Authors: Lana Citron
‘Snivelling dog,’ she barked. (I know, I know, an awful pun.)
The door of the office creaked opened and she flung me into total blackness. Gee whizz, but the gym thing really works for her.
Into a void, a big black hole of nothingness.
‘What do you have to say for yourself, Brodsky?’
‘Mummy, I want my mummy.’ Yep, I truly did say that.
I was scrabbling about on all fours. She nabbed the nape of my neck, then with Hulkish strength, pulled me up and pushed me down into a chair. A mega-wattage desk lamp clicked on and shone
directly into my face.
‘Listen, Trish . . . I know we haven’t exactly seen eye to eye, but don’t you think you’re overreacting?’
‘Shut up. Rope, please.’
A shadowy figure emerged from the murky blackness. I recognised the silhouette as Nadia’s. Damn, but she even looks good in monochrome.
‘
Et tu
, Nads? Turncoat.’
And she called herself a friend.
‘Sorry, Issy, I . . . She made me.’
‘Yellow-bellied cowardy custard,’ I hissed in Nadia’s face.
It’s weird the phrases that come out when one is under such extreme pressure.
‘Shut up, Brodsky. Nadia, tie the bitch up.’
‘Trisha, I swear I didn’t do it.’
My last stab at denial, reckoned I’d nothing to lose.
‘Playing schtum, hey? You can’t pull the wool over my eyes.’
She slapped me hard across the face, which I thought was uncalled for. Literally was struck dumb and couldn’t think of a half-decent retort.
‘Nadia, make sure she doesn’t fall asleep. Keep the light shining till she cracks.’
‘Ha,’ I bellowed, ‘I’m a mother, you dipstick, immune to sleep-deprivation.’
‘Yeah, she has a point.’
In the background I heard a tape machine whirr and then, ‘We have ways of making you talk.’
It sounded like Fiona. Kinda like a woman, definitely like a man.
‘Trisha, it was just, a mistake, more like mutual masturbation. We were drunk, it was non-emotional, a slip of the –’
‘It’s too late for apologies, Issy.’
‘No, please no.’
Jesus Christ. I watched as she reached into her trousers and took out a . . .
‘Oh my God, Trisha, not that.’
A dick, I mean a penis, a male member, severed, and I blushed. Hadn’t seen one up that close in an age.
She was jabbing it at my face.
And that’s when I forced myself to wake up.
There is a limit to how far my subconscious will go.
Yep, I woke up and Max was flicking my cheek.
‘Mum, Mummy, it’s time to get up.’
What, what? Morning already? A quick glance at the alarm clock confirmed I’d overslept.
My father’s face popped round the door.
‘Thought we’d let you sleep in. I’ll take Max to nursery.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
I hadn’t mentioned my impending doom to him. My imminent sacking weighed heavy on my mind and he sensed something was amiss. The whole weekend had been shadowed in gloom, and I found
myself snapping at Max for no valid reason. Being a confident kid he took it in his stride.
‘Mum,’ he stridently declared, ‘I am nearly four and you are thirty. Do not shout at me!’
He was staring up at me and I could see he had a point.
‘You’re right, Maxy, sorry.’
On edge and waiting, oh, how I wished to put off the inevitable.
Crawling out of bed, I went to take a shower. I let the water pelt down, hoping it would somehow permeate my skin and cleanse my thoughts, only to be interrupted by the sound of an insistent
bell. I cursed my father for forgetting his keys yet again, and wrapped in a towel sloped off to open the door.
‘Jesus, Dad, but how many times –’
Surprise, surprise.
It was Fiona, clad in a very becoming Burberry mac. I have to say she’s got good taste in clothes.
‘Nice coat, is it new?’
‘Brodsky, you and I have some serious talking to do.’
‘We do?’
She nodded.
‘Meet me at the café round the corner in twenty minutes.’
I complied, found her twenty minutes later in the café on the corner, tapping away on her laptop.
‘Hey, great party the other night. Christ, I was so drunk.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it.’
‘Drank way too much, can’t remember a thing.’
An inane smile graced my bullshitting, and desperately I continued digging a hole into which I might fall.
‘Regret getting so drunk, always end up talking such shit.’
