The Honey Trap (10 page)

Shit. They’d got here before me. I let out a wistful, ‘Noooooooooooo!’

How could it be? I ran out into the hall and there was Mrs O’Whatshername, a middle-aged Irish woman. Having lived in the block five years I still, shame on me, didn’t know any of my
neighbours’ names. The crew were disappearing up the stairs with a stretcher in tow.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Ah, it’s dreadful, awful . . . The man above you, found him out cold, lying on the floor of his flat.’

‘Oh my God . . .’ I gasped.

So that was the reason for that loud crash nearly an hour ago. The one that had elicited the following response from my good self: banging the ceiling with the top of the broom and throwing
curses upwards. My upstairs neighbour, whom I’d last encountered clasping his head in agony and upon whom I had wished a brain haemorrhage, was now ‘out cold’.

Oops.

Guess my curse fell back down upon me, and I felt damned.

Mrs O’Whatshername, in shock, launched into the whys and wherefores.

‘There was I, watching the telly, next thing, heard this God-awful bang and all the lights went out.’

‘And then what?’

‘I keep a torch handy at all times . . . sure, the wiring in this building is yonks old. I went to the fuse box, flicked on the switches. But I noticed his lights hadn’t come on,
which I thought odd. Sure, I knew he was in, had said hello to me earlier in the evening . . .’

Cut to the chase, cut to the chase, woman.

‘Here now, I said to myself, there’s surely something amiss. So I went knocking on his door, nothing happening, no reply, called out his name, nothing, and you know what, I thought
ah he’s just gone out, but then . . .’

What? What . . . ?

‘Now, I’m not one to snoop, but something was telling me to shine the torch in through his letterbox. So I did, and God love him . . . didn’t I just see his feet and him laid
out on the ground like a corpse.’

‘Like a corpse, you say?’

‘A dead man.’

The crew were making their way back down the stairs. My neighbour lay prone, belted on to the stretcher. Eyes closed, an oxygen tank at his side.

By this stage, I was near gagging on guilt. I’d killed him.

Mrs O’Whatshername turned her attention from me and went to talk to one of the crew. I stood at the entrance, watching as they loaded my neighbour into the back of the ambulance.

Mrs O’ stood a few feet away.

‘I see, I see . . . Oh that’s terrible . . . Oh please God . . . All right, I will do . . . Thank you . . . And God bless yous.’

The ambulance drove off at high speed. Mrs O’ and I stepped back into the communal hallway. She closed the door, a clenched fist pressed against her mouth, pulling her cardy close about
her body.

‘How is he?’

‘Unconscious.’

‘God, that’s awful. Will he live?’

‘Up a ladder, changing a bulb, then – wham. Jesus, but you never know what’s round the corner.’

She sighed heavily and slow-marched back up the stairs.

My fault, all my fault . . . Back in the flat, I sank the rest of the red wine. Then did that praying thing again.

The intervening days lagged. It wasn’t so much Max, as we spent most of our time playing. Rather it was the lack of adult interaction. Freddie turned up eager to offload
his relationship problems, or lack of. I, on the other hand, was miffed he hadn’t called round sooner, considering the number of messages I’d left.

He was looking kinda peaky – his skin had gone a weird tone.

‘Are you taking too many drugs?’

‘Issy, you’re beginning to sound like a mum.’

‘I am one. Freddie, you’re turning a shade of orange.’

‘What are you talking about?’

It was true. Max, Freddie and I compared flesh tones.

‘See, you’re orange-tinted. What are you on?’

Freddie, a bona fide gym freak, was on a mission to become a Muscle Mary and in the name of Adonis pumped heaploads of chemical shit into his body.

I handed him his dinner, a plate of tinned tuna, he being on a protein-only diet, and I mused, ‘No wonder you’re not with anyone, you look diseased,’ which in retrospect was
not the kindest thing to say, as appearance was everything to Freddie.

He shot off a string of nasty comments, stinging missiles of hurt, like only a sibling can.

