The Honey Trap (17 page)

The estate agent opened the door and there stood the Finklesteins.

Gladys, whom I’d never met, stood next to Joel. Desperately I tried to summon up superhuman powers that would allow me to vanish into thin air. There is nothing worse than meeting a client
on the outside, especially considering how risible our meeting had been.

Gladys Finklestein, small and plump with dyed red hair, was wearing a J.Lo tracksuit and heels. She extended a hand heavy with gemstone rings, and introduced herself.

‘Isabel,’ I replied, and then turned towards her husband. ‘Hi.’

See, I wasn’t sure if he’d remember our little incident, prayed he wouldn’t.

‘Have we met before? You look familiar,’ he said.

‘I don’t think so,’ I ventured.

‘It’ll come to me, it’ll come to me,’ and providing an echo, Gladys quipped, ‘It always comes to him, it always comes to him.’

‘Well, nice to have met you, but I really should be going.’

‘I remember now!’

Joel Finklestein pointed an accusatory finger at me.

‘You’re the one from Harry’s!’

Gladys Finklestein pointed a manicured finger at me.

‘She’s the one from Harry’s?’

I nodded a confirmation.

‘Yep, I am the one from Harry’s.’

‘The escort!’

The estate agent raised two brows at me.

‘I’m not an escort!’

God, get me out of here, now.

In the end it wasn’t so bad. Joel apologised for his discourteous behaviour, Gladys apologised for having booked me in the first place and I told them that the flat was really old and
would need to be totally renovated.

‘And you do know what happened to Mrs Bloch?’

They didn’t, so I filled them in on how Sarah met her grisly end, embellished the facts a tad.

‘The police say it was burglary but we all suspect it was murder – the area has really gone down. My son found her hacked-off finger in my garden.’

‘Stop, I feel sick to the stomach listening to this,’ wailed Gladys.

‘Anyway, best to know these things.’

So I selfishly did my utmost to put them off buying the place, though purely on the grounds that contender No. 1 was male and available.

One evening on the way to work, I passed my upstairs neighbour.

‘Hi there, you look nice,’ he said, opening the door for me.

‘I see your eye is back to normal.’

‘Thanks, and the scar suits you,’ I remarked, doing my utmost to repay his compliment. His fall had left him with a gash along the side of his left eye and temple.

‘You’re just saying that, aren’t you?’

Feeling rather cheeky I couldn’t resist the temptation.

‘Yeah.’

I laughed.

‘Off anywhere nice?’

‘Work. What about you? In anywhere nice?’

And I was being facetious rather than flirty.

‘Hmm, I’m waiting for my girlfriend.’

‘Oh and I thought you were being gallant, keeping the door open for me.’

‘No,’ he replied, dead serious.

A little cough, an ahem, ahem, interrupted our tête-à-tête. I stepped aside to let his girlfriend pass.

Brushing by me, wearing one of those vapid false smiles, she looked me up and down and then with much smugness said, ‘So you must be the single mother.’

‘So you must be the single mother . . .’ And she’s like mid-twenties, high-maintenance, ludicrously pretty, totter totter in her heely-wheelies and – it
was the way she said it, like it was derogatory. OK, so maybe she didn’t mean it that way, maybe it just came out wrong, but I felt truly insulted.

I’d reached the office in a right old huff happy to see Nads and Trisha. If anyone was to understand how I felt it would be them, seeing as we were all in the same boat.

‘Well?’

‘You take things too personally,’ sighed Trisha.

‘Do not.’

‘Do too – you make a big deal out of everything,’ Nadia groaned.

‘I can’t help it if I’m ultra-sensitive.’

Their response? To laugh at me.

‘Thanks, guys, most empathetic.’

Before I could go off on another whinge, Trisha silenced me and announced, ‘I’m throwing a party for Fiona next week. Nadia says she’ll sing. What about you?’

My first party in an age and I was intent on letting rip. As requested, I arrived early to provide a helping hand. The venue was Fiona’s home, a maisonette in Chalk
Farm.

Trisha whizzed round being hyper-efficient, Nads was practising her set and I, well, I didn’t really do too much. Mainly, I got in the way, though being the person who just gets under
others’ feet is, I believe, a necessary role in the preparation of any celebration.

