Authors: Lana Citron
‘Are you . . .’
‘Finklestein,’ she said.
‘Yes, but is this about the finger?’
‘Finkle . . . as in F.I.N.K.L.E.S.T.E.I.N. Look, you can . . .’
Oi, Gladys, but did she go on some. I’m paid to listen – that’s what I kept saying to myself over and over.
‘He’s not himself. I don’t know what it is, but to be honest these last couple of weeks something’s changed. He’s lost his umph, you know what I mean?’
‘Umm . . .’ To be honest I didn’t.
‘Not umm . . . umph. He was always so full of it and now . . .’
‘How old is he?’
‘Seventy-nine.’
‘I see, and you think he could be having an affair?’
‘After fifty years of marriage you think I care . . . I know this isn’t strictly what your company is for, but look . . . Can you talk to him? Get some sense out of him? Make him
smile, though not too much – he’s just had a heart-bypass operation. What colour hair do you have?’
‘Brown.’
‘You a nice girl? Educated?’
‘Yeah . . .’
‘Think you could help me out?’
‘Excuse me for being naive, but why don’t you use an escort company?’
‘Have you seen how much they charge? Listen, he needs a bit of attention from a stranger, a total stranger . . . see what I’m saying?’
‘It’s not really our thing, Mrs Fink.’
‘From one woman to another . . . please . . . please . . . I’m at my wits’ end. Just the once. Please?’
‘OK, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘So every second Monday, he goes to Harry’s after work – you like chicken soup? They do good chicken soup . . .’
Me and the boy child got through the weekend, the pair of us gagging come Monday morning for some quality separation time. He flew out of my arms, screaming the name of his
best friend of the moment, without a kiss goodbye, not even a wave ta-ta. I turned and went to hang his coat on his name peg. Left the nursery and –
Yes! Freedom, Monday. MY DAY. Reserved for doing things I wanted to do.
Like read the Sunday papers, like call someone and have an uninterrupted telephone conversation, go see an early-afternoon movie, go to the gym, have lunch with a friend, but first I must settle
bills, clean the apartment, wash a week’s worth of laundry, consult the list of things to be fixed and decide to do it another day, plan the week, the weekend, counter-plan, un-plan, update
wish lists, daydream on what ifs, check my insurance, and just as I sit down with my coffee ready to open the papers, it’s time to collect Max.
My big date with Mr Joel Finklestein was planned for that very evening. Fiona didn’t care that it wasn’t strictly kosher, just as long as she got paid. I was slightly anxious about
it. I mean how the hell do you go about flirting with an elderly man?
Joel Finklestein had shrunk with age. A slight man in a dark-grey suit, with silver hair, watery eyes sunk back in his face, and hand slightly shaking as he raised the soup
spoon to his mouth. He was staring out the large front window of the restaurant on to the high street. Harry Morgan’s, St John’s Wood, a comfort-food haven.
The place was near empty when I arrived. I sat at the table next to him, my opening gambit a weak, ‘Evening.’ A nod received in reply.
I’d been to the restaurant a few times. It had recently undergone renovation, jazzed up somewhat for the Noughties, expanded now to include a takeaway. The waitresses were all Eastern
European blondes, the food heart-stopping in both the good and bad way. I’d gone off it when Max was refused entry due to his buggy, which I felt unjustifiable seeing as it was supposedly a
family restaurant.
Gladys mentioned that I was categorically
not
to mention the war. When I asked her what Mr F. did like, she said children. I ordered a chicken soup with
Kreplach
and a
Latka
, then rummaged in my bag for a photo of Max.
The situation too forced, with at least a couple of generations between us. To be honest my heart wasn’t in it. I wasn’t my usual happy-go-lucky self: the past week had taken its
toll.
The waitress set down my meal and I tried once again to make contact.
‘Mmm . . . just what I need, soul soup.’
No acknowledgement forthcoming.
‘Mmm . . . delicious. How’s yours?’
He glanced up at me.
‘Fine.’
Slowly he turned round to me, shaking his head gently.
‘She sent you, didn’t she?’
‘Who?’
‘My wife.’
‘Your wife? You married? That’s nice. I’m single myself but I have a little boy. Do you want to see a picture of him?’
