Nicola Barker - The Yips

Jen shrugs. ‘I mean I’m more in the traditional camp myself …’

‘Traditional?!’ Gene snorts. ‘You?!’

‘Yeah.’ Jen frowns. ‘Like I’d much rather have a cartoon on my arm than something more literal …’

She pauses again, thoughtfully. ‘Although you’d be surprised how uptight people get about the whole thing. There’s this massive division in the tattooing world — this chasm — between the artists who do the traditional stuff and the ultra-realists. Floating around in the middle you’ve got the “mech” bunch — the nerds — who do all the nasty, sinewy, machine-based work …’

Gene scratches his head, bemusedly, struggling to follow.

‘My crass, half-baked take on it,’ Jen volunteers, ‘if you’re interested,’ she adds (with a rare flash of modesty), ‘is that Vee jumped on to the ultra-realist bandwagon to shake off the shadow of her dad. It was a pretty long shadow — pretty dark …’

She pauses for a moment, glancing around her, speculatively (as if finally becoming aware of her immediate surroundings): ‘This is the cleanest, tidiest, most ridiculously anal broom cupboard I’ve ever had the privilege of spending time in,’ she ruminates. ‘It’s absolutely spotless. It’s psychotic! You could eat off the floors …’

She inspects Gene, quizzically. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but d’you honestly think this job offers a sufficient level of challenge for a man of your obvious dynamism?’

Gene just smiles, distractedly. He’s still pondering the Tuckers.

Jen’s eyes narrow a fraction. ‘So you’re interested in our little Miss Vee, are you?’ she wonders.

‘Interested?’ Gene echoes, his cheeks reddening.

‘Considering a nice sleeve or a back piece, maybe?’ she teases.

‘Absolutely not!’ Gene’s horrified.

‘I guess there are worse people you could go to,’ Jen maintains. ‘I mean did you check out the detail on Noel’s chest piece? That weird kind of wicker effect? It was stunning. Just like the real thing. And did you notice the snake?’

‘I caught a brief glimpse of it.’ Gene nods.

‘Well that was her early stuff. She’s got way better since. Although I think it’s only fair to warn you’ — she grins up at him, mischievously — ‘word on the street is she’s addicted to quims these days.’

‘Quims?’ Gene echoes, frowning.

‘Yeah, quims. She specializes in merkins. And nipples — post-surgical. That’s where the real money is.’

‘I’m sorry …?’ Gene shakes his head, confused.

‘Vagina wigs — merkins,’ Jen smirks. ‘She simulates hair on baldy vaginas. It’s an Eastern thing. In the West we can’t wait to get rid of it. In the East there’s this craze for tattooing it on.’

Gene laughs, incredulous, but then his mind rapidly turns back to the previous morning: the cream room; the padded table; the mirror; the torch.

‘I’m serious!’ Jen insists. ‘There’s this huge market for it over in Japan. A certain percentage of Japanese girls never develop genital hair — the Japanese aren’t a particularly hairy race — and they feel completely self-conscious about it —’

‘But I thought Japan was the original home of the tattoo,’ Gene interrupts, suspicious. ‘Why travel halfway across the planet?’

‘Because the practice is so closely associated with the underworld over there that it’s still considered really disreputable to get tattoo work done,’ Jen explains. ‘Vee’s a serious artist and very discreet. Her reputation’s spread chiefly through word of mouth. The stuff she does looks totally real. She’s the best. Go to her site on the internet. It’s just amazing. I’ll give you the address if you like …’ She pauses for a second as if summoning it up from memory: ‘www.baldytwinkle.com’.

‘Hilarious.’ Gene smiles.

‘It’s true!’ Jen squeals, slapping his arm. Gene winces. She draws back her hand and quickly checks her watch. ‘ Balls . I’m rota’d on at ten. It’s five past.’

She bends down and pulls up her socks again.

‘Dodgy elastic?’ Gene speculates.

‘My kid sister said my knees are looking bony,’ Jen grumbles. ‘D’you think my knees are looking bony?’ She hitches up her short skirt. ‘Am I too thin? Be honest. My mum says it’s all the stress of the exams …’

‘You’re not serious about going to the papers?’ Gene firmly sidesteps the contentious subject of Jen’s knees.

‘Give me a break!’ Jen drops her skirt, insulted. ‘Although feeding muscle relaxants to a minor? That’s fucked up! It’s heinous! The poor kid was flopping around like some kind of crazy rag doll when I found him.’

‘You didn’t mention that to Sheila, did you?’ Gene anxiously interjects.

‘Mention what? That he was all floppy?’

Jen flops forward, to illustrate.

‘The muscle relaxants.’

‘How d’you mean?’ Jen straightens up, frowning.

‘You didn’t happen to mention to Sheila that he’d taken —’

‘Of course I did!’ Jen’s horrified. ‘She’s his mother for heaven’s sake! She has every right to know what sick kinds of mischief the little twit is getting up to behind her back!’

Gene’s face falls.

Pause.

‘Aw come on , Gene!’ Jen guffaws, tenderly cuffing his cheek. ‘D’you think I was born yesterday?’

‘Well you blabbed about the dope.’ Gene jerks his head to one side, irritated. ‘You told her the house was “wall-to-wall vomit” …’

‘Did I?’

Jen ponders this for a moment. ‘Oh. Yeah. I suppose I did …’ She shrugs. ‘Well I sincerely apologize if I inadvertently violated your precious wall of silence.’

She pulls an apologetic face.

‘There isn’t any wall,’ Gene snaps.

‘Then I’m sorry if I unwittingly served a tiny ball of truth over the sagging but dependable net of lies that is your marriage,’ she neatly modifies.

‘I always intended to tell her,’ Gene murmurs, palpably wrong-sided. ‘It was simply a question of finding the right —’

‘It’s entirely up to you what you choose to keep from your wife,’ Jen announces, blithely.

‘She takes things so much to heart.’ Gene’s suddenly almost emotional. ‘She always blames herself …’

‘ Aw . She’s very sensitive.’

Jen sticks out her lower lip.

‘Yeah. She is.’ Gene falters, feeling inexplicably stupid.

‘If I can change the subject for just one second,’ Jen rapidly interjects, stepping back and appraising him, appreciatively, from top to toe, ‘d’you have any idea how incredibly hot you look in that uniform?’

Gene’s initially surprised, then embarrassed, then nonplussed by this declaration.

‘I mean Raylon’s such an awful, non-breathable fabric, don’t you reckon?’ she twinkles, tweaking his collar as she saunters past him. Then, as she exits his office, ‘Is it only me,’ she sighs, glancing winsomely over her shoulder, fanning her face with her hand and winking, saucily, ‘or has your central heating just gone haywire?’

‘ Spice? ’

Stuart Ransom cocks a mildly jaundiced eyebrow. He and two other men are sitting at a table in the golf club’s second-best restaurant (caps off, no tie) having just shared a sumptuous breakfast together. It is almost ten o’clock.

‘Yeah, spice,’ the first man — gawky, skinny, bespectacled, pale yet heavily freckled, wearing baggy, brown cords and a lightly checked, brushed cotton shirt with the buttons fastened right up to the collar — tentatively expands, ‘it’s an anagram. S.P.I.C.E. Each letter represents a different concept.’

‘Not an anagram, you fool!’ Esther brusquely interjects from a nearby table (speaking through a mouthful of her third pain au chocolat ). ‘It an acronym. You never done a crossword before? Lord! What they teaching you people at school these days?’