The Honey Trap (3 page)

‘Oh and Bob likes to shit on his own doorstep.’

Nothing surprises me these days.

‘Trixi, you are meeting your date at the Phoenix in Tufnell Park.’

‘That’s practically at the end of his road.’

‘Yeah, a real nice guy. Make sure you get him.’

‘Right, guess I best be off.’

Fiona gave me the once-, twice-over.

‘The jacket ruins it. You look like a tarted-up market woman.’

‘There’s nothing else in here.’

‘Shit . . . Bob hates tardiness,’ Fiona growled. ‘Borrow my coat.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Yeah, drop it by tomorrow.’

Ushering me out of the office, she handed me some money for expenses.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

Fiona once threatened me with probation for being. Yeah, for just being. She used to work for the prison service, a guard in a women’s prison. She’s pre-op and moody as hell.

I jumped to attention and was halfway out the door when she hollered, ‘What about the finger?’

‘You want me to take the finger with?’

‘You’re not leaving it here.’

‘You want me to carry it in this teensy-weensy excuse for a bag?’

Who invented the clutch bag? So totally useless.

‘Fiona, can’t I just pick it up on the way home?’

‘Issy, you can shove it up your arse as far as I’m concerned. Get it out of here.’

Yes, sir! She’s a man at heart and there’s no getting away from it.

Sometimes things don’t go to plan, no matter how well laid out, and it happened that I was laid out. But back to Parkway. I was feeling flustered, teetering on the kerb
in killer high-heels and doing my utmost to blank the whingeing homeless guy.

‘No, I don’t want a
Big
Friggin’
Issue
, thanks.’

The sky began gobbing down on me, and I flinched as a string of unlit cabs sailed past. Beautiful coat, though, perhaps a couple of sizes too big, at least two weeks’ wages worth of
rapidly moistening, cashmere-mix. I ended up getting: drenched, the bus, and squashed by an obese lady.

I’d sprung up screaming, ‘An eclipse, an eclipse.’

Fatty then had the audacity to claim she hadn’t noticed me, as she lowered her colossal rear in my direction. The bus, now lopsided, chugged its load up towards Tufnell Park. Fifteen
minutes later it was time to alight and by luck I found the pub easily enough, chiding myself for splashing in puddles on the way – another bad habit picked up from Max.

It’s actually quite good fun, the kick, the splash, the wet water soaking through to your toes. The ‘double-footed plunge – jump straight in’ is much recommended. One
becomes the tossed pebble, OK, so in my case, boulder, but the gesture by its very nature is so defiant. Maybe that’s why Max has stopped jumping in puddles, because I never say
‘Stop’ or ‘Don’t’, thereby sapping the forbidden-pleasure aspect out of it. Or maybe he’s already embarrassed by his mother’s antics. Jeez, I realise
he’s way advanced for his age, but to be three-and-nearly-a-half and already hoping his mates won’t see me with him . . .

I deviate, but only ’cause I know what comes next.

I’d love to skip this bit, but as with all humiliating moments in my life, it is these I remember in glorious Technicolor and seem unable to mentally purge.

So the next day . . .

God damn it . . .

The truth?

It was a mistake, a huge, big, horrible nightmare.

Into the Phoenix I’d ventured. The place was a bit of a gastro pub. A happy place, with a smattering of jolly people seemingly having a great time, except for the one in the corner who had
a face on her that would curdle milk. A face that unfortunately belonged to me, belying thoughts of, Where the fuck is this jerk? and, Why aren’t I out with friends instead of wilfully
assisting in the ruin of someone’s marriage?

A quick once-over confirmed no one particularly fitting the given description. I ordered a vodka at the bar and observed an underager being politely but forcefully asked to leave. I remember
well such humiliations in my teens. If I managed to get past the bouncer, the likelihood of actually purchasing a drink was slim, unless of course someone else went to the bar on my behalf.
I’d always aim for the nooks and crannies in which to try and hide my underage self. Poor spod, I mused, watching him being escorted off the premises. If I wasn’t working, I probably
would have claimed he was my younger cousin and bought him a whisky and Coke.