I know, I know, cringy, but I didn’t know what else to say.
‘My wife, she sent you, didn’t she?’ he slowly repeated.
‘Well . . . actually,’ and I nodded an affirmative. Couldn’t pretend otherwise.
‘You an escort?’
‘Do I look like an escort?’
‘How would I know?’
‘Well, I’m not.’
Conversation ceased. I was affronted by his comments, slurping soup on the defensive, and he sipping a lemon tea reading the
Antiques Gazette
.
I felt the need to explain myself.
‘Look, Mr Finklestein, your wife called the company I work for and asked if I’d come down here and talk to you. Just chat. She’s worried, says you haven’t been yourself
these past few weeks.’
‘No disrespect, lady, but I’m not interested in talking.’
‘Fine, I didn’t mean to offend you.’
It wasn’t fine. He was curt, bordering on the offensive, and I was thinking did I really look like an escort? On a downward spiral I spun into the negative.
‘So you don’t want to talk?’
‘You have a problem with English?’
‘I’m just trying to be friendly.’
‘Save yourself the bother. You want to move tables or will I?’
Jesus, but I didn’t deserve this, sick to the gills of playing these stupid games. Since the Bob fiasco, my confidence was waning, and here is this old man making me feel small, smaller
than him even.
I pushed back the chair and put on my jacket, left enough money to cover the bill, leant towards him and then snapped. I snapped and splurged.
‘Mr Finklestein, you are one of the most discourteous men I have ever met.’
‘Jeez. Do I have to listen to this? What are you,
meshuggener
?’
No, just a single mum, on the brink of losing it. My mind, my job, my dignity . . . Oh no, my mistake, that went to a total dick a week ago, and unbelievable though it may seem, I also lost a
finger. Yep, to top it all I lost a real-life, hacked-off finger.
I stormed out of the restaurant, stood on the pavement taking stock of my life. Christ, and there I’d been feeling sorry for him, just ’cause he was old.
Bastard.
Well, not the same, just disappointing.
My father wasn’t very supportive when I’d announced I was going it alone and having Max.
‘Every child deserves a father.’
‘So what was your excuse?’
‘Oh come on, that’s totally different. At least you knew who I was.’
‘But you weren’t there.’
‘Issy, you spent every holiday with me.’
They split when I was four and my brother six. It must have been hell for my mother over the next few years. Indeed, I forgave my parents many things when I had a child of my own. Mum
didn’t have a proper boyfriend till I was ten and I remember being a total bitch to the two of them. No one was allowed time with my mother, yet here’s the rub, we allowed Dad his
girlfriends. They were somehow more like au pairs and were cool to hang out with. One actually was an au pair.
‘Dad, holidays aren’t reality, day-to-day living. Fun times are easy, and besides, you always sent Freddie and me off on summer camps.’
‘You enjoyed it.’
‘Only ’cause I was desperate to spend time around you.’
‘There, you proved my point. Max needs a father.’
‘You’re right,’ I conceded. ‘Yeah, come to think of it you’re going to be a major influence in his life, one of his strongest male role models, so don’t go
shirking your responsibility.’
Of course Max should have a father but he doesn’t, and there’s nothing I can do about it, bar providing stable male figures he can relate to. He adores my older
brother Freddie, who dotes on Max no end and has begun to take him out shopping. Freddie buys him tight white T-shirts and Prada jeans. He treats Max as a designer accessory, taking him on quick
strolls up and down Old Compton Street. I say quick, ’cause the minute Max gets twitchy, I have to go and rescue Freddie. See, Freddie’s lifestyle doesn’t really cater to small
children, though he promises to take him clubbing, when he’s in his teens.
OK, so Freddie can’t provide the rough and tumble, football, blokesy bond, but they love each other and as far as I’m concerned that’s the only thing that matters. And you
know, there are times I feel exceptionally lucky being on my own with Max. I’ve met too many women whose partnerships have broken down unexpectedly after the birth of their child. It really
must be quite horrendous to be so suddenly deserted. It comes down to expectations, and as I never had any, it hasn’t been an issue.
