The Honey Trap (20 page)

‘A full English.’

Oh the subtext. I was all aquiver taking his order, had to hold the pen in both hands to make my writing legible.

‘And a fresh orange juice, if that’s not too much trouble?’

‘No trouble at all, sir.’

I smiled my cheesiest grin.

‘Good to see you.’

‘You too,’ he gushed. ‘You look great – have you lost weight?’

One good thing about waitressing is weight-loss. You can work up quite a sweat at lunchtimes and the coffee machine sure works those biceps. I was back in my pre-pregnancy clothes.

‘A little.’

The return of my saint, and I just knew, from the way he was staring at me, I was in for a good time.

In fact by the end of the day I was tossing and turning in Stephan’s bed.

Thank you, God, for delivering unto me a most beautiful male, well versed in the ways of physical union.

My body awoke from a most long hibernation. In the café an unspoken something had occurred, a tacit understanding of what would come later. Well, me, for one.

A glut of emotions swept through me, bowled me over, brought me to my knees, and then some. Whooaa there, stallion, easy does it. Stephan was on a mission, like he’d something to prove to
me. I guess he had, considering our last meeting.

So a couple of hours later, we were enjoying the requisite post-coital fag.

‘Amazing staying power,’ I ventured, all loved up.

‘Issy, you’re so sweet.’

‘As Honey? Lost my job at the Trap.’

‘I guessed. Don’t tell me – you were screwing one of the clients?’

‘Well, yeah.’

Excusing myself, I went to the bathroom. This could be it, we could fall in love and have a relationship, I was musing on saccharine notions as I tried my hardest to pee. My body, fair shook up,
took its time, switching over to its utility function. Already, I’d chosen a pet name for Stephan, my Trojan Horse. How apt, how befitting, and I shuddered at the prospect of round two,
unsure I could take it.

But damn, I felt so goddamn alive, vital, and then as I checked my appearance in the bathroom cabinet, just to make sure my make-up wasn’t smeared halfway across my face, I noticed a
packet of pills. I reached over and –

Well, well, what have we here?

I blinked in disbelief at that which affronted my gaze. So he did have something to prove.

Viagra.

My Lord, but you have a weird sense of humour. (Or am I just old-fashioned in wanting the real thing?)

I sashayed provocatively back into the bedroom, amused that Champion the Wonder Horse was in effect on pep pills.

‘Hey, sweetie, ready for seconds?’

‘What’s the rush?’

I sidled up beside him on the bed.

‘No rush, babe.’

‘So, how long do I have the pleasure of your company?’

‘A couple of weeks or so.’

‘Mmm, fourteen long nights. I look forward to it.’

‘Yeah.’

He coughed hesitantly.

‘But eh, I guess I should tell you, Katy is coming.’

Katy? Who the hell was Katy?

‘Oh great, it will be nice to meet one of your kids.’

I so didn’t have a clue, half-clad in my underwear and climbing back on top of him. I began nuzzling his chest.

‘No, my partner, Katy.’

‘What, is she over for a case?’

So didn’t understand.

‘Not work partner, girlfriend.’

Thus instantly clarifying the situation for me.

‘Oh, now I get it.’

I yawned, blasé-style, as if I didn’t care that I’d just been shafted by a guy who needed a chemical dick splint to get it up.

What a bastard – couldn’t believe I’d been duped. Why hadn’t I seen it coming? Felt like a complete Nadser, i.e., a total idiot.

‘Guess I’ll make a move.’

I slid off the bed and began my search for far-flung garments.

‘Don’t go yet. We have all night. Anyway, she’s not coming till next week.’

‘I’ve got to get back to Max. Last thing he needs is a strung-out mother.’

‘Are you pissed off with me?’

Hmm, I wonder.

‘Stephan, why the hell are you messing with me when you have someone?’

‘I should have told you.’

Snapping, I forwent being cool and pretending it didn’t matter.

‘Why, Stephan? Does it bolster your ego? Make you feel like the big man? Have you no respect for your partner?’

