Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘You didn’t mention Ransom in the email?’

Gene turns back to face her, horrified.

‘Good heavens, no! That’s something we’ll need to discuss face-to-face.’

She stands up and goes to fetch her bag.

‘I’m heading over there now as a matter of fact.’

Gene turns towards the window again. He feels physically sick.

‘D’you mind if I take the Megane?’

Gene doesn’t answer. His mind is reeling.

‘D’you mind if I take the Megane?’

She comes up close behind him and gently slides her hand around his waist.

He stiffens, imperceptibly, as she rests the side of her cheek against his shoulder, then quickly withdraws again with a snort.

‘Don’t mind me for saying this,’ she mutters, all cruelly apologetic, ‘but you’re in desperate need of a shower, my love.’

Valentine draws a deep breath, steadies herself and yanks open the door to find a slight, strong-faced, brown-eyed woman standing there, damp from the rain and clutching at her hair.

‘I don’t quite know what’s happened,’ the woman exclaims, evidently perplexed, ‘but on my way over here my fringe just seemed to … to disappear …’

‘Pardon?’

Valentine focuses in on the woman’s fringe, confused and slightly alarmed.

‘Sorry — hi, I’m Sheila.’ The woman smiles — her nut-brown eyes shining — holding out her hand and grasping Valentine’s fingers, warmly.

‘It’s certainly very short …’ Valentine acknowledges, disarmed, awkward, and almost apologetic, as she inspects the tiny, frizzy tuft which juts — like a cruel bowl-cut or a monk’s tonsure — from the top of Sheila’s forehead.

‘The mystery of the disappearing fringe!’ Sheila rolls her eyes, self-deprecatingly.

‘Where d’you think it’s got to?’ Valentine wonders, laughing — somewhat nervously — while resting her fingers at her nape (which blotches redder by the second).

‘I’m not entirely sure …’ Sheila shrugs. ‘I parked down at the bottom of the road …’ She runs through all her recent movements, in forensic detail, ‘Then I got drenched in a sudden downpour — no bloody umbrella! Typical! — and once it was over I caught a brief glimpse of my reflection in the side-mirror of a car, and the fringe … Poof! ’

She makes an extravagant, ‘hey presto’-style movement with her hands.

Valentine beckons her inside, nodding distractedly.

‘What an abysmal first impression!’ Sheila chuckles, striding past her, and then, ‘Oh I love this!’ She gestures around her, enthused. ‘The original fixtures all still in situ . The tiles, the glass in the door …’

She points to the aspidistra.

‘Gene’s grandmother always kept an aspidistra in the hallway. They’re so wonderfully evocative of that whole post-war era.’

Valentine walks on ahead of her (evidently somewhat overwhelmed by this first mention of Gene, by name) and shows her into the sitting room where a small child sits playing with an old doll on the rugs.

‘So who do we have here?’ Sheila demands, striding over.

The child gazes up at her, shyly.

‘This is Nessa, my niece,’ Valentine awkwardly performs the introductions, ‘and I’m Valentine, obviously.’

She bites her lip, her cheeks flushing.

Sheila leans down and grasps Nessa’s hand.

‘How d’you do? My name is Sheila …’ She smiles, mischievously. ‘You may have noticed that I’ve lost my fringe. It’s completely disappeared. Would you like to help me search for it?’

Nessa nods, gingerly.

‘Good! Well let’s start off with the easy places … uh …’ Sheila lifts up the doll’s dress. ‘Not under there …’ She peers into one of Nessa’s ears. ‘And it’s not in your ear … hmmn …’ She gazes around her, speculatively. ‘Shall we check under the sofa cushions?’

Nessa jumps to her feet and goes to look under the sofa cushions. Here she unearths a shiny, fifty pence piece and holds it out to Sheila in the palm of her hand with a delighted squeak.

‘Fifty fence!’ Sheila exclaims (as Valentine quickly trots over to relieve her of it). ‘What a find!’

As she speaks Sheila spots her reflection in one of the small collection of brass-eyed mirrors.

‘Oh bloody hell!’

She inspects herself in it, chuckling forlornly. ‘This’ll frighten the living daylights out of all the poor old dears at Evensong!’ She takes a tiny step closer. ‘What on earth have I done to myself? I only snipped off a couple of inches.’

‘It’s probably just the rain and the muggy heat,’ Valentine hypothesizes, a small line of moisture glowing on her upper lip, ‘and maybe a touch of natural curl.’

‘Good theory!’ Sheila applauds this hypothesis. ‘But enough about my stupid hair.’ She turns, decisively, from the mirror. ‘I’m here to talk about you and your amazing work, Valentine. It’s completely astonishing. So beautiful. So gritty. So odd . I’ve never seen anything like it before — not ever. In fact I’ve been on this ridiculous high all morning since I first visited your website …’

As Sheila enthusiastically holds forth, Valentine finds it virtually impossible to maintain any kind of eye contact. She feels sick. Her shoulders and arms ache with repressed tension. Her hands are clenched. She initially struggles to take Sheila’s compliments at anything approaching face value, and then — the horror! — when she finally realizes that Sheila is in fact being sincere, feels an alarming combination of panic and self-loathing. As a direct consequence of this, instead of responding verbally (a polite denial, a gracious ‘thank you’, even just a small, modest shrug) she immediately seeks refuge in the ongoing drama of Sheila’s catastrophic fringe (gazing at it while she speaks, analysing it, running through all the feasible options in her head).

‘The work itself is exquisite — that goes without saying,’ Sheila continues to enthuse. ‘I mean that almost medieval level of attention to detail, all the strange, psycho-sexual connotations, the fascinating cultural implications, all those amazing, amazing nipples! And then the weird, Oriental angle! There are just so many layers , so much to feed the mind upon; such bounty — such abundance — such … such incredible richness , both in form and in content —’ Sheila suddenly breaks off, panicked. ‘You look upset — overwhelmed. Am I coming on too strong?’

‘It’s just …’ Valentine gnaws at her lip. ‘I could always try and even it out a bit. I took a hairdressing option at college.’

‘Pardon?’ Sheila’s initially confused. ‘Sorry?’ then nonplussed. ‘Oh — you’re still worrying about my hair ?!’ She puts a wary hand to her head again. ‘But it’s nothing!’ she insists. ‘Don’t give it a second thought. It was only the initial shock. It doesn’t matter in the slightest. I’ll just …’

‘I always do my own,’ Valentine runs on, ‘and my mum’s and Nessa’s. I’m perfectly handy with a pair of scissors.’

‘Is it really all that bad?’ Sheila turns back to the mirror again, embarrassed.

‘No!’ Valentine insists. ‘It’s absolutely fine. I just thought … I mean if you’ve got a spare ten minutes I could easily …’

Sheila continues to inspect herself.

‘I suppose it does look rather dreadful,’ she sighs, ‘but the fringe is so short now I can’t really see how …’

Valentine quickly moves to her side. ‘It’s a radical solution, I know, but what if we just took it all off? I mean all the rest …’

She takes hold of the side sections of Sheila’s hair and draws them away from her face.