The Honey Trap (14 page)

He left shortly after, though not before thanking me for the missing finger. Better late than never.

‘So how’s the case going? Caught the culprits yet, Detective?’ I queried.

‘Let’s just say we’re following up on some interesting leads.’

‘Hmm, well, do keep me informed. In times such as these it would be novel to see justice done.’

Maria put on the kettle and we settled ourselves down to a little inquisitioning.

Arms crossed and eyebrows raised, I demanded a full explanation.

She duly complied.

‘He knock at the door, and I say you working and he say, I want company?’ (What a smooth operator.) ‘Issy, sorry if you are disappointed in me.’

Disappointed? I was jealous.

‘Maria, exactly how long has this been going on?’

‘Nothing is going on!’

‘Not from where I was standing.’

‘I swear, it was first time. My stomach so full of butterflies, I thought I’d burp one out.’

‘Oh my God, tell me, tell me, spare no details.’

‘Issy, we talk about everything, everything, and then he say . . .’

‘What?’

‘He say, I think you beautiful.’

‘Me?’

‘No. Me.’

‘That’s so romantic.’

Come to think of it Stephan hadn’t said anything like that to me.

‘And then he took my hand and . . .’

And all the while I looked at Maria thinking Max had a point, as she, at that very moment, was seventeen and fifty.

Having watched Maria whizz off into the night, so visibly glowing that she outshone her reflector belt, I realised anything was possible. I mean, she and Bambuss, though not
exactly over the hill, were teetering on the summit, and well, there I was in the very prime of my life.

Yep, a prime time to call Stephan. Seize the moment and all that, ’cause in truth I’d been dithering, waiting for the right time, mood, astrological line-up. Jeez, maybe he’d
forgotten me. Yeah, definitely time to remind him of my existence.

‘That’s right, Stephan Bloch.’

‘Hold the line, please.’

Dum dum twiddly dee.

‘I’m sorry, Ms Brodsky, but his line is occupied.’

Shit, and this was after my fifth attempt and two glasses of wine.

‘Look, it’s important I speak to him – does he have voicemail?’

‘Would you like me to put you through to his personal assistant?’

Now, she offers me his assistant. I mean it wasn’t like I was selling double glazing.

‘This is Stacy. How can I help?’

His PA sounded hyper-efficient, terribly busy, and this made me nervous.

‘Oh hi . . . I’m Issy Brodsky, a friend of Stephan’s. I’m calling from London and was wondering if you could put me through to him.’

‘Stephan’s out. May I take a message?’

‘Well, it’s quite important. It’s of a personal nature. I was hoping to speak to him directly.’

‘Would you like me to take a message or not?’

‘OK . . . could you say that I have vital news regarding his dead mother’s finger and could he give me a call as soon as he gets this message.’

‘What’s your number?’

‘He has it.’

‘In case he doesn’t.’

Hark at Miss Snooty, so direct and to the point and someone I never wish to meet face to face. She made me feel I was taking up valuable telephone-line time.

‘So, you’ll tell him it’s really important?’

‘Yes.’

‘And can you emphasise the really?’

‘Thanks for your call.’

‘Oh, OK, well –’

She cut me off in mid-flow.

Deep in pending and if there’s one thing I hate it’s when people say they’ll call and don’t. Worse still is the fact you know the call ain’t going
to come but harbour a smidgen of hope. I hate smidgens of hope, so disappointing and slight.

So very disappointing.

Stephan never got back to me, and forty-eight hours later, my mind was spiralling. I highly suspected Stacy hadn’t passed on the message. Probably fancied him herself. Christ, maybe they
were having an affair, maybe they were doing it over the desk when I rang.

I kept busy, anything to distract myself, and indulged in some long-overdue spring cleaning. There I was, going through my young man’s wardrobe and filling bags bound for the charity
shops. Ah bless, but don’t they grow so quick! Rummaging through his pants drawer I was discarding his Bob the Builder ones, as he now favoured Spiderman. So enthralled was he with his new
kacks that he’d taken to wearing four pairs at the same time.