‘We have an open relationship.’

‘Yeah, but what about me? You knew I liked you, all you had to say was . . . oh what’s the point.’

His answer was to reach out as I was pulling on my jeans and begin stroking my face, which made me want to puke.

‘Thanks for the fuck, Stephan.’

Yeah, I got it, real bad. Went home and blasphemed at the Lord.

That day I fought with three customers, short-changed two, broke a plate and took down five wrong orders.

This coincided with my father’s departure. It was time for him to return, pick up the pieces of his life, and just when we’d got used to his presence. For sure Max
would badly miss his grandpa, but I too was dreading living in an adult-empty flat, never mind the prospect of no more free babysitting.

On the eve on his return, we sat round the kitchen table sinking a bottle of red. Our mood was somewhat maudlin. He knew damn well something had happened between Stephan and I. When he’d
asked how our date had gone, I’d merely replied, ‘It went.’

Still sore and smarting, I’d no desire to see Stephan again. Besides he’d be gone in thirteen days and counting. My disappointment was intense. As far as I was concerned he ceased to
exist.

‘I’m going to miss Max.’

‘He’s going to miss you.’

My father had softened the blow with a bag of presents that he’d left at the end of Max’s bed. Rising slowly out his chair, he came to kiss me on the top of my head.

‘Look, Issy, I know things haven’t been easy for you . . . so.’

He delved into his pocket and handed me an envelope.

‘Thanks, Dad. You didn’t have to.’

‘I know. I wanted to.’

Opening the envelope I expected a cheque but my father surprised me with a piece of paper signed by Maria allowing me twenty prepaid babysitting sessions.

‘Jesus, Dad, this is brilliant.’

My eyes began to water. It was one of the most thoughtful things my father had ever done.

‘How’s your mum?’ he asked, changing the subject before sentimentality took over.

‘Good.’

‘Is she still with Randy?’

‘His name is Wally.’

‘Wally – does he live up to his name?’

‘Don’t even think of going after Mum again.’

‘Issy, please.’

‘Don’t you remember all the fights?’

‘What fights? We were too young to settle down, that was all.’

‘You were at each other day and night.’

Damn, but I’d even miss our bickering.

‘Dad . . .’

Strange how pauses in conversation are so much more loaded then what is actually said.

‘I know,’ he answered, ‘Don’t worry, kid, it will be all right.’

So finally they realised just what a brilliant Honey I was. How they’d actually managed to survive without me, for near on a month, was beyond my reckoning. There was a
message to call the Trap and I dialled back, eager to indulge in some ego-massaging,

‘Hey, Fiona, it’s Issy.’

‘Hi, how’s your new career taking off?’

‘Brilliant, fantastic, everything’s –’

‘Glad to hear it. We’ve had good news. Betty dropped her case and business has really picked up. It’s suddenly gone crazy.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘We’re run off our feet.’

‘I see, so I suppose you think you can just call me up and offer me my job back?’

‘Actually, no. We were wondering where the key to the clothes cabinet was. Can’t seem to find it anywhere.’

‘The key? What about my job?’

‘We’ll keep you in mind.’

‘In mind?’

‘So the key – you didn’t by any chance take it, accidentally?’

‘I want my job back, Fiona.’

‘Sorry, Issy, it’s gone.’

‘What do you mean gone?’

‘We’ve got a replacement.’

‘What do you mean replacement?’

‘Someone new.’

Why is it that sometimes you have to shout to be heard? Take the bank, for example, Say there’s a problem and you go in like a normal person explaining in quiet calm
tones what needs to be done, their usual response is to ignore you. Whereas, if you make a fuss, start barking your head off and let your child run riot they will soon enough pull their finger out
of their arses and address the problem.

So, my Lord, can you hear me or should I adjust the volume?

Sometimes I reckon you’re playing with my emotions. Bottom line is I need a sign or something to indicate that I’m not a complete loser.