I returned the favour and for the next half-hour we argued in silence, or until Max piped up with, ‘Look, Mum, Freddie’s crying. Give him a kiss.’

So . . . he apologised, I apologised and even Max apologised.

Freddie then came clean, admitted he was sick to the gills of casual encounters. Frustrated, he yearned for a proper relationship, dreamed of finding Mr Right, hankered for that time when
everything would click into place and it would be easy, no more searching.

‘There is a guy who meets all the requirements.’

‘But?’

‘I’m not a hundred per cent into him. Sure, he’s nice. I like him loads and he’s big into me.’

‘A bit too much information there,’ my mind having conjured up disturbing images.

‘Anyway, he wants to have a serious relationship and I want to have a serious relationship.’

‘But, not with him?’

‘Maybe if we tried we could be happy.’

‘For what it’s worth, Freddie, that’s kinda a pipe dream.’

‘No wonder your business venture failed. It’s so obvious you never believed in your own product.’

‘It won’t work if your heart’s not in it. Take the Honey Trap, for example. May as well be a lonely hearts club, wives bent by insecurity, disenfranchised husbands staying out
’cause anything is better than going home. Fuck it, these people are lonely as hell and what’s worse, they thought they had it all wrapped up when they signed the contract.’

‘You are so cynical.’

‘No. I’m a realist.’

‘OK, Issy, so you’re telling me if some guy came along willing to take you and Max on, and he wasn’t like your number one choice but fulfilled most requirements . . .
you’re telling me you wouldn’t jump at the chance?’

‘Not if I didn’t love him.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Hey, I’d love to fall in love but I don’t need to compromise. I’ve done it on my own without the trimmings. Life isn’t perfect but Max and I are doing
fine.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘Keep looking.’

‘I’m tired of being on my own.’

‘Snap, but it’ll happen, believe me.’

Hark at Ms Independent: theoretically I believed my own rhetoric. In practice though, chance would be a fine thing. Hadn’t seen the handsome American and was losing faith in the prognosis
that the finger had brought us together. Though I did manage to bump into Mrs O’Whatshername, mainly to find out her name and also for an update on my near-dead neighbour.

We collided in the hallway as she was on her way out.

‘Ah, he’s doing nicely. Will be as right as rain in no time, though he took a bad knocking. Should be home soon enough. I’ll tell him you were asking for him.’

‘Oh . . . OK.’

‘Eh and I hope you won’t think this awful rude of me, but what’s your name?’

See, it takes two to tango.

So, we introduced ourselves and invites to drop by were exchanged.

‘Sure you know, I often watch you and your son playing out in the garden. He’s a credit to you. Such a happy little chap.’

So said Mrs Lynch before tootling off to the hospital with a bag of grapes.

I watched her go, thinking I should make more of an effort with the neighbours: they really weren’t so bad after all.

Maria arrived up at mine sporting a new bike helmet. ’Twas the night of the gig. Nadia had been sweating adrenalin all day and appeared sleeker than usual when I arrived
at the pub.

‘Nads, you look like a star.’

She beamed, sparkled, decked out in a silver boob tube and silver hot pants. I, too, had made an effort on the dress front, with a plunging neckline and push-up bra. After all, tonight I was to
be Trixi.

Trisha had kindly reminded me of this and of the fact that I had never returned Mrs Finklestein’s call. Clear blue forgot all about it.

‘Can you do it soon – she’s withholding payment till you do.’

Furthermore, Trisha had emailed Bob reminding him of the date, to which he’d replied he couldn’t wait. I, on the other hand, could. I’d spent the day rehearsing tactics. How
the hell was I going to handle this? Badly, probably. My first foray back into the adult world since Max’s pox and the last thing I wanted to be doing was revisiting a one-night stand.

I arrived at eight, on time, and positioned myself by the bar, i.e. highly visible. At nine, Silver Rider (don’t ask me why, Gonads is a way better name) took to the stage and began their
set. Nadia sounded a bit like a cross between Stina Nordenstam and P. J. Harvey. Meaning, she sounded amazing. I mean she could make it big. My mate Nadia, my best buddy, my loyal friend, heck, we
may as well be sisters, had the potential to be a huge star. I was blown away.

