Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘ Stage-manage? ’ Esther’s almost lost for words. ‘You think me want this kind of coverage?’

‘Of course you do!’ Ransom snorts. ‘You moved my meeting with Noel Tucker to the Thistle for Christ’s sake!’

‘How many times I have to tell you?!’ (Now it’s Esther’s turn to be indignant.) ‘Noel aks me to move it there!’

She’s sweating, heavily, and as she speaks (Ransom coolly notes) two expansive, damp patches are bleeding outwards from under the armpits of her shirt.

‘Sorry, Est, but I’m not buyin’ it,’ he mutters, ‘and the fact that I’m not buyin’ it sets off a whole series of alarm bells in my head.’

‘Alarm bell?’ Esther echoes, dumbfounded.

‘Such as why I needed to stay in town that night,’ Ransom continues. ‘I mean why couldn’t I just turn up at the club a day early like we originally scheduled?’

‘We already discuss this, Stu.’ Esther’s exasperated. ‘The club had some last-minute fire licence issue.’

‘Okay. Then why didn’t you come and join me at the Leaside?’ he persists.

‘We not afford it, Stu.’ Esther’s growing increasingly frustrated. ‘Me stuck in a crummy B&B, other side of the ring-road, wid no transport.’

‘Nah’ — Ransom’s still not satisfied — ‘there are definitely some unresolved issues here …’ (He’s patently incapable of coming up with any, just off the cuff.) ‘… fundamental issues, Est, critical issues, connected to trust.’

He glares at her, balefully. ‘Bottom line is, I’m vulnerable right now. You know that — better than anybody. I need people around me I can depend on. People I can trust. People I can take at face value. I need reliable back-up, Est. I don’t wanna just feel exploited. I need to be cosseted — nurtured — cherished , even — to feel like I’m the captain of my troops again. I need a proper team — a real team — with an unshakeable faith. A unity of purpose. A coherent —’

‘ Bullshit! ’ Esther’s had enough. ‘An army only as good as its leader, Stu. Face it: your game gone to shit. Your life gone to shit. An’ I’s the only troop you got left standin’ right now. Jus’ own it, boy, then deal with it!’

A short silence.

‘My game’s a little unpredictable,’ Ransom finally concedes (struggling to remain calm in the face of this sudden onslaught), ‘I’m the first to admit that …’

‘Me gone.’ Esther suddenly grabs a hold of her distended belly and wheels towards the door (like she’s planning to use it to ram her way out of there; which — on a symbolic level, at least — isn’t too far from the truth).

‘Did you remember my Lamisil?’ he calls after her.

Esther’s fingers are clutching on to the door handle. ‘Bathroom cabinet …’ she grunts. ‘Oh yeah, an’ me got Del Renzio to call in a favour …’ She blinks a couple of times (sweat is dripping from her brows and down into her eyes). ‘… some local kid to carry your bag, gratis . He come at breakfast …’

‘But there’s no need …’ Ransom’s irritated.

‘How so?’ Esther glances over her shoulder, with a grimace.

‘Because I’ve already got someone lined up.’

‘This exactly the problem, Stu!’ Esther spins back around again, steaming. ‘Communication! Ya know?!’

‘I was just about to tell you …’ Ransom starts off.

‘You think me born yesterday?’ Esther scoffs. ‘I seen your man in the car park, dressed up like some gay rookie soldier-boy from Platoon .’

‘Totally wrong era,’ Ransom interjects.

‘Sorry?’

Esther doesn’t appreciate the interruption.

‘Wrong era. The cap and the jacket …’

‘ME DON’T CARE , STU!’ Esther yells.

Ransom gazes at her, hurt. ‘ Wow! ’ he eventually mutters. ‘You’re always the one bangin’ on about how the devil’s in the details …’

‘Well here a lickle detail for ya,’ Esther hisses. ‘Me tore him off a strip, then sent him packin’. He not comin’ back here any time soon.’

Ransom doesn’t immediately react. He fiddles with the cord on his bathrobe for a moment, then looks up, coldly.

‘You do gotta go,’ he says.

Esther checks her watch, prepares to say something, then bends over, gasping. Ransom turns and glances at the bedside clock.

‘Seven minutes,’ he murmurs.

There’s a sharp rap at the door.

‘Cab’s here!’ Toby yells, trying the handle. ‘I’ve thrown your suitcase …’

He enters the room, espies Esther, and quickly leaps forward to offer support.

‘Is she okay?’

He looks to Ransom, shocked.

‘She’ll be fine.’ Ransom waves his hand, serenely. ‘She’s just hamming it up because I sacked her.’

Nano-pause.

‘You did …

‘You say …

WHAT?! ’

Esther and Toby each enunciate their own, uniquely individual three short syllables in a perfectly timed — almost farcical — conjunction.

An attractive, well-presented middle-aged woman answers the door. Gene starts (somewhat taken aback), then formally introduces himself, apologizing, sincerely, for the lateness of the hour. She puts a finger to her lips and says (alternating between English and French, but with the former language spoken in a heavy, almost theatrical French accent), ‘Hush! Faites attention! The child sleeps! Welcome! I’m Frédérique,’ then cordially invites him in.

Everything about Frédérique seems perfectly normal, except for her dressing gown which she appears to be wearing the wrong way around (her arms pushed uncomfortably forward, her shoulders slightly hunched: like a surgeon bewilderingly disabled by his surgical scrubs).

She leads him through to the sitting room where she indicates towards the sofa and offers him refreshment. He politely declines. He repeats (for the third time) that he is eager to see Valentine. She nods but does nothing, just stands there, openly devouring him with her eyes, her entire face illuminated — transfigured, even — by a wide, slightly intimidating, sixty-watt smile.

To break the impasse, Gene changes his mind and asks for a glass of water. She nods again, then carefully bends down and starts laboriously removing something from beneath her nightdress. It is a nappy.

‘I don’t know why they persist in putting these things on me,’ she says, pulling it off, ‘it’s so strange n’est-ce pas? Si honteuse! So unnecessary!’

She holds it out to him, indignant. ‘Look!’ she says. ‘A nappy!’

‘Yes. Yes, I see …’ Gene murmurs, nodding, and then (for want of anything more pertinent to add), ‘I’m sorry.’

‘My dear, dear friend,’ she sighs, eyes raised, melodramatic, ‘this is not the life I was intended for!’

‘No,’ Gene concedes, with a wry grimace, ‘I feel that way myself, sometimes …’

She drops the nappy to the floor.

‘What life were you intended for?’ she asks, undermining this question — while she speaks — with a flutter of extraordinary hand movements that seem to relate on no discernible level to the enquiry she’s just made.

Gene ponders his answer for a while.

‘I always wanted to be a cricketer,’ he eventually confesses, ‘or a pilot, maybe, with the RAF —’

‘I always wanted to be a dancer,’ she interrupts, ‘a beautiful ballerina.’

She commences twirling around the room, her balance shot, her arms still chronically restricted by the dressing gown.

Gene takes out his phone and rings Valentine’s mobile. She answers immediately.

‘Where are you?’ he asks, at a whisper.