Nicola Barker - The Yips

The first beautician (a short, dark-haired Cockney woman with the muscular physique of a serious masseur and an impeccably neat uniform) is haranguing the second beautician (a gangly, impossibly skinny blonde with improbably long lashes, three, thick stripes of white war-paint on each cheek, an eye-wateringly tight white catsuit, silver wedges and the kind of frilly, white apron you might sometimes find — under the label nurse/chambermaid — in an Ann Summers dress-up box).

‘I was booked in on Tuesday,’ insists the brunette. ‘Miss Wilson, his manager, came in and spoke to me herself as a matter of fact.’

‘Well I was booked in yesterday,’ the blonde effortlessly one-ups her, ‘at the very last minute, so I can only guess that she must’ve been harbouring some really serious misgivings about the tin-pot beauty concession you’re running in this joint.’

Joint?

The brunette beautician’s jaw drops.

‘You say you were booked in by Esther?’ Toby interjects, inspecting the itinerary (keen — at the very least — to prevent an all-out fist-fight).

‘Of course by Esther!’ the blonde snorts. ‘Who else?!’

‘But this is a special promotion for the Hotel’s Additional Leisure and Pampering Facilities,’ the first beautician’s smarting, ‘it makes no earthly sense to book someone from outside to do the make-up.’

‘What kind of nutty, half-baked organization books Stuart Ransom to promote their new venture in the first place?’ the blonde retorts (drifting away, somewhat, from the issue at hand). ‘It’s like booking Jack the Ripper to promote a women’s refuge! It’s totally nonsensical!’

The brunette turns to Toby for a snap reaction. The blonde also turns to Toby (before he’s had a proper chance to amass his — no doubt perfectly coherent — thoughts on the matter). ‘It’s crazy!’ she persists. ‘It’s peculiar!’

‘S.P.I.C.E.,’ Toby answers (robot-like).

‘Sorry?’ The blonde blinks.

‘S.P.I.C.E.,’ Toby repeats. ‘It’s an anagram. Each letter represents a word and each word represents an idea about the psychology of persuasion. The I in S.P.I.C.E. stands for incongruity. Things don’t always need to make sense in business. In fact sometimes things work out better if they don’t.’

The blonde ponders this for a second.

‘Okay, so you’re saying that by inviting Britain’s most dysfunctional golfer as a celebrity guest in their opening week this club’s barmy management somehow believe they’re persuading people into thinking that they’re bullet-proof? They’re projecting “confident but quirky”? They’re projecting cocksure and “knowing”?’

Even as she implicitly derides this idea the blonde is slowly being seduced by its inherent logic. She starts appraising Toby with a renewed level of interest.

‘It’s an acronym, by the way,’ the brunette beautician gently interjects.

They completely ignore her.

‘S.P.I.C.E. It’s an acronym,’ she repeats.

‘And it can’t just be a total coincidence that every other seasoned British pro-golfer of any repute is off playing on the America Tour right now …’ the blonde blithely continues. ‘I mean beggars can’t be choosers, eh?’

‘That’s an interesting take on it,’ Toby concedes (plainly preferring to try and keep his powder dry on this issue). ‘Although I think I favour “legendary” over “dysfunctional” …’

‘Let’s settle on “notorious”.’ The blonde spits on her palm, then cordially offers him her hand.

‘And another thing …’ Toby continues, grasping the hand (with a girlish wince), then promptly forgetting what he’s about to say (perhaps being momentarily stricken with conscience over what the handshake actually represents).

‘Where’s your bag?’ The squat brunette takes full advantage of this hiatus. ‘And why are you dressed in that ridiculous outfit?’

‘Where’s your manners?’ the blonde promptly snarls. ‘And why is your uniform the colour of cat vomit?’

‘Given your extremely low opinion of the client,’ (Toby finally remembers his second point), ‘why are you so eager to do his make-up?’

‘Because I’m a true professional, stupid!’ the blonde exclaims, rolling her eyes. ‘ Duh! ’

‘Well there’s no mention of the booking on Esther’s itinerary.’

Toby glances down at Esther’s clipboard, smarting.

‘I flew in on the red-eye from Glasgow.’ The blonde raises the stakes a level. ‘I’ve been doing some intensive restyling work on …’ — she pauses, struggling to conjure up the correct calibre of celebrity — ‘… Lulu,’ she eventually volunteers. ‘It was incredible — totally life-affirming. We finally waved bye-bye to her safe but boring trademark faded-ginger thatch.’

‘What shade is she now?’ the other stylist can’t resist asking.

‘I call it “balsamic vinegar”,’ the blonde explains. ‘It’s a very unusual, very rich, very radical black/burgundy tone of my own devising.’

‘On a redhead?’ the brunette clucks. ‘Doesn’t that just really bleach her out?’

‘Lulu?!’ Toby chuckles. ‘What on earth is the old girl doing with herself nowadays?’

‘How odd!’ the blonde retorts, sarcastically. ‘That’s exactly what Lulu said when I mentioned your name! She said, “What on earth is …”’ — she leans forward to read his badge — ‘“… what on earth is Toby Whittaker doing with himself nowadays?” But with her trademark cute, geriatric Scottish accent, obviously.’

‘And what did you tell her?’ Toby wonders (sensibly paranoid).

‘I said, “I’m not entirely sure …”’ the blonde sighs. ‘“Probably sticking his tongue half a mile up Stuart Ransom’s arse, same as always.”’

A difficult silence follows.

‘I always thought Lulu lived in the Home Counties,’ the Cockney eventually pipes up, ‘near Elton.’

‘Eltham? Isn’t that in south-east London?’ The blonde scowls.

‘Sorry?’

‘Eltham Palace …?’

‘No, no , not Elt ham — El ton . As in John, the singer.’

‘You have this tendency to really swallow your words when you speak,’ the blonde informs her, bluntly, ‘it’s quite off-putting.’

The brunette stares at her, perplexed.

‘I actually run a Sports Strategy website,’ Toby pipes up (plainly still wounded by the ‘Ransom’s arse’ quip).

‘I know’ — the blonde nods — ‘and it’s not half bad, either. Straightforward layout, good colour palette, not too much copy, snappy graphics …’

‘You like the graphics?’

Toby’s embarrassingly grateful.

‘I researched you online. Last night. And for the record’ — she fluffs out the frill on her apron — ‘I think nine-hole’s a great idea, in principle. But you’ll definitely need to rethink the name — “Turbo’s” just way too petrol-heady for the Green Brigade …’

While she continues to hold forth, emphatically, on this subject, the door to Ransom’s hotel room is gently eased open. The golfer (still in his bathrobe and brandishing a toothbrush) stands and blearily appraises the three of them, his tired, bloodshot eyes finally resting (somewhat quizzically, even fearfully) on the loquacious blonde.

‘By the way’ — the blonde focuses in on her rival beautician — ‘I fibbed about Lulu. The hair’s still bleached-out ginger — the colour your pee goes after a chronic bladder infection …’ She turns to Toby Whittaker: ‘And she has no idea who you are. Not the slightest clue. She has no idea who Stuart Ransom is, either …’ The blonde tips her head towards the golfer. ‘Sport just isn’t her bag. Although she’s passionate about yoga — likes to keep her hand in at netball —’