I have complete control over how I wish to bring Max up, and he can’t play one parent off against the other. There are no compromises to be struck. There is no resentment
harboured, such as when one partner has more access to the adult world. This, I believe, is a big bug-bear in many relationships, as my more honest married friends will testify. Max is my sole
responsibility and I share him with no one.
The minus being, of course, Max is my sole responsibility and I share him with no one.
I guess my luck ran out last week. I put it down to the finger. Since then, near ruin on every front. It was haunting me. Why me? Hadn’t I enough on my plate not to be
beset upon by flesh and tiny bones?
I trudged home from my meeting with Finklestein to find Maria glue-eyed to
Graham Norton
. She was knitting a jumper for Max. A
Spiderman
one, red background with a big black
web on it.
‘How’d it go with Finklestein?’
‘Not good, he wouldn’t speak to me.’
‘And?’
‘Maria, do I look like an escort to you?’
‘What?’
‘No, seriously?’
‘Listen, Max is a bit cranky, he’s coming down with something.’
‘Great.’
That’s all I needed.
‘And a detective called by when you were out.’
‘Huh?’
I was hanging up my jacket, yawning loudly.
‘He left his number, asked if you’d ring him tomorrow.’
‘What did he say?’
‘They found the body.’
Clickity clack went her needles as I made Maria a cup of tea.
‘A detective,’ she said. ‘His name is Bambuss.’
He’d asked if I would be so kind as to call at the first opportunity. A body had been found. A murder? Who’s to say? He hadn’t elaborated further, no other clues given.
He’d had a quick look around the apartment.
‘A Cypriot,’ remarked Maria. ‘Originally from Cyprus, greying at the temples. Very distinguished man – reminded me of that actor, Omar Sharif.’
‘Oh.’ I perked up, so he had a whiff of the Omar. ‘My age?’
‘No, my age,’ Maria replied.
Maria is the same age as my mother. Olive skin, dark hair, Rubenesque and small, not quite an aged and tubby Penelope Cruz but with a twinkle in her green eyes. Her husband passed away a couple
of years back and, instead of crumbling, it’s as if she’s finally come into herself. Her children have nest-fled to disparate points of the globe and all have children of their own,
which means Maria gets to travel quite a bit. She misses being a hands-on gran, though, luckily for me, she’s all but formally adopted Max as her grandson.
Her role at the Honey Trap evolved naturally. She’d been cleaning Trisha’s house and had done some babysitting. Trisha referred her to Fiona, who then took her on.
Time to go. She gathered up her bits and bobs, sighed, and then made the sign of the cross.
‘Poor old dear, let’s hope she at peace now.’
‘Yeah, it’s awful. Guess I’ll find out the whole story tomorrow. Thanks, Maria.’
Standing in my hallway, I watched as she put on her helmet, bicycle clips and reflector bands, then disappeared on her push bike, off into the night.
I hadn’t thought beyond the finger, not really. It hung suspended in my imagination like a novelty. I ignored the fact it had once belonged to a hand, to a living,
breathing person. Old women are two a penny, clumping along all over the place with their shopping trolleys. One passes them by, forgetting they were ever young, assuming they were always as they
appear: slow-moving, wearing worn-out coats.
My mother, initially a reluctant granny, finally caved in once she saw Max. She spends a month with us every summer. Last time she came, Max and I collected her from the airport. I hadn’t
seen her for a year and was shocked at how she’d aged. The fine lines had become entrenched, and though she was still very striking, her hair was now grey and she refused to dye it.
Practical by nature, she had given me plenty of advice when I fell pregnant.
‘Issy, you want to make sure you have a strong support group around you, find out about as many mother-baby groups as you can and sign up now.’
Unsurprisingly I ignored her advice and came to regret it.
She had a good life in New Mexico: a partner and a job as an office administrator in a production company. She was loath to run to my side and exhaust herself. She’d been there, done it,
worn out the T-shirt.
Of course we got on each other’s tits no end within twenty-four hours of her arrival, but the summer had been so much sweeter with her around, especially when she gave me a whole seven
days and seven nights of freedom in Barcelona.
Mum and I speak about twice a week. When I told her about the finger she, being into the mystical, was convinced it was a sign.