The Kiwi bar tender asked if I was OK.

‘I’m meant to be meeting a guy called Bob.’

‘Cool. Do you want another drink?’

Second drink purchased, a whisky and Coke. I returned to the corner stool and watched the clock, hoping Bob wouldn’t show, that he had bottled it and I could go home. By law,
Fiona’s, that is, we give the guy an hour tops. Personally it’s fifteen minutes – he had ten minutes left.

‘Excuse me.’

Tappity tap on my shoulder and oh, let’s see, who could it be? Enter one very dirty Bob.

‘Bob?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hi, I’m Trixi.’

Not too hideous, pleasantly surprised by his boy-next-door look. Six-footer? My arse. Still, a couple more drinks and we’d be talking Hugh Grant-ish.

So we got chatting: blah, blah, blah, a few drinks, ha, ha, ha, more drinks, yawn, ha, blah and then we ended up fucking.

The next morning I lay in bed beside a two-foot male. Max easing my eyelids open with his fingers. Daylight forced in like shards of glass, straight at the pupils. My head
heavy and breath rank. Peeled myself off the covers, rose up to a sitting position, mind slowly catching up, but my conscience already on at me.

Oh my God, I didn’t, I did, didn’t, did.

Didn’t.

Did.

What the hell had happened? How could I?

Had I been drugged by a near stranger? I wished, but unfortunately, no. It was of my own accord and free will that I found my knickers swimming round my ankles and myself willingly partaking in
carnal relations with Bob.

Excuses: one vodka, three whiskies, two tequilas and all on an empty stomach. No, that really won’t do. OK, so I was caught mid-cycle, doubling the effects of any alcohol consumption, and
my physical being practically baying at the moon for what it must, by the laws of nature, attain.

Poppycock!

It’s true, I swear on my life.

I was drunk and desperate and shit happens.

So where did it happen?

Is it really necessary to know all the details?

Spit it out.

What – the exact circumstances under which I found myself in his car?

HIS CAR?

Yeah, like when I was young(er) and carefree. Oh Christ, I tried to reason with my conscience. It wasn’t all my fault. Surely he was plastered too? Besides, I’d closed my eyes when
it was happening.

But it
did
happen and I’d broken the rule. ‘The rule, the rule,’ echoed my conscience, then added for good measure, ‘You’re so completely
fucked.’

I’d fled the scene of the crime and caught a cab home. It was 3 a.m. when I arrived. Maria was really pissed off.

‘What happened?’ she cried, as I tumbled into the hallway, displaying some drunk stunt action and tripping up on my heels.

Bleary-eyed, I’d managed to mumble, ‘Shorry, shorry,’ then hurled myself through my bedroom door, collapsed in a heap on the bed and watched the four corners of my room
spin.

‘Here . . . Issy, some water.’

Maria had followed me into the bedroom with a large glass of water, a bucket, and several Paracetamol.

‘Issy, you be OK?’

‘Bysee bye.’

Eyelids closed, opened, closed, opened.

Morning already.

‘Stop, Max. Please. Mummy has a sore head,’ and him jumping for joy at the sight of a new day.

The enthusiasm of youth, the boundless energy that he has, in sharp contrast to my own, lack of, and up on my bed, bouncity bounce.

I was sick as a dog, yet managed to get every drop in the bucket. Next up? A shower. Felt a smidgen better, ready for painkillers, two please, no, make it three, and all washed down with
extra-strong black coffee.

It was by then eight-thirty, and I felt a. very delicate and b. extreme guilt, as I’d barely managed to say a word to Max, having only the capacity to grunt, and shake some Rice Krispies
into his bowl.

Fresh air would help. I managed to cart Max down to the nursery, growl a pathetic, ‘Later,’ about-turn, shuffle home, and make it back to the cistern-leveller for some good old
heave-ho.

And then it hit me. My mind near paralysed by the realisation that I’d put my job on the line for a Bob.

A mucky fumble. Come closing time we’d tumbled out of the pub and for some reason I was laughing. Oh yeah, that was it, Bob had actually stumbled and I thought this
hysterical. Back on his feet, he brushed himself down and then, half joking, sort of pushed me up against the brick wall and . . .

