She pauses for a moment, thoughtfully. ‘Although when Andy Murray exaggerated the severity of his piddling knee injury to pike out of playing in the Davis Cup the other year … Urgh!’
She shakes her head, appalled.
Ransom gazes at Gene, befuddled. ‘Is she always like this?’ he demands, hoarsely.
‘We had Jon Snow in here the other week,’ Gene confirms, ‘and Jen spent the whole night labouring under the misapprehension that he was her old science teacher from Middle School …’
‘Mr Spencer,’ Jen interjects, helpfully, ‘from Mill Vale.’
‘… which was pretty embarrassing in itself,’ Gene continues, ‘but then she swans off to the kitchens …’
‘I just kept asking if he’d kept in contact with Miss Bartholomew — my Year Seven form teacher,’ Jen butts in, ‘and he was totally polite about it, bless him. He kept saying, “I’m not really sure that I have.” Which I thought at the time was kinda weird … I mean you either keep up with someone or you don’t.’
‘So she heads over to the kitchens,’ Gene repeats, ‘and one of the waitresses mentions having served Mr Snow for dinner. Jen puts two and two together, makes five, and then sprints back to the bar to apologize: “I thought you were my old science teacher,” she says, “I had no idea you were a famous weatherman.”’
‘SHIIIT!’ Ransom covers his face with his hands.
‘That was Lenny’s fault!’ Jen shrieks. ‘It was Len who said —’
‘Lenny’s still struggling to come to terms with the trauma of decimalization,’ Gene snorts. ‘Is he really the best person to be taking direction from on these matters?’
‘Jon Snow’s a fuckin’ newsreader, you dick!’ Ransom gloats. ‘Everybody knows that.’
‘I never watch the news’ — Jen shrugs, unabashed — ‘although when Carol Smillie came in just before Christmas,’ she sighs, dreamily, ‘I was totally star-struck …’
‘If I remember correctly,’ Gene takes up the story, ‘you served her with a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio and then said, “I think you’re amazing, Carol. I’m addicted to Countdown. I’ve never missed a single show.”’
‘And?!’ Jen demands, haughtily.
‘Carol Vorderman presented Countdown, you friggin’ dildo!’ Ransom crows.
‘Oh.’ Jen scowls as Ransom exchanges a celebratory high-five with her benighted co-worker before he turns on his heel (with an apologetic shrug) and departs for the kitchens. Ransom — brimming with a sudden, almost overwhelming exuberance — taps out a gleeful tattoo with his index fingers on to the bar top.
‘She was a real class act,’ Jen mutters, distractedly (her eyes still fixed on the retreating Gene), ‘beautiful skin, immaculate teeth, and perfectly happy to sign an autograph for my dad …’
As soon as Gene’s safely out of earshot, however, she abruptly interrupts her eulogy, places both hands flat on to the bar top, leans forward, conspiratorially, and whispers, ‘I know exactly who you are, by the way.’
* * *
Valentine is crawling around the room on her hands and knees, feeling along the carpet in the semi-darkness.
‘I know the sudden change from dark to light upsets you,’ she’s muttering, ‘that it jolts you — but if we could just …’
She slowly reaches towards the light on the bedside table.
‘A CAT’S COME IN!’ her mother screeches. ‘YOU’VE GONE AND LET ONE OF THOSE FILTHY CATS IN!’
She leaps from her bed. ‘OUT, YOU DIRTY, LITTLE SWINE! OUT! OUT! OUT!’
As her mother chases the cat from the room, Valentine takes the opportunity to dive under the coverlet and sweep her arm across the bed-sheet.
‘LA VICTOIRE!’ her mother yells, ejecting the offending feline with a swift prod of her foot, and then — before Valentine can throw off the coverlet, draw breath, and commence a heartfelt plea to persuade her to do otherwise: ‘GOOD RIDDANCE!’ she bellows, smashing the door shut, triumphantly, behind it.
The door reverberates so violently inside its wooden frame that a small ornament (a cheap, plastic model of St Jude) falls off the windowsill on the opposite wall, and a young child starts wailing in a neighbouring room.
‘Jesus, Mum …!’ Valentine hoarsely chastises her, starting to withdraw her head from under the coverlet, but before she can manage it, her mother — possibly alerted to her daughter’s clandestine activities by the sound of the falling saint — has turned and propelled herself — ‘NOOOOOOOOO!’ — (a howling, rotating, silken-apricot swastika), back on to the bed again.
Valentine gasps as her mother’s knee crashes into her cheek (although this sharp expostulation is pretty much obliterated by:
a) the cotton coverlet
b) the extraordinary racket her mother is making
c) the traumatized squeal of the bedsprings).
She eventually manages to extract herself and collapses, backwards, on to the carpet.
‘Ow!’ she groans, feeling blindly for her nose. ‘I think you might’ve … Woah!’
Her normal vision is briefly punctuated by a smattering of flashing, day-glo asterisks.
‘NO BLOOD ON MY NEW CARPET!’ her mother bellows.
‘Eh?!’
Valentine feels a sudden, inexplicable surfeit of warm liquid on her upper lip. She throws back her head, pinches the bridge of her nose and gesticulates, wildly, towards a nearby box of tissues. Her mother (unusually obliging) grabs a clumsy handful and shoves them, wordlessly, into her outstretched palm.
‘Didn’t you see me?’ Valentine demands, applying all the tissues to her face, en masse.
‘See you?’ her mother clucks. ‘Where?’
‘Where?!’ Valentine honks at the ceiling, through a mouthful of paper. ‘Under the coverlet! In the bed!’
Shocked pause.
‘You were in the bed?’
Her mother affects surprise.
‘Of course I was in the bed!’ Valentine squawks (through her mask of tissue). ‘You just jumped on me! You just landed on me! You just kicked me square in the face!’
‘Did I?’
Her mother seems astonished by this news.
‘Yes!’
Valentine straightens her head and stares at her, indignant.
‘Yes!’ she repeats, removing the tissues. ‘You did!’
‘Oh.’
Pause.
‘Well what the hell did you expect?’ her mother rapidly changes tack. ‘You were crawling around under there like some huge maggot! I panicked! I was terrified!’
‘But that’s hardly —’ Valentine starts off.
‘I mean you wake me up in the middle of the night,’ her mother interrupts her, counting off Valentine’s offences on to her fingers, ‘yell at me, accuse me of stealing the stupid remote …’
‘I never yelled at you!’ Valentine’s deeply offended. ‘I would never —’
‘Then you lure one of your stinking cats into the room.’ Her mother points to the door, dramatically.
‘I didn’t lure the cat anywhere!’ Valentine is gently feeling her nose for any evidence of a bump. ‘The cat simply …’
She shakes her head, frustrated. ‘The point is …’
‘You know I don’t like those cats in my room!’ her mother hollers, almost hysterical. ‘You know how much I loathe them! Petits cons! Les chats sont venus du diable pour me tourmenter! Tu es venue du diable pour me tourmenter! Vraiment!’