The Honey Trap

  To my family – with love and more love.

  Contents

  THE FINGER

  MEN ON THE VERGE

  THE OVERCOAT

  THE HONEY TRAP

  VACANT SITUATIONS (OR HOW I BECAME A HONEY)

  ONE RULE

  SO . . .

  SO . . .

  THE STARTING POINT

  WHICH MEANT . . .

  MISSION: TO TAPE BOB IN A NEAR COMPROMISING SITUATION

  BOB . . .

  EXCUSE ME!

  FOR A SHAG

  WISHING ON MIRACLES

  HANGOVER REMEDY

  MAKE MY DAY

  COAT CHECK

  25 MINUTES LATER

  HOMEWARD BOUND TAKE TWO

  OH SHIT

  GNAWED NAILS AND DIRTY GREAT BLACK BAGS HANGING OFF MY FACE

  A QUICK PERSONAL HISTORY

  TIME FOR A MIDWEEK CRISIS!

  THE MAN ABOVE ME

  BACK ON THE NIGHT SHIFT

  LORD, YOU HEARD MY PRAYER LETTER AND THANK YOU, ALMIGHTYNESS

  TING-A-LING-A-LING-A-LING

  CALL ME GLADYS

  A DATE SET FOR MONDAY

  ‘YO, DIG THE TURKEY WATTLE!’

  MEN, THEY’RE ALL THE . . .

  SINGLE MOTHERHOOD VERSUS THE CONVENTIONAL

  THE FICKLE FINGER OF FATE

  ONE PLAIN, ONE PURL

  BEYOND THE FINGER

  NOT

  OWEE OWEE OWEE, MUMMY’S IN BIG TROUBLE

  DETECTIVE BAMBUSS

  THE DECEASED, GOD REST HER SOUL

  REALITY CHECK

  MISSION ONE

  CATEGORIES OF DICK

  WHICH OF COURSE BRINGS US BACK TO BOB

  PIPE DREAMS AND GONADS

  THAT’S WEIRD. I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT YOU

  SUPERMARKET SABOTAGE

  A POX

  HOLED UP

  A QUICK TEST TO SEE IF YOU’D BE A GOOD PARENT

  IT’S A NO-WIN SITUATION

  DAY TWO

  ITCHY AND SCRATCHY

  NEE NAW NEE NAW

  DEAR GOD,

  SIBLING REVELRY

  BOB’S YOUR UNCLE

  BATHE ME IN BEAUTY

  STANDING UP TALL, TO FALL ALL THE HARDER.

  TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

  HELL HATH NO FURY

  WHOA, BLACK BETTY, NAH NAH NAH.

  FREAK ON FREAK

  MY PROTECTOR

  THE WAY I SEE IT

  SURPRISE, SURPRISE

  DISTRACTED BY THOUGHTS OF STEPHAN, TWIDDLING THUMBS (oh yeah, baby – just there) AND ABUSIVE MALES (harder . . .).

  CALL ME RELLY, CINDER RELLY

  RESULT

  ONE DEFLATED EGO AND I

  PINK PUFFERY

  LIFE STINKS

  TAKE TWO

  WHERE’S THE PAYOFF?

  UNDER SURVEILLANCE

  FLASHBACK TO: WHEN FIRST IMPRESSIONS DON’T COUNT

  STILL WAITING

  SANTA MARIA AND GOD GIVE ME STRENGTH

  THE LITTLE MINX

  ME? UP TO NINETY

  WHERE WAS I?

  CONFESSION

  MY REAWAKENING

  BUT THE GOOD NEWS WAS . . .

  COME THE REVOLUTION

  PLONK

  SAVING ONE’S ARSE

  EVEN KEELING

  AS FOR STEPHAN

  DICK DICK DOCK

  TO ROOST

  IF ONLY!

  LIVING WITH MY DAD BY ISSY, AGED THIRTY AND A QUARTER

  CUE JOE – HE WAS A LAUGH-ISH

  THEN ONE FINE MORNING

  TIME FOR A SHOWDOWN

  AND OH HOW HE ROUSES ME

  THE CONTENDERS

  NEIGHBOURS – EVERYBODY NEEDS GOOD NEIGHBOURS

  MIMICKING THE RIGHTEOUS

  FIONA’S REBIRTHDAY PARTY

  CAUGHT IN A NIGHTMARE SCENARIO

  MY FALL FROM GRACE – REAL TIME

  THE END WAS NIGH

  BOB THE BANE OF MY LIFE FILE

  HE PRAYED. I ANSWERED

  WHERE ART THOU, FAIRY GODMOTHER?