I was also blown out.

Bob never showed up. On my tod all evening and ne’er a sight of the dick.

A group of teenage guys, sat in the corner, kept pointing over to me and sniggering.

Then one of them, a ginger-haired ug bug, had the friggin’ nerve to come up and say, ‘See my mate over there, well, he fancies the pants off you –’

‘And?’

‘He wants to know if you’ll cop off with him.’

‘Get lost.’

When the set finished I attempted to join Nadia backstage, but her whole family had flocked to her side. I felt left out, the outsider, and my mood sank. It irked to be stood up by Bob. It
wasn’t like I should care, but I did. Plus seeing Nadia up on stage strutting her stuff and surrounded by so much love served only to compound my own sense of stagnation.

Ego battering

Create a dark, blue stinking mood with this quick and easy method. Success assured.

You’ll need:

One fragile ego

One address book containing old beaux’ numbers

One phone

One soulful CD (optional)

And a box of tissues.

Method

Flick through your address book and choose a number (works best if you are of a slightly nervous and apprehensive disposition). Dial the number and well . . . here’s one we made
earlier.

‘Hi, Finn, it’s Issy.’

‘Hi, Issy.’

‘Came across your number, thought I’d give you a call.’

‘Sure – how’s that cute boy of yours?’

‘Great, just over the chicken pox.’

‘I’m sorry, didn’t know he was sick.’

‘Well, he’s fine. So what are you up to?’

‘I’m busy at the moment. Can I, er – call you back?’

‘I won’t keep you.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Actually, I was . . . I was . . . wondering if you’d like to come for a drink sometime?’

‘Eh . . . guess I should have told you before . . . I’m getting married next month.’

‘Oh . . . oh . . . Congratulations.’

‘Thanks.’

‘. . . . . .’

‘Issy, you OK?’

My voice rose an octave and I blurted out the following:

‘Yes . . . see you then. Bye.’

Let the receiver slip out of your palm, and in a state of self-pity and shock, turn on your CD player as loud as possible and then let those tears downward flow.

The following morn on the way back from the nursery, I happened upon a certain American gent, which lifted my sunken spirits.

Fuck Finn, he was yesterday’s news.

Stephan was on his way into the block and I hollered out a friendly, ‘Hiya.’

He looked at me blankly.

‘I’m Issy. You and the detective called by the apartment about a week ago.’

So much for lasting first impressions then.

‘Issy with the little boy.’

He put down several bags of shopping.

‘Sorry, I didn’t recognise you dressed.’

‘Ha, ha, ha,’ I did flirtatiously giggle.

‘How’s your son?’

‘Better, thanks, and how’s everything with your mother – the investigation?’

‘Detective Bambuss appears to have everything under control.’

He paused and then suggested coffee.

It was only 10 a.m. – a tad early for ‘coffee’, hey?

‘So you wanna grab a quick coffee?’

‘Oh, a coffee . . . yeah, sure.’

I love snooping in other people’s homes, taking a peek at how they live. Sarah Bloch had occupied the first-floor flat: the layout was similar to my own. There was a
grand piano in the drawing room and the walls were covered with photos and pictures.

Stephan disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me to scan the many images of this woman whose finger I’d found. It felt eerie, unsettling, to come face to face with her. Indeed she had been
beautiful and from what I could make out a concert pianist. In amongst various other photos, I spotted ones of Stephan as a child, with an elderly couple. I presumed they were his grandparents.

‘Your mother must have been an incredible woman.’

‘She was a fine player. There’s some recordings of hers, if you want to listen,’ he hollered from the kitchen.

‘Yeah, I’d love that.’

He reappeared carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, mugs and some biscuits.

‘So did you grow up here, in London?’ I asked.

‘No, I grew up with my grandparents. Sarah used to travel a lot with the orchestra.’

‘And what about your dad?’

‘Sarah broke up with my father before I was born.’

‘A single mum?’