Nicola Barker - The Yips

Brief silence.

Ransom recommences posing. Jen burps, then apologizes.

‘I’m a sportsman ’ — Ransom straightens up again, unable to let this thing pass — ‘I’m an artist , not some grinning, little monkey who’ll just dance around to order. When you hire Stuart Ransom you hire a Master Spirit, yeah? A Social Lion, a legend — a tiny piece of folklore …’

‘ Master Spirit?! ’ Jen echoes, incredulous.

‘You hire a giant , yeah?’ Ransom barges on, oblivious. ‘A friggin’ monster, a Tyrannosaurus Rex …’

‘A dinosaur!’ Jen sniggers.

‘You can’t house-train Stuart Ransom!’ the golfer snaps. ‘He’s not tamed and neutered, jumping around to order like some cuddly, little spaniel, he’s a savage, friggin’ beast , yeah? A big, fat, black grizzly tearing through your trash …’

Ransom holds up his bear paws. ‘You get hair on the friggin’ walls with me!’ he growls. ‘Eight, giant, yellow claws impacted with filth tearing up your bed-sheets! You get a huge pile of stinking dung on your manicured lawn! Because Stuart Ransom always brings the shit, yeah? He brings fear ! He brings excitement ! He brings integrity ! He brings the Game — the heart ! — the Full Sporting Legacy!’

Another brief silence.

The golfer strikes a pose. The photographer readies himself to take the shot.

‘Eight claws? Can that be right?’ Jen idly muses, turning to Toby.

‘My gut instinct is ten,’ Toby Whittaker answers, apologetically (from his customary — and suitably anonymous — position behind the light reflector), ‘five on each of the front paws, another ten on the back. Twenty, all told — but you certainly shouldn’t quote me on that.’

‘I will quote you, Tobe,’ Jen insists gazing over at him, adoringly. Toby blushes.

Ransom straightens up, with a sneer, ruining yet another shot.

‘Do bears build nests or dig holes?’ Jen wonders.

‘They live in dens’ — Toby nods — ‘they scratch them into hillsides or under the root systems of large trees. Sometimes they inhabit caves … In fact by a weird coincidence I was actually discussing the strange reproductive life of bears with Esther only yesterday.’

He surreptitiously glances over towards Ransom to gauge his reaction (there is none).

‘That is odd,’ Jen concurs.

‘I’d bought her a little toy bear for the baby,’ Toby continues (another glance. Still no reaction).

‘How sweet!’ Jen interjects.

‘… and she mentioned how she’d had this chat with an obstetrician the other week who told her that when female bears mate they go through a process called “delayed implantation” which basically means that the female’s fertilized egg floats around in her uterus for a period of anything up to six months. Then, when she goes into hibernation, the foetuses — usually a couple of them — attach to the wall of the uterus and the cubs arrive approximately eight weeks later while the mother’s still asleep.’

‘A pain-free delivery!’ Jen gasps. ‘You gotta love it!’

‘Exactly.’ Toby chuckles. ‘Another really fascinating detail is that if the female isn’t physically heavy enough to survive the winter while simultaneously providing milk for her young, the body automatically terminates the pregnancy and the embryo is simply reabsorbed back into her body again as a form of nutrition.’

‘Can you hold that thing a little higher, please?’ the photographer demands (Toby has let the reflector slip during the course of this conversation).

‘Yeah, Whittaker’ — Ransom glowers — ‘we’re not just standing here for fun, you dick .’

‘So okay … uh … maybe just a couple more of these’ — Del Renzio quickly steps forward (desperate to take control of their wayward schedule) — ‘a few relaxing at the spa, a handful standing by the front desk wearing the club shirt and tie and … uh … yes … I think we can probably call it a day after that.’

‘Time to head on up to your room and chop us out some sweet, fat lines!’ Nimrod gleefully quavers, making ‘street-style’ gun gestures with both hands.

‘You’re not seriously considering undertaking this procedure on club premises?’ Del Renzio interrupts, horrified. ‘Because we’d definitely need to pass the idea by management, first.’

‘Just imagine the health and safety implications!’ Jen clucks.

‘Give me a friggin’ break!’ The golfer straightens up, indignant (yet another shot ruined). ‘Pass it by management my friggin’ arse!’

‘I’m just not sure if it’s the kind of image we’re keen to project.’ Del Renzio doggedly stands his ground (Nimrod still mugging away, theatrically, to the rear).

‘I mean it’s hardly what you’d call “five star” behaviour,’ Jen eye-rolls.

‘I’ve already had to contend with a deluge of complaints about your blonde friend here.’ Del Renzio tips his head, disparagingly, towards his staunchest supporter.

‘She’s no friend of mine!’ Ransom snorts.

‘Sorry? Complaints about moi ?’ Jen’s astonished.

‘Yes,’ Del Renzio confirms.

‘Is it the shoes?’

Jen points to her wedges: ‘Do they breach the dress code?’

‘How about the shoes, the transparent leotard, the gold bra and the fact that you were sighted by several of our younger players earlier openly urinating in the rough.’

‘Oh that’s classic!’ Ransom is richly entertained by this detail. ‘That’s friggin’ hilarious!’

‘Are you completely positive that was me?’ Jen’s sceptical.

‘Sure he is!’ Ransom scoffs.

‘From the detailed descriptions we received, I think we’re fairly certain.’ Del Renzio nods.

Ransom strikes another pose, enlivened.

Del Renzio inspects his watch again. ‘The Kids’ Comp. is due to finish in an hour or so,’ he informs the golfer, ‘and you’re officially scheduled to —’

‘“The club shirt and tie?!”’ Ransom suddenly expostulates, haughtily. ‘Just what kind of brain-dead, castrated, cheese-ball d’you think you’re dealing with, here?’

Del Renzio opens his mouth to answer.

‘Did Esther sanction that?’ Ransom interjects (before he has a chance to), then, ‘Fuck it! Bollocks to it! You and your friggin’ schedule can go hang for all I care!’

Del Renzio closes his mouth again.

‘Screw you!’ Ransom persists (in case Del Renzio hasn’t quite got the message yet). ‘And screw your management committee! And screw the friggin’ sponsor, and screw the Kids’ Comp., come to that …’ He pauses, thoughtfully. ‘Although I may opt to check out the spa a little later on if I feel so inclined,’ he concedes.

‘Maybe we can make an exception for the Kids’ Comp.,’ Toby nervously pipes up. ‘It’s always nice to spare a bit of time for the kiddies, eh?’

‘Stipulated in the contract?’ Ransom enquires, jaundiced.

‘Yup,’ Toby confirms.

‘Fine — whatever,’ Ransom snaps.

‘I’m sorry to be a pain’ — Gene pushes back his cap — ‘but I’m actually meant to be collecting Mallory from ballet in just over half an hour.’

He raises his hand to his neck again.

‘Remember,’ Jen cautions, ‘we’re talking about a woman with serious mental problems, a grudge and a tattoo gun, here.’

Ransom blanches. He turns to Gene for confirmation.

‘She’s slightly agoraphobic,’ Gene admits, ‘or so I’m led to believe,’ he quickly adds.

‘And even if you do manage to get her on board with the whole idea,’ Jen continues, ‘she’ll want complete creative control. Then there’s still the psycho brother to contend with …’