and prods the ground floor one.

‘Go pack your bag,’ she tells him, refusing all eye contact. ‘We leavin’ here tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ he echoes, then, ‘It not Jen fault!’ he squeaks. ‘Me hate the drum! You know me got no rhythm!’