  ‘ISSY, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE?’

  ‘DAD, THERE’S SOMETHING I HAVE TO TELL YOU . . .’

  DEEP IN SHITSVILLE

  HA BLOODY HA

  THE MYSTERIOUS MAN UPSTAIRS

  BUT NOT FOR LONG

  A MID-MORNING INTERLUDE

  CHERRY ON THE CAKE

  GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT

  GOD, WHAT GIVES UP THERE?

  THE SIGN CAME VIA STEPHAN

  THE JEWELLER, THE THIEF, HIS WIFE AND A HONEY

  PAX ME

  FAME! I’M GOING TO LIVE FOR EVER

  THE RESULT?

  THE ART OF SOCIAL HARA-KIRI

  JUST THE WAY IT IS

  THE LADY IN THE PARK (OR WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND)

  ON THE UP AND UP

  WELL I NEVER

  BOB A JOB

  FLASHBACK TO . . .

  THEN TWO LEMON TARTS LATER . . .

  RUBBING IT IN

  REVIEWING THE SITUATION

  THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY, 00.01 HOURS

  HERE GOES EVERYTHING – THE DAY OF THE GIG

  BOMBED

  A NOTE TO THE AUTHOR

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAILABLE BY LANA CITRON

  eCopyright

  THE FINGER

  It upset me. I have to say the finger upset me. Pointed straight at me, like a sign or something, like the whole of the universe was giving it to me, the finger, that is.

  A little finger, a left-hand pinkie.

  Gnarled it was, with traces of red varnish.

  Straight at me, pointing.

  Thing was, the fact of the matter being, it came without a hand, an arm, or a body, and whichever way you look at it, that’s kind of freaky.

  MEN ON THE VERGE

  Sitting in the office manning the ‘Hello, hello’. Monday, early evening, green light lit and all stations go.

  I coughed to clear my grimy throat, and, ‘The Honey Trap, how can I help?’

  My caller sounded nervous, hesitant, like she couldn’t quite find the right words, though I knew what she was going to say. She was having a trust crisis. As with everyone else who calls the Honey Trap, she basically suspects her other half, a. has had an affair, b. is having an affair, or c. would like to have an affair, and this is exactly what we specialise in, apprehending men on the verge.

  How trustworthy is your mate? Exactly how faithful? Can he be tempted? Will he succumb? Invariably the answer is yes, but the question remains: How easily? At the Honey Trap we test the strength of modern-day marriages. The forecast ain’t good, and to date the company has successfully instigated seventy divorces. Quite an achievement. Our success rate is up by twenty per cent on last year’s score. Since I joined, as a matter of fact.

  Sure, we’ve saved a few marriages, but let’s face it: if you’re calling us, there’s a problem. It’s probably just a matter of time, unless of course the client is actually and certifiably crazy. We have had one such woman. In the end we were forced to get a restraining order. A certain Wacko Wilhemina, who didn’t even have a husband to begin with, but that’s another story.

  ‘It’s just . . .’ The caller was snivelling, on the brink of tears. ‘Things haven’t been the same since I had Billy.’

  Their second son. I’m privy to much, probably too much.

  Marital bliss?

  In my opinion a marketing slogan thought up by a gay bloke. And as for die Kinder . . . ah children, God bless ’em, but don’t they just go and throw a spanner in the works. I understand, having one of my own.

  So wifey rings us, near cracking point.

  ‘He’s not there for me. I’m doing everything in the home, holding down a full-time job and seeing t
o the kids. He just doesn’t seem to understand. It’s so exhausting, he refuses to pull his weight and’ (wait for it) ‘still expects me to go down on him.’

  Nothing untoward so far. I wasn’t listening, not really. I was mulling over the finger. It was cut, or rather hacked, the blood dry and crackly.

  Max found the finger. I’d sent him out to the garden to calm down after he’d told me he wasn’t my friend. He’d got into a rage, having repeatedly flung his favourite video against the wall, only to realise that such actions would, indeed, break it. Sometimes I wonder if he sees me solely as an extension of himself – ’cause he blames me for everything.

  ‘Go away,’ he’d screamed at full lung capacity. ‘I’m not your friend.’

