Nicola Barker - The Yips

She grimaces, enraged. ‘Got him a real attitude. A real, nasty attitude.’

As she finishes speaking she draws to a halt in front of them. She is out of breath. She supports her massively low and distended stomach with her free hand. The other hand holds a mobile phone.

‘Perhaps you frightened him,’ Toby ventures, slightly nervous.

‘How so?’ She glowers.

‘With your … in your …’ He gestures, lamely, towards the bathrobe.

‘You think he ain’t seen no woman in a robe before?’ she snorts, incredulous.

‘Possibly not wandering around the car park …’

‘Wanderin’ around the car park?’ Esther squawks, livid. ‘Me not wanderin’ around the car park!’

All three of them are silent for a second as they jointly mull over the patent illogicality of this statement.

‘Me not “ wander ”,’ Esther grumbles, quickly honing in on Toby’s sloppy choice of verb as the root of the problem. ‘Me not “ wanderin ’” around.’

‘Rampaging, then,’ Toby volunteers, unhelpfully.

‘Did you try ringing reception?’ Gene quickly interjects.

‘Say what ?!’ Esther turns to appraise him, haughtily.

‘About the badgers,’ Gene persists. ‘Did you try and ring …?’

‘Good God!’ Esther expostulates. ‘What wrong with you people? Of course me rang reception! Three time, no less! Of course me rang reception! You think me want to be out here in me bathrobe? I nine month pregnant! Eight and a half month …’ she quickly corrects herself, glancing towards Toby. ‘Hair in a shower-cap! You think me want to be “wanderin’” around the car park this hour?!’

‘Of course you don’t.’ Toby places a calming hand on her arm. She promptly shakes it off.

‘The man jus’ plain rude!’ she mutters, pursing her lips. ‘Me done nothin’ to deserve that attitude.’

‘Perhaps his English wasn’t too great.’ Gene tries to mollify her.

‘Who you work for?’ Esther snorts, her eyes focusing in on Gene’s military headwear. ‘International Peace Corps?’

‘This is Gene,’ Toby promptly steps in to oversee formal introductions. ‘Nephew of Cheiro, remember? Stu’s new caddie?’

Esther just scowls into the distance, ignoring Gene’s proffered hand.

‘Gene, this is Esther, Ransom’s manager,’ Toby continues, ‘and just for the record,’ he adds, somewhat punctiliously, ‘the International Peace Corps are generally to be found sporting a rather fetching pale blue helmet.’

He nudges Gene, surreptitiously. ‘After a couple of days around Ransom you may consider upgrading to something bulletproof,’ he murmurs.

‘Red helmet, blue helmet,’ Esther mutters, ‘me work in this industry long enough to know what that look of his all about.’

‘You could always lodge an official complaint,’ Gene suggests, dropping his hand and returning it to the Megane’s door handle.

‘I’ll come with you if you like’ — Toby nods — ‘for moral support. Or, better still,’ he adds, ‘we could go and deal with those pesky badgers ourselves.’

He looks to Gene for back-up.

‘You serious?’ Esther’s suddenly wreathed in smiles. ‘Me try earlier but the bin way too heavy …’ She puts a hand to her hip. ‘My back killin’ me now …’

‘No trouble!’ Toby nods. ‘Gene?’ he repeats.

‘Sure.’ Gene lets go of the handle, somewhat regretfully.

‘Jus’ there …’ Esther all but coos, broadly indicating in the approximate direction with her phone, ‘side of the main kitchen block.’

‘It’s as good as done.’

Toby promptly starts off and Gene turns to follow, but Esther grabs a hold of his arm before he’s two steps away from her. Toby glances over his shoulder, disgruntled.

‘No problem, Tobe.’ She genially waves him on. ‘Me jus’ borrow him for one minute.’

Her grip (Gene immediately discerns, alarmed) has a surprisingly tenacious and implacable feel to it.

‘Sorry — just hold on a second …’ Sheila swaps the phone from one ear to the other. ‘This number is for “V”, you say, and “V” is one of Gene’s …?’

She listens again, frowning. She is dressed for bed in an old, oversized pair of men’s paisley, silk-mix pyjamas which have been darned on the front and are frayed at the heel.

‘A problem with her meter …’

She pushes up her sleeve, quickly scribbling down ‘V’ and a number on to the pad next to the phone with a heavily chewed, two-inch-long pencil stub.

‘A tattooist?’

She pauses for a moment, her eyes focusing, blankly, on a damp-stained patch of Artexed ceiling just to the left of the dusty, seventies-era wicker light shade.

‘Uh … that does ring a vague bell,’ she concedes. ‘He mentioned something about a tattooist while we were chatting this afternoon …’

Sheila glances down at the pad again, perplexed, trying to meld things together in her mind.

‘But how would she have known to contact the hotel …’ she wonders, ‘unless …?’

Something odd suddenly strikes her.

‘Hang on … this … this “V” person — this tattooist — she wouldn’t also happen to be the Turner girl, would she?’

A short pause.

‘Wickers?’

A longer pause followed by a mirthless snort.

‘Incredible as this may seem, Jen, the stars on your collar bones weren’t entirely at the forefront of our conversation …’

A further pause.

‘Sorry?’

A look of vague alarm.

‘You broke into the office?’

Another pause.

‘Oh. Okay. So you have a duplicate key …’

Sheila shakes her head, grimacing, then continues to listen, somewhat long-sufferingly.

‘Well that’s very … yes … that’s … that’s … that’s …’

Nodding. Bored.

‘… I fully understand how important this is. You’ve made that point very clearly. I …’

Another pause.

‘I promise to tell him just as soon as he gets …’

Sheila checks her watch (it’s a quarter to eleven), ‘… yes … right … fine . Well if I’ve gone up to bed by then, everything’s written down on the pad by the phone.’

Short pause.

‘I’m afraid I have no control over whether he chooses to answer his mobile or not.’

Look of slight irritation.

‘I’ve no idea. He’s at a business meeting.’

Pause. Exasperated eye-rolling.

‘… with Stuart Ransom, if you must know, at some exclusive new golf club over towards … Sorry? ’

Blinks. Taken aback.

‘But how …?’

Listens, head slightly cocked, plainly annoyed.

‘Yes, I’m perfectly well-acquainted with the layout of the men’s toilets, Jen …’

Infuriated grimace.

‘Well nothing’s set in stone … I mean there was talk …’

Sheila holds the phone away from her ear for a couple of seconds, rolls her eyes then returns the phone to her ear again, wincing.

‘… there was talk of him caddying for a few days, but I don’t seriously imagine …’

Two haughtily raised eyebrows.

‘D’you think you might manage to hold on until morning?’

( Delivered with an almost saccharine sweetness. )

‘Oh. You don’t. Okay …’

Dangerously polite.

‘Well I’ll be certain to tell him that.’

Still dangerously polite.

‘I’m not being scary.’

Sheila inspects the ceiling again, her nostrils flaring.

‘I’m not being scary, Jen!’