The Honey Trap (15 page)

As ever, I was open to suggestion. Oh, how I love to tease.

‘Remember, you said you wouldn’t mind helping me with Sarah’s stuff?’

‘Did I?’

OK, so where was this heading?

‘Well, I was wondering if you’d keep an eye on the apartment for me. I’d really appreciate it if you could pop in, put some fresh flowers in a vase, air the place, that sort of
thing. I can wire you some money.’

Come again?

‘It would be a really great help. I’m hoping it will sell soon.’

‘Oh.’

‘Would you mind? And of course if there’s anything you want, feel free to have it.’

‘Like the grand piano?’

‘Maybe not the piano. I dunno, books, clothes, records. But please don’t feel obliged.’

‘Eh . . . OK.’

There I’d been hankering after a more romantic type of proposition.

‘Thanks, Issy, you’re a doll. I’ll call the estate agents, get them to give you a set of keys.’

Surely I would be doing a good deed in helping Stephan? Plus, it would further serve to impress the Almighty that I truly was on my way to becoming a better person, a giving
person, and one deserving of finding a mate.

Stephan and Issy.

You must admit, our names went well together. Though I wondered why I pined after someone who lived across the Atlantic, and with whom previous experience had been so disappointing. Was it the
challenge? The fact that it was so unlikely to work? His inaccessibility? No, none of it, to cut the pseudo analytical psychology, it was the sad fact there was no one else and life’s just so
much more palatable when there is daydream fodder to mulch over.

I’d be out of there pronto – it’s the cowardly streak within. Since Max’s arrival, I’d only ever had skirmishes of the heart, nothing as
substantial as a deep and meaningful relationship. For the first two years of his life it really wasn’t an issue, but now Max doesn’t depend on me so much, I have time to pursue the
possibility. Working at the Honey Trap hasn’t helped either. All I witness are crap relationships, heavy with insecurity, inequality; ones where, to be frank, the woman is always the loser.
The thought of trading in my independence for a life of continual compromise ain’t awe-inspiring. Still, what I’d give for a heart flutter, a little ping ping . . .

Peter Branson was pouring me a glass of red. Yep, back at work and on another dick mission, with Nads. Peter was an accounts manager for an advertising company, thus
socialising was a big part of his job. Soho House was the venue. Peter was easy to spot, being six foot two and sporting a trendy mullet.

We found him on the top floor, sitting with clients, all boys. It was easy to infiltrate the group. Nads and I, placed a little distance away, spent half an hour passing glances till we were
asked to join their table. One guy latched on to Nadia real quick, a Frenchman who was very cute, and who, if the circumstances had been different, I wouldn’t have minded myself.

My job was to focus in on Peter. Early thirties, successful, he mentioned his wife every second sentence, which translated to me as a clear signal to back off. I marked him down as
incorruptible. Here was a genuine good guy, a family man. We ended up talking about kids, and it was obvious he was mad about his own.

When I announced I was a single mum, his reaction was one of gracious admiration.

‘You’re brave. It’s hard enough with two parents.’

‘How does your wife cope?’

‘Poor thing, suffers dreadfully from post-natal depression.’

Cue for the conversation to open up. Nadia took centre stage, the men quizzing her about the band, which made me feel like the ugly mate, so I butted in with my Gonad joke. It fell flat and I
finally had to admit it wasn’t funny. Though Peter did raise a corner of his upper lip, but only to let out a plosive burp.

By the third bottle of champagne, we’d turned to the topic of midriffs and pop singers. Yep, Nads was still under the spotlight and baring her flat honey tum. The guys all wanted a yank of
her piercing. Shame, I couldn’t join in: my protruding belly hung over the top of my black jeans. Very soon I was either going to have to go on a diet or admit I was a size twelve.

The evening continued until Nads, having come back from the toilet, announced we really should get going, babysitters and all that. Peter suggested sharing a cab, my place being on his route
home. How gallant, I thought, and so we black-cabbed it. The conversation returned to domesticity, the importance of family, etc. A perfect husband sat at my side, though unfortunately not
mine.

I joked, ‘Peter, if you should ever get divorced . . .’

Again it bombed and he looked kinda horrified.

Then, well, I did something I probably shouldn’t have. It was clear he was a hundred per cent kosher, and I felt I needed to save face, so I came clean about the situation.