  So there I was, friendless, or at least with one friend fewer than I’d thought, chopping up some apple, and there he was, red in the face, as I’d refused to acknowledge his anger and get pulled in. But he wouldn’t let up, so I’d had to open the back door to the garden and push him outside.

  ‘Out, Max, and don’t come back till you’ve calmed down.’

  Immediately I’d reached for my karmic calmers, my pack of fags, and smoked two in a row. Outside, Max wailed for five minutes and then went quiet, really quiet, too quiet. By the time I’d stubbed out the second fag the thought had crossed my mind that he’d been abducted. I’d raced out to find him bent over and poking at something.

  ‘Hey, Maxy, what you found?’

  Usually it’s stuff like worms, slugs, cat shit or ladybirds.

  ‘A finger.’

  ‘Hello . . . you still there?’ asked anxious wifey, sensing my preoccupied mind.

  ‘Yeah . . . do you have any evidence?’

  I could hear her kids in the background.

  ‘I mean, we’re happily married, it’s just . . . Ned, please be quiet . . . Ned, Mummy’s on the phone.’

  My caller was seeking reassurance. She wanted us to reaffirm her and her husband’s bond of trust; she needed to know that he couldn’t be tempted, that he wouldn’t stray. She also wanted her kid who was throwing a tantrum in the background to shut up, ’cause she couldn’t hear herself think. She said she’d ring back as soon as she could.

  ‘No problems, but hey, don’t leave it too long. It’s better to nip these things in the bud,’ I, helpful as ever, advised, or rather teased her burgeoning sense of insecurity.

  THE OVERCOAT

  The door to the office swung open and Charlie/Fiona, my transgender boss, appeared with my current love interest wrapped around her. Bitch/Bastard. How sad to be so obsessed by an inanimate object, but it’s sublime. It’s a coat. A beautiful, black, three-quarter-length, cashmere-mix, soft and warm, superbly cut, incredibly expensive coat. I liked the coat. Fiona looked good in it, but I’d look better. I wanted that coat.

  I want, I want, I want . . . my little Maxim . . . his favourite saying, mantra . . . And you know what? Wouldn’t it be awful if one didn’t have any desires?

  The coat was, unfortunately, beyond my means. I told Fiona straight out that it didn’t do much for her, the motive being to make her sell it to me at a knockdown price.

  Fiona’s tall, with a fine pair of shoulders. First time Maxy met her, he asked why s/he was wearing women’s clothes.

  Coolly Fiona stated to my toddler, ‘I am a woman.’

  ‘Nah, you’re not,’ he grinned, thinking she was being funny.

  She wasn’t, and Max looked to me for an explanation. The old adage ringing true that nothing compares to the forthright honesty of a child. However, this had occurred during the job interview, and I truly thought Max had blown it for me.

  ‘Does your son have a problem with transgenders?’ enquired Fiona.

  ‘Not usually,’ I’d replied.

  Having hung up the coat, Fiona made towards our cubby hole cum kitchenette, or rather she took one step to her right and then disappeared into what once must have been a built-in closet. The doors have since been removed, allowing for a mini-fridge beneath a counter and a kettle on top. The office was basic: one room on the second floor of a building on Parkway. Below us were accountants, and below them, an optician.

  Fiona popped her head around the corner.

  ‘Want a cup of something, Issy?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Sure, and how’s Charlie today?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  To wind her up I call Fiona Charlie. It’s a joke she doesn’t want to get. See, at a stretch, the set-up here is pretty much the same as in the seventies TV show, Charlie’s Angels.

  THE HONEY TRAP

  Once upon a time there were three very different little girls. They grew up to be three very different women, but they had three things in common. They were all beautiful, all single mothers, and they all worked at the Honey Trap.

  First off there’s me, Issy, and I’m Kelly ’cause of my brown hair. Next up is Nadia, the aspiring singer. She’s been aspiring for ten years, so strictly speaking she’s an expiring singer. Nadia is Sabrina, mainly ’cause I don’t want to be Sabrina (too serious, too clever by half). And lastly there’s Trisha, the blonde one, the ‘I may look like a sexy flirty Farrah Fawcett type, but if you mess with me, I’ll burst your balls in one single squeeze.’ Trisha is strange, a gym freak, and I don’t trust her one bit.

  We share the common bond of raising our kids without significant others. This is where our Bosley comes in: Maria, a fifty-year-old Spanish granny, who by day is a charlady and by night the babysitter, thus allowing us Honeys to go on our various missions. Everyone likes Maria. Max adores Maria. If you could choose your own mother, you’d want her to be Maria.