Fiona Apple was blasting in my eardrums, me being so in the mood for some female angst. I’d already given away most of Max’s baby stuff, like the cot, pram, baby bath, crib. It had
been a poignant moment, acknowledging that the likelihood of having another child in the near future was slim. I’d gone through a phase of wondering why women bothered to have children,
considering the sacrifices one has to make. I’m unconvinced women can have it all: the man, the career, the kids. Something’s got to give. Unless of course they’re wealthy enough
to have full-time nannies.

Being a special agent and looking after Max, I really don’t see how I could ever find the time to fit in a decent relationship.

Yeah right. Who am I trying to kid?

And as for having another?

The fact is nature pulls so damn hard. I swear it’s primal. The internal egg timer just keeps on running. I’ve already made a note in my diary that when I hit thirty-six I should get
a few eggs frozen. When Max turned two, my body was ready to go at it again. Mid-cycle was hell – it was as if my insides were rebelling against me for not giving them what they desired. OK,
so I’m not exactly an earth-mother type, but I concede there are times when I’d love another little being to nurture. Such moments are, however, transient. The thought of having to go
through the whole baby thing again is wholly unappealing. All that selfless giving has severely depleted my coo factor. On sighting a newborn, I tend towards the ‘Aghhh!’ rather than
the ‘Awwww . . .’.

Damn, why hadn’t Stephan returned my call?

I was tempted to take a break from my chores and dial again, but held myself back.

I could do aloof.

Besides, it was the middle of the night in La La Land, as the security guard kindly informed me.

Duh, did I feel stupid.

OK, so I could do aloof, if I tried really hard.

Distracting myself was proving rather difficult. God damn it, but why didn’t the phone just ring?

And on that note it did.

Power of positive thought, hey – but how wrong could I be?

‘Hello, may I speak to Issy Brodsky?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Hi there, it’s Julia from the nursery office. Now don’t get alarmed but Max has had an accident.’

‘Oh my God. Is he OK?’

‘He’s fine, but –’

‘What happened?’

‘Really, he’s fine.’

The call every mother dreads. The thought of my boy being in pain is excruciating.

Julia continued in her sing-song voice.

‘It seems . . .’

(I hate such words, so very vague.)

‘It appears he was playing with another child when a fight broke out over a ball, and the other child hit Max on the face. He’s had a nose bleed and as it bled for quite a while,
we’re a little concerned and think maybe you should have him checked out in Casualty.’

‘What? Who did it?’

‘It was one of the other children.’

The nursery adheres to a strict policy of not giving out the assailant’s name, in case distraught mothers seek revenge.

‘What was he hit with?’

‘A wooden toy car.’

‘Christ . . . I’ll be there as fast as I can.’

Poor Maxy. I raced to the nursery, swift as my legs could carry me, guilting about leaving him prey to other people’s fucked-up kids. It truly grates that he should have to suffer for
another child’s psychological problems. What’s worse was that I knew who the kid was, ’cause Max had been coming home with bruises galore of late and had been bitten. You do your
best to arm them with confidence and then some little vomit knocks it out of them. And I know it’s the way of the world, but . . .

I am a victim/survivor of a biter. Yes, it’s true. I can remember, even after twenty-five years, being led into the toilets by a certain girl and allowing her free access
to my four-year-old arm, to munch on. It wasn’t a one-off, indeed it became a sort of ritual. I can’t recall when it ended – maybe it coincided with an outbreak of warts on my
inner elbow. In retrospect that sounds about right. Jesus, and come to think of it, maybe it was she who had given them to me in the first place.

‘Max!’

He was sitting in the corner, quietly reading a book.

‘Max, what happened?’

When he saw me he started to cry. I lifted him up into my arms and covered him in kisses.

‘Are you OK?’

His nose was swollen and there was a gash across his cheek.

‘What happened, Maxy?’

The teacher regarded me sympathetically, pushed an accident form into my hand, then started on about the incident with the other ‘child’, but Max set her straight.

‘I was playing with the ball and David’ (Aha, I was right) ‘wanted it. I said no, and he said you’re a donkey head and hit me with the car.’

I could see David in the corner and so wanted to fling it straight at him but . . .

‘That’s a nasty thing to do. Did he say sorry?’

‘Yes, but now he’s not my friend.’