With only five minutes to spare before the first guest arrived, Trisha sank back in the sofa to appraise her successful transformation of Fiona’s once chintzy home into that of a chintzy
home with decorations. Chinese lanterns hung around the garden, which was half decked and half lawn. There were loads of floating candles in bowls of water, and large cushions strewn randomly. A
special cocktail had been designed by a bar-tender friend, and there was lots of scrummy food on platters, buffet-style. Not the usual dips, olives and salads. Oh no, it was crayfish, crab,
king-size prawn and rare beef something or other. It was catered, no expense spared, near on seventy people but way low on the hetero-male count.

I flitted amongst the crowd, quietly getting sozzled, when Leanne, a writer, introduced herself and then proceeded to give me a detailed account of her life history. Her problem, if you ask me,
was that she over-analysed everything. Man, but she bored the tits off me. I was trapped in a one-way conversation, all about her, her, her.

Next thing was, she launched into a description of her latest opus, which, as far as I could make out, was, yep, all about her.

‘Fascinating,’ I yawned. ‘You’re obviously a very deep and complex person.’

I excused myself and escaped to the makeshift bar in the sitting room. Unfortunately so did Leanne and we stood mutely beside each other, waiting to be served.

I spied Nadia hovering on an arm of the sofa, talking to a pretty-looking guy. Trust her to home in on the only hetero male, and I made straight for them.

‘Jesus, Nads, I’ve just met the most self-obsessed person of my entire life.’

‘Were you looking in a mirror?’

‘Excuse my friend. She suffers from an inferiority complex. Hi, I’m Issy.’

‘Issy, this is Mack.’

‘Mack the Knife? Bet you haven’t heard that before.’

He smiled, crooked teeth, endearing rather than off-putting, and probably around my age. A couple more drinks and I’d consider him a viable possibility.

‘Issy works at the Honey Trap,’ Nadia sweetly informed Mack before vamoosing off to set up for her little sing-song.

Mack, an artist, had recently exhibited his paintings at a local library. The show, titled ‘Colour Conscious’, was, he explained, a comment on our multi-ethnic society. He painted
different-sized canvases in different skin-tones.

‘Cool. I’ve often thought I could have been an artist.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. A conceptual one. I had this idea I’d get a toilet roll and on each sheet I’d write the name of someone I’d pissed off. I’d call it ‘Everyone I Ever
Pissed On’.

Mack didn’t like my idea, opined it was derivative, and went off to talk to Leanne.

So I had another drink and then a couple more. The cocktails were lethal, they crept up on me slowly, then wham, like a sledgehammer, hit me full on, forcing me out into the garden for some
fresh city air.

I slunk down on the edge of the decking, half hoping to disappear, half hoping someone would stumble over me. Nearby, Fiona was chatting with friends. Centre of attention, she looked fantastic,
a bit like a dark-haired Jerry Hall (OK, so my vision was alcoholically affected). She was dressed in a figure-hugging red number that accentuated all her newfound curves and a fine pair of
legs.

I spotted Bambuss and Maria and waved over to them. Maria was all made up, cheeks glowing and cleavage showing. Bambuss had his arm wrapped protectively round her waist. He’d made an
effort too, his hair greased back, double shiny, and was dressed more casually than usual in denims and a loose sweater.

‘Issy, you not drinking too much?’

Maria leant forward to kiss me.

Wasn’t sure how to answer that, so turned to Bambuss to congratulate him on the piece in the journal.

‘Great detecting, Detective, great piece, but it missed a certain something.’

I was in catty mode.

‘What’s that?’

‘A mention of me.’

‘Ah, Ms Brodsky, of course.’ He patted his left breast. ‘But I think they edited you out. I told them everything.’

‘Figures.’

Trisha did the honours, hushing the crowd, before a nervous Fiona made a short speech, thanking all for their support in her journey to becoming a woman.

My impromptu rendition of ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ didn’t catch on and Fiona continued, ‘. . . I’d also like to thank the one person who has been my
anchor, my support, my true friend and partner and whom I love with all my heart . . . Trisha, thank you so much. I could never have done it without you.’

Nads and I clocked one another. Was this confession time? So Trisha and Fiona really were a couple?

Overcome by emotion, Trisha began blubbing real tears. Wow, Trisha had feelings.

