Nicola Barker - The Yips

Once the front door slams, she goes to a full-length mirror on the wall and inspects her reflection in it. ‘Slime,’ she murmurs, focusing in on her nerve rash, touching it, grimacing, then returning her full attention to the email on her computer and re-reading it once, twice, three times.

‘This is crazy!’ she whispers, standing stock-still for a couple of minutes, staring up at the ceiling, before turning and walking over to her black, padded tattooing bench, climbing on to it and lying there, face-down, silently, for what feels like an age, feet together, arms pinned to her sides, face crushed into the synthetic fabric.

‘There are two kinds of women,’ Ransom informs her, posing, raffishly, on the state-of-the-art driving range while she carefully applies a touch of concealer to a large, red spot which is erupting — like a brave, little sunrise — from between the clefts of his chin.

‘There’s the women who will have sex with you, and the women who won’t have sex with you because they think that if they do have sex with you then you won’t respect them afterwards. This second kind are the worst, because they actually think that by not having sex with you they represent more of “a challenge”, so when they do finally have sex with you (and — let’s face it — it’s only a matter of time), it will somehow be more “meaningful” …’

Ransom enunciates the word ‘meaningful’ in much the same way a normal person might enunciate the word ‘diarrhoea’.

‘Gracious!’ Jen steps back and appraises the golfer, awed. ‘Golfer/businessman, golfer/role model, golfer/philosopher, golfer/ psychologist …’ She winks at Toby Whittaker who stands nearby holding a large, white, light reflector, several changes of clothes and a furled umbrella. ‘Is there really no end to your talents?’

‘Golfer/chauvinist,’ Israel mutters from his nearby perch — a small, portable sports-stool — where he is diligently ploughing his way through the final chapter of his book.

Ransom inspects the sullen teen (as he poses) from the corner of his eye.

‘Where’d the kid come from?’ he demands. ‘What’s his function? Spear-carrier? Messenger boy? Eunuch?’

‘He’s my protégé ,’ Jen clucks (as Israel delivers Ransom a look of searing condescension, then returns, with an eye-roll, to his reading matter).

‘Haughty!’ Ransom avows.

‘Into the light, please!’ the photographer yells.

‘Strange how that’ll happen sometimes,’ Jen muses, ‘when you blithely cast aspersions on someone’s racial, emotional and sexual integrity …’

‘What the hell does he look like?’ Ransom wonders, inspecting Israel’s pink tie and mauve shirt combo with a slightly curled lip.

‘That’s his style,’ Jen sighs. ‘He’s sensitive — artistic …’

‘Toby?’ the photographer yells. ‘Toby, is it? A couple of inches higher with the …’

‘What’s he reading?’ Ransom demands, swatting at his cheek.

‘I think you’ll find it’s …’ — Jen lowers her voice as she moves in closer to pick off the remains of a tiny gnat (which has just been embedded into his foundation) — ‘ a proper book. ’ She pats him on the shoulder, reassuringly. ‘Not anything you need to worry your pretty little head about.’

‘Looks weighty,’ Toby amiably interjects as Jen rapidly retreats and Ransom quietly admires her slim but jaunty rump.

‘Into the light!’ the photographer yells, again. ‘And raise the club just a fraction …’

‘It’s no Ulysses ,’ Israel avers (with a nicely judged measure of condescension), ‘but still fun for all of that.’

‘Where’d you nab the stool from?’ Ransom grumbles, jealous.

‘The light!’ The photographer’s voice gives slightly under pressure.

‘It’s mine. I brought it with me.’ Israel’s suitably smug.

‘How old did you say he was?’ Ransom turns to Jen again.

‘To the front, please! ’ the photographer yells.

‘Thirteen.’

‘A fraction higher with the reflector!’ the photographer persists.

‘You’re thirteen years old and you carry a fold-up stool about the place?’ Ransom’s appalled.

‘It packs down into a very convenient size,’ Israel maintains, ‘which fits neatly into my briefcase.’

‘Fuck me!’ Ransom’s astonished. ‘Who’s he think he is?’ He turns to Jen, indignant. ‘The black Quentin Crisp?!’

‘His parents are guests at the hotel.’ Jen scowls. ‘They’re caught up in some big family crisis, so I’m baby-sitting. I promised them I’d take him to the Hat Factory, but he wasn’t especially sold on the idea —’

‘No need to go to a factory — we’ve got plenty of hats here!’ Ransom interrupts. ‘Toby, throw the kid a hat.’

‘The Hat Factory is an arts centre,’ — Jen’s withering — ‘they hold drumming and dance classes …’

‘Chuck the kid a hat, Tobe,’ Ransom repeats. Toby hesitates (he’s struggling to hold up the light reflector).

Ransom grabs a couple and throws them himself. One hits Israel square in the face, the other lands on his lap. Israel adjusts his glasses, lifts his book, clears his throat and continues to read.

‘Put one on,’ Ransom suggests.

Israel ignores him.

‘What’s his friggin’ problem?’

Ransom turns to Jen again, exasperated.

‘It’s a very general rule of thumb,’ Jen confides, ‘but hats don’t always tend to combine well with glasses.’

‘Spike Lee seems to manage okay,’ Ransom snits.

‘And anyway,’ Jen runs on, ‘his mother probably wouldn’t approve.’

‘His mother? What’s she got to do with the price of beef?’

‘She’s one of those intellectual types. Dogmatic. A real stickler. Hates sports. Especially gol-ol-ol-olf . Thinks it’s …’

‘Oh here we go,’ Ransom mutters, promptly returning to his posing.

‘What?’

Jen looks faux -insulted.

Ransom just smiles, cheesily, for the camera.

‘Fine!’ Jen faux -huffs, going to stand next to Toby. Toby continues to hold the light reflector aloft.

‘ Gol-ol-lluf! ’ Jen quietly intones.

Toby glances over at her.

‘ Gol-ulf! ’

Jen faux -retches.

‘It’s a funny word,’ Toby agrees, slightly uneasy, ‘there’s no fixed etymology —’

‘Etty-botty-whatty?’ Ransom butts in, scowling.

‘Word origin. The history of the word. Where the word originally comes from … like …’ Toby thinks for a second. ‘Like rugby, for example — the word and the game have a fairly precise historical origin …’

‘You don’t say?!’ Jen gazes up at him, lashes fluttering.

‘Yeah … The word comes from the name of a school — Rugby School in Warwickshire …’

‘Maybe just leaning on the club, now,’ the photographer suggests, ‘taking a break, peering out into the deep, blue yonder, hand shading your eyes …’

Ransom obliges.

‘There was a pupil at the school, a boy called William Webb Ellis, and he was out on the sports field playing a football match when he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to just pick up the ball and run with it. This was circa 1820-something …’

‘But why did the school have that name in the first place?’ Ransom demands.

‘Sorry?’

‘Why was the school called Rugby?’

‘ Duh! ’ Jen responds, with a derisory tooth-kiss. ‘Because it was destined to become the name of an internationally renowned team sport, obviously .’

‘Uh … I’ve no idea,’ Toby admits (slightly thrown off-kilter by Jen’s interjection), ‘it was probably named after a wealthy, local benefactor …’