With friends like those . . . and the worst thing was, Max appeared more upset about David not being his friend than about his sore face.

‘These things happen,’ smiled the teacher inanely.

‘Yeah . . . whatever,’ I replied.

We sweated it out in Casualty. No bones broken, so it was fine, but I bore a grudge and mentally struck through David’s name on the list for Max’s next birthday party.

Spring sprang upon us and flowers peeped shyly out of the hard soil before being plucked to death by Max. There seemed to be a universal sigh of relief as light flooded our
afternoons, stretching the days out. The grey backdrop of the city changed to light-grey and everyone appeared uplifted in spirit. Everyone that is, except Mrs Taylor.

After two weeks of tailing Jonathan (the religious freak), I’d come to the conclusion that he may well have been suffering a personal crisis or a spiritual reawakening but he wasn’t
seeing anyone.

‘I find that hard to believe,’ his wife sighed, her lip scrunched up tight at one side.

‘I can assure you, Mrs Taylor, every evening was spent deep in prayer. I witnessed him with my own eyes.’

‘Then why, Magdalena’ (my aptly chosen name for this mission) ‘has he asked me for a divorce?’

My answer was I hadn’t a clue.

‘Magdalena, he’s in love with someone else.’

‘God.’

I shook my head in genuine disbelief.

‘I don’t require flippant sympathy.’

‘No, I mean he must be in love with God. So I guess the one thing you have in your favour is that you exist . . . tangibly, I mean.’

‘Magdalena.’ She regarded me with an overly large amount of disdain. ‘No, you see, he’s in love with his junior partner.’

It transpired they’d been having an affair for three years. She too was married, which meant their activities were restricted to between nine and five. (Phew, at least that was me off the
hook.)

‘Jonathan said he was finding it intolerable to live with himself, and me, and now wants to marry her.’

‘I’m shocked, really. I don’t know what to say. How did you find out?’

‘He confessed.’

Hence the soul-searching. At least my work wasn’t completely in vain. I watched the tears well up in her eyes and motioned to Trisha to come over and rescue me.

Peeved to the nth, I couldn’t believe I kept getting landed with dud dicks. My scores on the board had gone into negative and Nadia won the monthly bonus yet again.
Straight up I confronted Trisha and asked if there was a conspiracy against me.

‘No.’

Her abruptly negative reply, tinged with a certain amount of cynicism, wasn’t in my mind credible.

‘Yeah right, I know all about back-stabbing office politics.’

‘Issy, sometimes I feel really sorry for you,’ she snorted.

‘Thanks,’ I replied, ’cause this time the tone of her voice rang true.

Stephan called. Mr America done good. Never doubted he wouldn’t. Guess he was playing hard to get.

‘Issy, this a good time to talk?’

It was after midnight. The phone had pulled me back to consciousness.

‘Stephan?’

‘Sorry, I know it’s late.’

I yawned loudly.

‘I was asleep.’

‘You want me to call tomorrow?’

‘No, it’s fine.’

Besides which, I was awake.

‘I got your messages.’

Note, he said plural.

‘It wasn’t a social call,’ I blurted out, just so he wouldn’t think I was gagging.

‘Aw, shame, ’cause I’ve been thinking about you.’

‘What were you thinking?’

OK, so I was gagging.

‘Honestly?’

‘Yeah, I can take it.’

‘Well, I was thinking you’re a real sweet lady.’

What the fuck does that mean? Sweet as in insipid? As in little sister, as in yeah, she’s nice but I wouldn’t have a relationship with her?

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘Sure is.’

‘I like compliments.’

‘You have any for me?’

Wish I could have said yeah, you’re a great lay, but unfortunately I couldn’t. I did the next best thing and replaced his sweet with:

‘And there I was thinking what a nice man you are.’

‘Nice?’

‘Sweet?’

We were level-pegging and then he said, ‘What’s so urgent you rang ten times?’

‘Nine. I’ll show you my phone bill when you’re next in town.’

‘My assistant said it was really important.’

‘I found your mother’s finger.’

‘I know.’

‘You do?’

‘Uhuh. The fat detective told me. Issy, I have a favour to ask.’

‘Pray tell.’