My lips, swollen, were flooded by such warm feelings. Hey, I’m referring to my facial lips. I hadn’t been kissed in a long while. Lip suckered, ah what joy. His pressed against mine,
hands clasped around my face, mine around his waist, and I pulled him in close. Impassioned or desperate? The latter if I’m honest. Whatever, it happened and he, the thing was . . . he was a
great kisser. Gobalicious. Up against the wall, we shuffled round a bit.

Then . . .

‘Where you going?’ I gasped, as his suction pads left mine.

‘My car.’

‘You can’t drive in this shtate.’

‘Want to get my bag, live around the corner.’

Well, it happened sort of quickly and by then it was too late, the damage done.

I’d followed him to his car, to the back seat. Jesus, I needed it bad – been watching too many episodes of
Sex and the City
.

‘This really, really, really, shouldn’t have happened,’ I shlurred.

‘Trixi. That your real name?’

‘No.’

In the light of day, the next day, having dropped Max off and emptied my stomach, in reverse, I sank back on to my bed. There was no way I’d be able to keep my job. This
indiscretion was, after all, a major balls-up. In every way, I was screwed. I resorted to religion and prayed.

Is there such a thing? I slept for the next couple of hours. Felt even worse when I woke, glanced at the time, and realised I’d ten minutes to get to the nursery, a
fifteen-minute walk away. Christ, Max would be the last child to be picked up. In mother-speak we’re talking massive psychological damage here. So I ran or more like heaved myself down the
street. Puff, pant, retch, reaching my destination only to find I’d misread the tick-tock. Phew for Max, but it left me with an hour of fretting.

I was doomed, whatever way I chose to look at my situation. Fucking Bob was not a good idea. By rights I should have already called the office and reported on last night’s activities.
Instead, I prevaricated in a café, mulling over a coffee and a Danish pastry. My body could no longer take such abuse. Time was, I could have partied for forty-eight hours flat out, but that
was before Max, prior to sleep-deprivation and the shackles of motherhood. What in the name of God was I going to say to Fiona? Then there was the coat, Fiona’s lovely coat, last seen in a
heap on my bedroom floor. Shit, and I hoped it wouldn’t require dry-cleaning.

Had I done a Lewinsky? Poor Monica, my heart goes out to her. I mean what an idiot, so smitten and then globally shamed. How bizarre that a large percentage of the international community is
aware that she had a cigar stuck up her fanny by the President of the United States of America. What a legacy: imagine telling your grandchildren that. It must be costing her thousands in shrink
fees. How in the name of Western civilisation has it come to the point whereby we, the public, have a right to know of such graphic details? Two coffees and two Danish pastries later, I was almost
functioning again and went to pick up the love bundle.

The best part of every day is, undoubtedly, arriving at the nursery and seeing Max’s little face light up with excitement: ‘Mummy, Mummy . . .’ It’s
kinda phenomenal the love they give and it’s totally unconditional, even when you’re in the most shitty of foul moods.

‘Hey, Maxy.’

He threw himself into my arms and slobbered all over my face.

‘You have a good day?’ I asked.

‘David hit me, I said not nice and . . .’ A stream of babbling half-sense flowed out.

I put on his jacket, wrapped him up warm, and home we strolled.

Max is a beautiful child, always has been. Sure I’m biased, but the amount of attention elicited from passers-by sticking their faces into the buggy bears this out. I thank my lucky stars
he wasn’t a grosser, and believe me, I’ve seen many. The power of maternal love being such that no matter how ugly your offspring, you are blind to it.

Back at the apartment I picked up the coat, gave it a good shake, emptied the pockets, and found the bus ticket with Bob’s number scrawled on it (reckon he liked me, a
tad). Chucked it out with the rubbish. All evidence must be eradicated. To all intents and purposes, what happened actually did not happen. Hey, an alibi was forming. From the murky depths of my
mind I realised exactly what had to be done. Deny everything in order to keep my job. Simple yet perfect. It would be fine, I would trust to faith, and feeling brave I called the office.