  Which just leaves Fiona, the big boss. We don’t get to see so much of her, what with her impending op. She tends to drop by now and again to check all’s working smoothly, though invariably at the wrong time, like when I’m making a personal call to Mexico. I swore to Fiona it was a one-off, but she didn’t believe me, checked the phone bill, and docked twenty quid off my wages.

  VACANT SITUATIONS (OR HOW I BECAME A HONEY)

  So nine months back I found myself in the middle of a vacant situation. Sitting in a dentist’s waiting room, waiting, and whilst in this state of limbo I perused the Camden New Journal and came across the following: ‘The Honey Trap, est. 2000, specialising in marital trust bonds, seeks a certain type of woman.’ It was positioned in amongst the personals, which was odd. I found it directly below this assertive little PO box number: ‘U, commitment-phobic, co-dependent Oedipal wreck with financial problems? Me, early thirties, work in media, low self-esteem, call now!’ Not that I, you understand, would ever consider using such a service, but I do enjoy laughing at the people who do.

  I’d read on: ‘The Honey Trap is currently looking for women with attitude’. I have attitude, albeit like a stinky French cheese. ‘Women who like a challenge . . .’ I love challenges. After three years of interrupted sleep, there are times when getting up in the morning is a challenge. ‘Attractive women who know how to play the game and get away with it.’ On a good day I scrub up well. ‘Flexibility a must’. Knew the yoga would come in handy.

  In effect this job had my name written all over it. Issy Brodsky, 36 24 36. OK, so in the good old days. OK, so not even then, but following the advice of several self-help manuals on positive thinking this was exactly how I’d learnt to regard my reflection. Why diet when you can lie to yourself? Plus, and here’s a good tip for any body-conscious females out there, always try and befriend fatter people than you. Sure, over the years I’ll admit I have expanded a little, wear and tear, but I thank Christ that on the birth of Max I didn’t suffer from hideous stretch marks, specifically the ones that wriggle upwards. Lucky that, especially seeing as I still had some left over from a pudgy adolescence. I digress, but Jesus, the fallout of pregnancy. If only half of the stuff was common knowledge, I swear it would put women off breeding.

  All in all, the position sounded intriguing. I called the number and enquired further on the specific
nature of the job. Unbelievably, when I confessed my single-mum status to Fiona, she didn’t flinch. This was an unusual reaction – for all the joys of motherhood, it’s a restrictive business. One is at the beck and call of another being twenty-four hours a day. I required a job that would take that into account, i.e. in real terms, I could never be wholly relied upon.

  ‘A problem, not,’ declared Fiona. ‘All my girls are single mums. Come in, we’ll have a chat.’

  How astonishingly refreshing, and though the thought crossed my mind that the company was an escort agency or something along those lines, it hadn’t put me off.

  We arranged a time, and I trawled through my wardrobe in search of something befitting an interview situation. My sad wardrobe, so obviously geared towards my status: cheap, worn-out and stained. My clothes had seen better days; guess I’d seen better days. Comfort and endurance were the usual criteria. I reckoned an investment in my future was long overdue, trotted down to the local charity shops, and finally found a short skirt and top that would do the trick.

  Let’s face it, jobs of real satisfaction are hard to come by for someone in my predicament. A nine to five would mean full-time child care – expensive, and you had to be committed to a type of bureaucracy I had always abhorred. Before I gave birth I’d worked, well, to be frank, as little as possible. I had a degree, a Master’s, had done a stint in France (i.e. a year of intense passion with un mec who screwed up my head), worked for a casting agency, a modelling agency, a photographer’s agency. On reflection I’d always been an agent of one kind or another. My laissez-faire or fairly lazy attitude meant I wasn’t ever in the position of earning large enough stacks to afford a full-time nanny, and my positions were never such that there was a major pull to go back to work. But the desire to do something other than slave to my child had seeded, and I’d begun to cast around at what was on offer.

  There really wasn’t much.

  ONE RULE

  At the job interview Fiona put it to me bluntly.

  ‘There’s only one rule here: on no account are you ever to sleep with a client’s husband. Do you understand?’

  ‘I don’t do married men.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Moral reasons,’ I replied, then, hoping to support my case, added, ‘I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face the day she found out about my father’s mistress.’ (Actually it was one of relief: it later turned out she’d been shagging his best friend.)