Thanks,

Issy.

‘Issy . . .’

‘Stephan . . .’

Funny how pauses are so much more . . .

Max was asleep when he came knocking.

‘I need to speak to you. Can I come in?’

I could do cool courtesy, especially seeing as I’d flushed him from my system (hey, the guy was a shit – boom boom). I opened the door, led him inside.

‘I’m sorry about what happened between us.’

He was awkward and hesitant.

‘I . . . well, I wanted to say thanks for your help and –’

I was cold and abrupt.

‘Where’s Katy?’

‘At the apartment – we leave tomorrow.’

‘Great.’

‘And I wanted to tell you, well, it’s quite incredible really.’

‘Have you sold the flat?’

‘Yeah, to a really nice –’

Contender No. 1, Contender No. 1, please let it be Contender No. 1.

‘A really sweet couple called the –’

‘The Finklesteins!’

I knew it. I goddamn knew it.

I’m jinxed, I swear. I have what is officially known as the Brodsky Touch. Opposite of Midas, in that whatever I touch turns to shit.

‘No, it’s a young couple – Issy, can I sit down.’

‘Oh excuse my inhospitality. Suppose a glass of wine wouldn’t go amiss?’

He failed to decode my hint of sarcasm.

‘That would be lovely, thanks.’

I poured, we sat, he spoke, I listened.

There was once a Honey (me), who discovered a severed finger in her garden. OK, so it was Max who actually found it but it was the Honey (me), who brought it to the attention
of the police. Not the actual finger, you understand, as unfortunately and through no fault of her own she lost it; perhaps not the best thing to have occurred, but at the time she was under a lot
of pressure. A single mother, say no more.

One evening whilst out working, the Honey (me) happened upon a gent of advanced years and some befuddlement, who mistook her for an escort and made her cry. (‘Boo hoo hoo, nobody loves me,
I’m so alone, life’s shit.’) Meanwhile in another part of town, a fat detective was busy putting together the pieces of a somewhat strange burglary. A deceased woman had been
found in her apartment, missing her little finger and all her jewellery. Soon after the detective met the Honey, and on one occasion, arrived at her door accompanied by the son of the deceased
woman. The Honey took a liking to this man and sadly wasted much of the winter mooning over him. As for the elderly gent, Joel Finklestein, he and his wife Gladys spent their winter abroad in the
sunny climes of Florida. They did so every year, leaving their jewellery business in the capable hands of their son-in-law, David.

One day a dastardly thief entered the shop, carrying on his person a bag of jewels. The jewels, he claimed, belonged to an elderly aunt who had passed away. He upturned the bag and the
jewellery, a selection of necklaces, bracelets, brooches, ear-rings and rings, tumbled out on to the glass counter top. The thief was after a quick cash sale, and offered the lot for five thousand
pounds. A bargain, for the real worth of the jewels ran into tens of thousands. Nice pieces, surmised the jeweller’s son-in-law, though definitely not kosher. David feigned interest but in
the end declined the offer. Taking affront, the thief gathered up the jewels and left.

Later that very day, whilst hoovering before shutting up shop, David came across a small ring, by the side of the counter. A simple silver band with a tiny encrusted emerald and the letters SB
engraved on the back. In truth of little value, bar sentiment. It must have slid off the glass top when the thief had laid out his wares. David put it to one side and that was how Joel Finklestein
came upon it on his return.

But the story does not end there. The Finklesteins, having lived in a four-bedroom detached house all their lives, decided in Florida that now was a good time to downsize and came to view an
apartment in Antrim Road. By fortuitous good timing the Honey (me) was at the apartment, and though initially embarrassed to encounter the Finklesteins, it was she (me) who informed them of the sad
demise of Sarah Bloch. Indeed the information given impressed itself upon Joel Finklestein and he wondered if perhaps the ring belonged to the deceased. So it was that by the forces of serendipity
and coincidence, all linked by the Honey (me, the centrifugal force of this story), that the ring found its way home.