‘Mum …’
Valentine is upset.
‘What?’
Her mother is unrepentant.
‘Will you just …?’
‘What?’
‘That’s not really …’
‘WHAT?!’
‘That’s just not really acceptable, Mum.’
Her mother drops the nightie. ‘But it’s acceptable to interfere with my toy and then stand there, bold as brass, and lie to my face about it?’
‘I didn’t …’ Valentine begins.
‘God!’ Her mother collapses back on to her bed again. ‘You bore me! This is so boring! I’m so fucking bored !’
Valentine turns to leave.
‘Menteuse!’ her mother mewls. ‘Imbecile! Prude!’
‘But of course I’ve heard of Karma Dean!’ Jen scoffs. ‘Are you crazy?! I mean who hasn’t heard of Karma Dean? She’s huge!’
‘Well we were an item for about eighteen months.’ Ransom shrugs, nonchalant. ‘She was still married at the time – to some pig-ugly old French actor … I forget his name. The tabloids had a fuckin’ field-day. It was totally insane.’
Ransom takes a long swig of his beer. He seems understandably smug at the sheer magnitude of this revelation.
Silence.
‘But Karma Dean’s really famous,’ Jen eventually murmurs.
‘Yeah. I know.’ Ransom scowls.
‘I’m serious!’
Jen pulls her ‘serious’ face.
‘Yes, I know.’ Ransom struggles to hide his irritation.
‘But I don’t think you do,’ Jen enunciates slowly and clearly (as if describing something new-fangled to a deaf octogenarian), ‘Karma Dean’s really, really …’
‘FAMOUS! YES! I KNOW!’ Ransom barks.
‘Here.’ Gene chucks Jen her cleaning cloth. She catches it. He points at the machine, and then (when she shows no inclination to get on with the job) he gently but firmly angles her towards it. Jen finally gives in to him (with a cheeky, half-smile) and commences cleaning again.
‘I remember how you always used to wear it in those two, scruffy plaits …’ Gene gamely returns to their former subject. ‘Hiawatha-style.’
‘Huh?’
Ransom’s still gazing over at Jen, scowling.
‘Your hair?’
‘My …? Oh, yeah …’ Ransom finally catches up. ‘I was the original golf punk. Man. D’you remember all the fuckin’ stick I got for that?’
‘Absolutely.’ Gene nods.
‘An’ Ian Poulter suddenly thinks he’s the latest wrinkle just ’cos he’s got himself a couple of measly highlights!’ Ransom snorts.
‘The latest wrinkle?!’ Jen sniggers.
‘I still miss the old goatee, though.’ Ransom fondly strokes his chin (doing his utmost to ignore her).
‘It was pretty demonic,’ Gene agrees. ‘I believe you grew that around about the time the tabloids first coined …’
‘“The Devil’s Ransom.” Yeah …’ Ransom grimaces. ‘But I loved that goatee. Shaved it off for charity just before my big comeback in 2004 – my new manager’s idea. That twatty comedian did it, live, during Children in Need.’ Ransom scowls. ‘The bald one with the fat collars and all the –’
‘D’you remember that brilliant campaign she did for Burberry?’ Jen turns from the coffee machine.
‘Huh?’ Ransom looks blank.
‘Karma. Karma Dean. That amazing …?’
‘Urgh. Don’t tell me …’ He rolls his eyes, bored. ‘Nude, on a beach, with the teacup chihuahua slung over her shoulder inside a Burberry rucksack? I was there when they took that shot. The dead of winter in San Tropez. She got a mild case of hypothermia – lost all sensation in her feet. Believe it or not, journos still pester me about it now, a whole seven years later …’
‘What a drag,’ Jen smirks, tipping a pile of damp coffee grounds into a brown, paper bag.
‘Yeah,’ Ransom sighs, glancing down at his phone (seemingly oblivious to the irony in Jen’s tone). ‘It’s dog eat dog out there, kid.’
‘Weren’t you banned from the Spanish Open or something?’ Gene quickly interjects.
‘Huh?’
Ransom looks up, confused.
‘The Spanish Open. Weren’t you banned from that at one stage?’
‘Bingo!’ Ransom snaps his fingers. ‘The German Open. They tried to ban me! It was all over the papers. Because of the plaits. They couldn’t accept the plaits. Everybody remembers the friggin’ plaits! C’mon! Who doesn’t remember the plaits?! The plaits are legendary …’
As Ransom holds forth, Jen passes Gene the bag of grounds to dispose of. Gene takes the bag and then curses as it drips cold coffee on to his loafers.
‘Although the point I’m actually trying to make here’ – Ransom ignores Gene’s muted oaths – ‘is that I was a professional surfer – a successful surfer – on the international circuit for two, solid years before I was wiped out in South Africa, so I’m in the perfect position to know, first-hand, how unbelievably selfish surfing is …’
‘Are they real suede?’ Jen crouches down and dabs at Gene’s shoes with a used napkin.
‘Yeah,’ Gene mutters. ‘My wife got me them for Christmas.’
‘Oops.’
Jen grimaces, apologetically.
‘… way more selfish than golf,’ Ransom stubbornly persists, ‘infinitely more selfish.’
‘Well, I can’t pretend to be much of an expert on the matter,’ Jen avers, screwing the damp napkin into a ball and rising to her feet again, ‘but I generally find the most efficient way to delineate between a so-called “normal” sport and a “selfish” one’ – she paints four, ironic speech marks into the air with her fingers – ‘is by employing the handy axiom of sex versus masturbation’ – she flings the ball, carelessly, towards the bin – ‘and then sorting them into categories under similar lines.’
On ‘axiom’ Gene’s jaw slackens. On ‘sex’ his eyes bulge. On ‘masturbation’ his grip involuntarily loosens and he almost drops the grounds. Stuart Ransom is struck dumb for a second and then, ‘MASTURBATION IS SEX!’ he explodes.
‘Exactly,’ Jen confirms, with a broad grin (like a seasoned fisherman reeling in a prize-winning carp), ‘but selfish sex.’
‘Mum?’
Valentine tentatively pushes open the bedroom door and peers inside. The room is dark. Her mother appears to be asleep in bed with the coverlet pulled over her head.
‘Mum?’ Valentine repeats.
Her mother begins to stir.
‘Mum?’
‘Huh?’ Her mother slowly pushes back the coverlet and yawns.
Valentine slowly moves her hand towards the light.
‘NOT