‘Look, your wife obviously needs reassurance, otherwise she wouldn’t have called us.’

His reaction was one of utter astonishment.

‘Excuse me?’

Then changed to one of disgust.

‘Wait . . . Nadia and you . . . You’re telling me this was a set-up?’

‘I wouldn’t worry – you passed with flying colours.’

‘What a fucking bitch.’

I assumed he meant his wife.

‘Well, she is depressed.’

‘What?’

‘Your wife, you said she was depressed.’

We sat in silence till the cab pulled up outside my apartment.

I had an ominous feeling I’d landed myself straight back in the shit again. Blowing your cover whilst on duty was deemed as sacrilegious as blowing your dick. Placing the dick in such an
awkward position makes for an irate customer, unwilling to foot the bill, and shifts me back a pace into the position of job on the line. Which let’s face it wasn’t a great
distance.

Will I ever learn to think before I speak?

‘Look, Peter, I really shouldn’t have said anything.’

He put his fingers to his lips and sneeringly said, ‘I won’t say anything, just as long as you and your “friend” Nadia don’t.’

I staggered out of the cab and limply waved him off.

Shit and double shit.

Called Nadia the minute I’d managed to oust Maria off the comfort of my sofa and out into the cruel night.

‘Nads, I think I may have fucked up again.’

‘What do you mean again?’

Oh yeah, I’d forgotten she didn’t know anything about Bob.

‘Nothing, it’s just, I let slip it was a set-up.’

‘You what?’

‘It kinda just came out. Well, he guessed.’

‘What do you mean, guessed?’

‘OK, so I thought he was a nice guy, genuine. I mean he really loves his wife.’

‘Issy, he was a complete sleazer. He had his hand on my knee most of the evening.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Didn’t you see him put his little finger in my belly button? And he gave me his card, “Let’s do lunch” scrawled on the back, kiss kiss.’

‘But at the club he was –’

‘Issy, he couldn’t take his eyes off me. Didn’t you notice?’

‘Nadia, what am I going to do? There’s no way we can tell his wife.’

‘Why?’

‘I sorta made this deal with him. He wouldn’t tell her he knew it was a set-up and I’d say he was a great husband, because that’s what I thought he was.’

‘Issy, are you asking me to collude in this nonsense with you?’

‘That’s precisely what I’m asking. I need my job.’

‘What about his wife?’

‘She’s depressed. One more thing could send her over the edge.’

‘Issy, she’s depressed because she suspects her husband of cheating.’

‘Semantics. Please, Nadia. I made a mistake. He so blatantly didn’t fancy me, and I thought –’

‘He wouldn’t fancy anyone else?’

Ouch, that hurt.

‘It’s just – I tried hard to impress him.’

‘And I was thinking it was a clever ploy on your part, playing the desperate singleton to get him to notice me.’

Did she really say desperate?

I thought I was being cool.

‘No . . . I . . .’

‘You didn’t think. Fuck it, Issy. Let’s speak tomorrow.’

My brittle ego fairly shattered, two steps forward, one step back, seems like I’m inching my way down a hot-coal-laden path. A change of direction required.

No matter how hard I tried to put a spin on my life, it just wasn’t going as planned.

By exposing it with head buried, the ostrich way. In plain English, I hid out in Sarah Bloch’s apartment, away from the phone, ignoring the mobile and submerging myself
in another’s life. OK, so I’m a nosy bugger and was sniffing through her wardrobe. A bit like rummaging through your mother’s, as a kid. Flashback to me in my mother’s
wedding dress, wading about in her high-heels, or those Godawful hippy skirts with tiny little bells attached.

Spent the entire morning dressing up. In the main it was old-lady stuff, twin sets and such, but there was a whole load of cashmere jumpers and a few dated ball gowns. She’d probably kept
them as souvenirs of times past. One was a seventies dress, halter-necked, A-lined and deliciously vile, with a vomit pattern that swept down to the floor. Retro gold so I swiped that pronto.
Another was a floaty chiffon number, very Pan’s People. On alert my heart-beat, in case the estate agent walked in unannounced and found me in my underwear, or worse, my altogether.

