Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘ You …’ Ransom brusquely interrupts (after swallowing a mouthful of spit and foam). ‘Inside.’

He thumbs over his shoulder (completely ignoring the other two). The blonde promptly sashays past him and into the room, still talking, nineteen to the dozen.

‘Fact is, I think she just really enjoys showing off her pins in her dinky little netball outfit. The legs are apparently always the last thing to go. She has this special, funky, tartan bib …’

As the door slams shut again, Toby hears Ransom muttering, indignant, ‘You do know I was standing behind the door for that entire conversation?’

‘That’s handy,’ the blonde rejoins, unabashed, ‘it’ll save me from having to repeat myself. My throat feels a little strained.’

‘What’ve you come dressed as?’ the golfer demands (piqued). ‘An extra from the Cirque du Soleil? A maggot? Adam friggin’ Ant?’

‘What’ve you come dressed as?’ the blonde retorts. ‘An old has-been? A sore loser? The unholy dick-head who sacks his manager of fourteen years’ standing in the final stages of a near-fatal labour?’

Whittaker cringes as he hears this, his free hand moving down, guiltily, to the phone in his pocket.

‘How’d you find out about that?’ Ransom snaps, somewhat taken aback.

‘The web, stupid!’ the blonde retorts.

‘And you believe everything you read?’

(Ransom tries to sound withering.)

‘Everything about you? God, yes — and worse.’ The blonde chortles.

‘Well that’s very reassuring.’ (Ransom is poignant.)

A brief silence follows. Toby Whittaker turns to the brunette beautician and prepares to speak (first clearing his throat).

‘What’s that racket?’ the blonde mutters (before Toby can follow through).

‘Nothing. I left the shower running.’

‘Why?’

‘Why else? Because I’m waiting for it to heat up!’ Ransom answers, defensive.

‘Shockingly un-environmental!’ the blonde grumbles. ‘Bloody typical!’

‘I’ll turn it off, then …’ he mutters, his voice fading, temporarily. ‘In fact the sight of you in that dreadful catsuit’s just reminded me …’ he yells, over the squeak of new taps turning, ‘… I’m nearly out of toothpaste.’

‘Has your hairline receded even further since Monday,’ the blonde calls after him, ‘or is it just the criminally unflattering light in this hotel room?’

‘We’ve just come from the dentist,’ Karim explains, somewhat flustered, ‘the appointment overran. She’s feeling a little woozy. She had some root-canal work done. All she needs is a cup of sweet tea and a seat in the corner. She won’t be any trouble …’

The woman in the burqa wobbles slightly on her feet. Karim grabs her arm and mutters something, gruffly, in what sounds like Arabic. The woman doesn’t answer just glares down at the floor, sullenly.

‘Of course! Come inside!’ Valentine exclaims, concerned. She turns and leads the way down the corridor. ‘Through here — she can stretch out on the sofa. I’ll put on the fan …’

They follow her into the sitting room where Karim gently assists his wife to sit down. She props herself, stiffly, on the very edge of the seat, then hisses, sharply, when a cat pads towards her.

Valentine apologizes, shoos the cat through the door and then moves a large, free-standing Art Deco fan across the room, plugs it in and turns it on.

‘It’s such a hot day again,’ she murmurs, angling it towards the woman. ‘Stuffy …’

The woman — Aamilah — pointedly turns her face away from the breeze of the fan, then fastidiously picks a cat hair from the knee of her black robe.

‘Like I say,’ Karim repeats, irritated, ‘just get her a cup of sweet tea — maybe a biscuit …’

He addresses Milah again in his own guttural tongue. She doesn’t answer, just shakes her head.

‘No biscuit,’ he qualifies.

Valentine nods. She is immaculately attired in a full-skirted red gingham dress with built-in petticoats and a pair of red, strappy, gladiator-style sandals with a little inch-high heel. Her wrists clack with heavy, plastic bracelets. Her fringe is curled. Her hair falls in ringlets over her shoulders. Her make-up is immaculate. She seems completely at her ease; beatific — even joyous — the epitome of effortless femininity (although the overall effect is somewhat compromised by a large, blotchy stress rash which stands out, starkly, across her breastbone).

‘Should I turn the fan down slightly?’ she fusses, heading over to adjust the dial. As she reaches out her arm, she senses Milah’s eyes fixing, disapprovingly, on her cupcake tattoo. Milah mutters something under her breath. Karim responds to it, sharply. Milah lowers her eyes again, submissively.

‘A sweet tea,’ Valentine announces brightly, straightening up. ‘Would she like milk?’

She addresses this question directly to Karim.

‘Black is fine,’ Karim insists.

Milah murmurs something.

‘Just a splash, then,’ Karim rapidly modifies.

‘And you?’ Valentine asks. ‘Should I make a pot?’

‘No, I’m good.’ Karim shakes his head. ‘Too many stimulants play havoc with my libido. Diminish my sense of focus.’

Valentine’s eyes dart towards Milah. Milah stares at the floor. Her expression is unreadable.

‘I mean we could always cancel today’s session if …’ She bites her lip, her eyes moving anxiously back and forth between the two of them.

‘Absolutely not!’ Karim’s horrified. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s only a short, twenty-minute session, but building up trust is imperative. It’s critical. We need to establish a routine. Regularity is essential for people in your mother’s condition. They experience love not through words but through actions. We need to let the patient know that we can be depended upon.’

‘Of course.’ Valentine nods, intimidated.

Karim removes his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and pats his face with it. ‘I’ll head upstairs directly if that’s acceptable?’

‘Absolutely. Would you like me to …?’

Valentine starts towards the door.

‘No. It’s fine.’ He shoves the handkerchief away again. ‘I prefer to find my own way — to arrive under my own steam — strictly on my own terms, in other words. I can’t get caught up in family politics. That would be fatal. I come as a friend — freely — not as a gift or as a favour. I must strive to be independent.’

Karim performs a formal little bow to each of the two women and then promptly leaves them. They both listen, in silence, as his gentle tread recedes up the stairs.

‘Tea,’ Valentine mutters, then dips (almost a small curtsey) and leaves the room herself.

When she returns, several minutes later, holding a small, round copper tea-tray, she is astonished to find Milah sitting on the floor (like an infant), the rugs around her strewn with photographs that have been removed (without leave) from her art portfolio.

Milah glances up at her.

‘I did art at school,’ she announces, in perfect English, ‘but I quit halfway through my A-level. The Prophet — peace be upon him — cursed the image-makers. In our religion tattooing is haram .’

‘ Haram? ’ Valentine echoes.

‘Forbidden. Allah curses the person who does tattoos and the person who has tattoos done.’

‘I see.’

Valentine frowns, uncertain what to say.

‘Although you can become a Muslim with a tattoo,’ Milah concedes. ‘Even if you’ve applied tattoos. Islam erases all the sins you have committed before becoming a Muslim. Allah is Oft-Forgiving and Most Merciful. You can still pray, do wudhu and perform all your Islamic duties with a tattoo. Look …’