So wished I’d brought a camera.

They hugged, the crowd cheered, and Nadia began her rendition of torch songs.

‘Issy, you OK?’

Trisha came and sat down beside me.

Drunkenly, I hiccuped a response.

‘Do you think you’re going to be sick?’

I shrugged my shoulders, too early to tell.

‘So, Trish . . . is it true about you and Fiona?’ (Wink, wink.)

‘What! Don’t be an idiot.’

‘Bitch.’

I was rather inebriated, not nauseous but definitely obnoxious. I’d reached that stage where you can’t control your tongue any more and all the shit you’ve stored up starts
spilling out.

‘Trisha, you have a real problem with me. Don’t you?’

‘I think you’re drunk.’

She went to stand up but I grabbed her arm.

‘Go on. Let’s just clear the air. You can tell me to my face.’

Unfortunately at this moment I burped in hers.

‘Issy, if you really want to know, I came over to say sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘I think I owe you an apology.’

‘Why?’

‘I came down heavy on you with the Bob Thornton case.’

‘Oh, not that –’

‘Yes, that. Look, I was very stressed and I realise I took it out on you. So, I’m sorry.’

‘Aw shit.’

The over-emotional drunken stage hit. I threw my arms around her and splurged, ‘Trisha, you’re great, no, really I have to say that, I really, really admire you.’

Jesus, but my heart was pounding, I was puce in the face, on an adrenalin rush. The formidable Trisha had apologised to me.

Unheard of.

Unreal.

She was obviously as smashed as I was.

I was off the hook, could put that dirty little Bob episode to rest.

Torch songs over, the DJ started spinning tunes, and the garden heaved as we all reared up and let loose.

But see the thing was . . .

Ten minutes later, Nadia and I were strutting our stuff. Or rather I was jerking about rather haphazardly but jubilant in mood.

‘Nads, I mean she actually apologised.’

‘I told you, she’s not so bad.’

‘About Bob! She apologised to me. I mean it’s such a relief.’

The music blaring as the pair of us fog-horned across to one another.

‘Nice one.’

Thumbs up to me.

‘Yeah.’ Then I had to tell her, couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. I leant over and drunkenly confided, ‘But see, the thing was . . .’

‘You shagged Bob!’ shrieked Nadia.

This wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t coincided with the music suddenly stopping and Trisha dancing within earshot.

Nadia looked at me aghast.

Trisha gave me the most vile stare ever, then slowly walked off.

‘Oh shit,’ sighed Nadia. ‘Issy? Issy, are you OK?’

OK?

An understatement perchance?

No, I was not OK, I was far from OK, I was . . .

The call came through at 21.00, one week after the party. Big boss Charlie on the blower, requesting my presence, or else. I faltered, couldn’t bear to pick up the
handset. My heart went all tribal with a boom, boom, boom. I paced the long hallway, muttering under my breath, ‘They’re not gonna get me, they’re not gonna get me.’ And it
occurred to me that maybe I could sue Tatu for breach of copyright, considering that specific phrase was my very own intellectual property.

Trisha was out for her pound of flesh. How vindicated she must have felt, her intuition correct all along, her bloodhound nostrils moist and twitching, face gurning in readiness to pounce on her
prey, which was me, and rip it to pieces, nay, smithereens. Ever so slowly, with relish, her sharp, orthodontically whitened gnashers biting, tearing, would strip me of all human dignity and reveal
me as the barefaced liar I was. A fraud, a liability, the weakest link.

‘Goodbye.’

‘No, Trisha . . . No, you don’t understand.’

She came to get me in the deep dark night. Then, the next thing was she had me in a head grip, was dragging me up the stairs and into the office.

‘I knew it,’ she screamed, a woman obsessed. ‘Traitor. Infidel.’

‘Trish, mate, I made a mistake, a human error.’

‘You think that’s what Judas Iscariot said to Jesus?’

‘Maybe, who knows? I wasn’t there.’

‘Don’t get smart with me, young lady.’

‘But maybe that’s why Jesus said forgive others and not go casting stones about. Correct me if I’m wrong, but did he or did he not say “Turn the other
cheek”?’

Head locked, I tried turning mine and my neck clicked. On the bright side Trisha may have inadvertently corrected that wayward vertebra back into place.