I put aside a few more pieces of clothing and then began sifting through her shoes. Sarah was into shoes: silver, gold, mules, wedges, strappy sandals, boots, some with matching bags and belts.
I opened the bags and discovered bits of tickets from years back, opera, ballet, concerts, dance, bus tickets; notes with numbers, gloves, even hard-boiled sweets (they tasted fine to me), coins,
hairgrips, boxes of matches from restaurants.

On my knees, my grubby little paws Narnia-bound, I reached further into the wardrobe past the fur coats and extracted a hard-edged object, or box. Aha, what have we here, my hearties? Hidden
treasure, dust-laden. I carried it out into the light. A secret box, mahogany, heavy, inlaid with with another wood. Maple? I wasn’t sure. I placed it on the bed and lifted the lid. A
thousand secrets lay hidden: OK, I exaggerate, it was full of old photos and scraps of letters, but there at the very bottom was a girl’s diary. Here was free access to the innermost thoughts
of a teenage Viennese girl. I could get it translated, the first few pages anyway. Imagine if she turned out to be the next Anne Frank? Here was a project to immerse myself in. I’d been on
the look-out of late for a hubby, oops, Freudian slip, hobby.

The next few weeks passed uneventfully: nothing untoward. Work was bearable, no mad missions, just an average Joe whose wife was using us to boost his flagging confidence.
Freddie showed up looking fresh from his recent jaunt and arrived laden down with goodies. Max was thrilled with his bag of the latest Disney toys and I was chuffed with a couple of DKNY T-shirts,
a Prada shirt, and a pair of Seven jeans. My brother is the only person I’d ever trust to buy clothes for me. He’d done good then treated us to lunch at Wagamama’s.

Still unattached, he began complaining about not having had sex for three weeks.

‘I’m going crazy, it’s killing me. I just don’t think I can take it.’

‘Get a grip. Three weeks is nothing.’

‘What are you talking about? It’s the equivalent of three years in gay time.’

‘Earth calling Freddie.’

‘Don’t take the piss, Issy. Do you think I’ve put on weight?’

‘No.’

Sometimes I wonder if he is aware how much he winds me up. My brother has a body to die for, is gorgeous, has some amount of brains, which he tends not to use, and the incredible knack of
rubbing in just how boring my life is at present.

‘You, though, have definitely put on weight.’

‘Thanks, bro.’

‘So I was wondering about liposuction. Maybe we could get a family discount. What d’you think?’

‘I think it’s unnecessary. If someone loves you they’ll accept you, warts and all.’

He flinched, remembering the attack of genital warts that had massacred his social life for months the previous year.

‘Bitch,’ he fumed, fanning the menu in front of his face, and then turned to Max to declare, ‘I don’t know how you put up with her!’

However, his sulky mood quickly dissipated with the arrival of a terribly cute waiter. Quite the charmer, Freddie switched to predatory mode and by the end of the meal they had exchanged
numbers.

Bastard.

He called me after their first date, saying the guy had an absolute whopper.

Double Whammy Bastard.

And after the third date, that he was in love.

Thoughts of him continued to fill my mind. It was like I was experiencing a sense of nostalgia for how it might have been, if only our date hadn’t been so crap. He called
a couple of times, and we had long conversations that never seemed to go anywhere. I told him about the box, and that there were loads of baby pictures of him.

‘Very cute, Stephan.’

‘Wonder if there’s any of my father?’

‘Maybe.’

And I promised to have another peek.

The property market was experiencing a slump and no offers had been made on the apartment. He said there wasn’t much point in coming over till then. I did manage to lure one male over my
threshold but, seeing as he was a Jehovah’s, it didn’t really count. Nice enough though, very enthusiastic and spiritually inspiring.

When he left, I appealed to the Lord to deliver unto me a male, and on the double.

After all there was a spare going.

Indeedy, for Fiona had gone for the chop and come out a new woman. Christ, I hope she knew what she had let herself in for. I’d warned her, it wasn’t all lipstick and high-heels.
Then again, she’d have it fairly easy, wouldn’t be blighted with monthly cycles, nor the possibility of getting pregnant, which, let’s face it, is a major part of being a woman.
I’d always thought that, in her efforts to be female, she tried too hard. Her idea of what a woman was came from a male point of view, but still it tended towards a pastiche vision, i.e.
either vampish or going for the mumsy look, just never normal.