A surly-faced waitress intervened.
‘What can I get you, ladies?’
We ordered coffee and cake. Then, just as I was nervously about to embark on recounting my hideous dream, Fiona hushed me with a flattened palm and opened her briefcase. Reached her finely
manicured hand in and took out a file. Or rather, the –
And you wanna know something?
’Twas the sweetest sacking in all of Christendom.
Fiona went for the caring, motherly approach.
‘Issy, you’re a complete and utter tool.’
‘Thanks, Fiona, the feeling’s mutual.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I think so too.’
She peered across the table at me, gulped back an espresso, reached out a hand, which she gently and ever so reassuringly placed on mine, then soothingly sneered, ‘You’re finished at
the Trap.’
‘As in –’
‘Yes.’
Although she did say that if I wanted I could consider my situation as being on permanent suspension without pay.
‘Can’t say I’m terribly surprised.’
My tone was sardonic and I flicked her hand off mine. The last thing I needed was insincere pity.
‘Issy, I feel I should tell you this. Normally, in situations such as these, people have a tendency to say don’t worry, it’s not personal. One mustn’t take these things
personally.’
‘And?’
‘Well, in your case, it was.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Personal. Trisha always doubted you. Right from the start. She’s been watching you like a hawk –’
‘Fiona, you’re the boss.’
‘Trisha founded the company. The whole thing went belly up a couple of years back, so I bailed her out. We’re equal partners. Anyway she thought you were, how can I put it, an
encumbrance, bound to mess up. She thought you were using the position as an attempt at a social life.’
Whoaa there, matey, time to douse my tongue with a petulant fragrance and pretend I was a six-year-old, little Miss Precocious.
‘Fiona, have you any idea how tedious it is to be fawned over constantly? It’s actually quite distressing having all this male attention. OK, so I’ll admit it was fun at the
beginning, meeting people and going out, especially considering my situation, but frankly –’
‘What?’
My voice pitched higher than usual and I threw in a lisp for effect.
‘Well, if you must know, I’ve found these past few months borwing.’
‘You mean boring.’
‘Yesth, borwing. Look, Fiona, I want to move on in my life, achieve something worthwhile. I want Max to be proud of me, not embarrassed that his mother works as a spy. I mean can you
imagine how that must make him feel? Especially as he starts school next year.’
‘What are you talking about? Having a parent who’s a spy is the ultimate for a kid.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe.’
Damn her. I cut the affectations, they weren’t working, and went for a plain old fuck-you attitude with a splash of moral high ground.
‘Fiona, for all I care you can keep your scuzzy job. I mean why am I bothering wasting my time in a two-bit agency that deals in grief? That generates suffering. Let’s face it, most
of the guys are so bowled over by the fact an interesting person is talking to them it’s no wonder they succumb. It’s like giving a kid candy – they can’t help but take a
lick. It’s deliberate provocation.’
‘Issy, you’re talking like a man. And by the way, may I remind you that these past few months no one was licking you.’
‘That was a run of bad luck, and you know it. Honestly, Fiona, there are nights I’m actually unable to sleep, grappling with thoughts of the hurt I’ve caused others. We
manipulate these guys. If the shoe was on the other foot, I mean if their wives had a chance, they’d probably jump at it too.’
‘Business is business . . .’
‘It’s morally corrupt and you know it. It stinks, the whole of society is defiled, we’re force-fed a diet of titillating sex and then expected to be monogamous saints.
It’s all bullshit.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean people expect dessert with every meal.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Expectations, expectations, expectations.’
‘And?’ she said, polishing off her coffee-and-walnut slice.
‘They are unrealistically high. You can’t have your cake and eat it.’
At this precise point in the conversation, the café erupted. The sound of plates smashing to the floor reverberated throughout and was followed by the waitress storming out from the
kitchen area. Spewing most virulently God only knows what (though it was music to my ears), the owner, Silvio, a short, tubby Italian, appeared in hot pursuit of her. There followed a scene of
passionate anger, much arm gesticulation and verbal sparring, until she untied her apron, flung it to the ground and left. Silvio cursed her vociferously and then proclaimed, ‘I’ve had
it with her bad attitude. She doesn’t want to work, she think she too good to work in café. Is true what they say. When will I learn? You canna work with animals and children. My own
daughter. Pah.’
He collapsed against the counter and beseeched the Lord above.
‘What now, Mister High Flyer? Why so impossible to find decent waitress? Honest, hard-working, easygoing, not complicated, pretty, but smart, young woman who lives local. Flexible hours,
the pay not so bad. Where? Where I find this miracle worker?’
Or rather Fiona nudged me into action, elbowing me in the ribs.
‘Hey, over here. A perfect specimen ready to roll.’
‘Fiona, what are you doing?’
‘Sorting you out. Some things are fated to happen.’
‘I’m an undercover agent.’
‘Those days are long gone.’
‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’
‘ISSY, IT’S OVER.’
Silvio rushed towards us and I flashed him a winning smile.
‘Hi, mmm, I couldn’t help but witness what just happened and, as I’m currently looking for a job, I wondered –’
‘You have experience?’
‘Some.’
Under the table Fiona’s pointy-toed boot met with my calf.
‘Loads,’ I corrected myself.
I’d done a couple of waitressing stints as a student and vowed never, ever, to do it again.
‘You good worker?’
‘Let me vouch for Ms Brodsky. As her former employer, I can safely say she gives her all to the job. Perhaps at times too much.’
OK, so I was way overeducated for the position and felt it to be a massive come-down from the dizzy heights of undercover agent, but really, was I in a position to choose? I levelled with
myself: it would be fine, for a while. A temporary measure taken to alleviate financial ruin. At least it would allow me space to look for a more suitable job. Silvio passionately embraced me and
then set me to work.
On the bright side it wouldn’t take long to master the art of serving and hey, waitressing, well, it’s not exactly rocket science.
Jesus Christ, but have you any idea how bloody complicated a simple cup of coffee can become, how fickle a customer is, how demanding, rude and obnoxious people can be?
‘Hi, can I have a coffee?’
‘What colour?’
‘Mmmm black, mmmm, no, white.’
‘A latte?’
‘No, a cappuccino, without the chocolate.’
‘Anything else?’
‘With skimmed milk, and an omelette.’
‘OK.’
‘But without the yolks.’
‘Want any bread with that?’
‘What sort do you have?’
‘White, wholemeal, soda, baguette, ciabatta, rolls.’
‘You have any crispbreads?’
‘Chrissakes, Fiona, just make a blinkin’ decision.’
Fiona was my trial customer. Silvio had thought it best to test me, just to ascertain my suitability for the position.
I managed to scrape through, though no thanks to Fiona.
She stood right in front of me, a little smaller than expected, but definitely of the fairy ilk with her pink tulle tutu, angel wings and a wand. Twirl that baton my way, babe.
Instead she scoffed at me, her tiny nose upturned, and skipped away, waving her wand about her. I was contemplating my fate at the council-run Elysium, otherwise known as the playground. I’d
picked Max up from nursery, and we’d headed over to the park.
I am so jealous of a child’s sense of joy and freedom, the sheer ecstasy they derive from climbing frames, swings, and sandpits. These little people letting their souls dance are
sovereigns unto themselves, still too young to be self-conscious. The children rule supreme in these safe havens, where the only knocks experienced are soft bruises and the niggling wounds of
childhood, like from the kid who throws sand in your eyes or runs off with your tricycle, or clouts you when you’re not looking, but in the main, bliss abounds. While we, the parents,
guardians, hover on the sidelines, waiting for the tumble, the call for help to push the swing, to build the castle, to buy the ice-cream.
Speaking of which. Tantrum alert, tantrum alert, and there was no way his fingers would be prised from the railings. Max, steadfast and determined, clung to the rails on the far side of the
playground, where the ice-cream van had pulled up, by the gap in the fence. The tingle, tingle tune that cuts to the bone of every parent and you just hope you remembered to bring your quid or all
hell will break loose.
Of course being the parent who forgot, I hung back in the sandpit hoping no one would point the finger at me. ‘Cruel mother ignores the pleas of her wailing child.’ There was no way
Max would be persuaded to forgo an ice just because Mummy had no money. So I decided not to deal, sat in the pit, and how apt a place considering my situation.