The Honey Trap (12 page)

‘A hazard of the job, apparently.’

‘Thank God, it wasn’t me,’ she squealed. ‘But you’ll never guess what?’

‘What?’

‘We just got another gig and some studio time.’

Max made me a get-well card. He can draw an almost decipherable face, a lopsided circle with two inner eye circles, a circle for a nose and a wonky line for a mouth. Pretty
good likeness, considering my present state.

Then at home further delights lay in store: a blinking answerphone, a rare occurrence these days. Pressed play and was rapt by the dulcet tones of Stephan asking if I was free on Friday, for
dinner.

See, I’d called him straight back.

‘I’m leaving on Saturday for the States. Don’t worry if you can’t make it.’

‘I’d love to but . . .’

I ran through the eye saga.

‘So I should book somewhere dark and atmospheric.’

‘Perfect.’

Dug his sense of humour. Ha Ha Ha.

‘Pick you up at eight?’

‘Great.’

Just for the record, I hate filing (
Stephan pressing his lush lips against mine in a passionate embrace
). The office system had almost reached meltdown. With the best of
intentions I took everything out, had a good old rummage (
mmmmmm . . .
) and then ended (
astride Stephan, his hands gripping my breasts as I . . .
) putting everything back exactly as was.

Trisha was much impressed with my apparent diligence. We were back on monosyllabic speaking terms, until, that is, a near hysterical (
aghh, Jesus, this feels good . . .
) Mrs Bob Thornton called
saying (
no no, hold back . . . then shifting position to take him . . .
) she was going out of her mind, having found yet another email, though (
he lifts me and kisses me, bears his full weight down
upon me and together in perfect harmony . . .
) in the trash can, i.e. not sent.

Trisha calmed her down and told her to send it through. The email read: (post-coital sweet nothings) ‘Trixi bitch, I hate you after what happened. You’re just one big prick-tease.
Slag.’

‘So it seems Bob was at the gig?’

Bob was hanging round my neck, like a loose noose, and what with the eye, the impending date, the gathering emotions, I flipped. Near hysterical breaking point.

I screeched, ‘He wasn’t at the gig, Trisha. He wasn’t there. Ask anyone, ask Nadia.’

‘OK, OK.’

‘It was your case to begin with. I was only meant to be helping out.’

‘OK, I hear you, I’ll sort it out. OK?’

‘OK.’

I was shocked by her conciliatory stance. I was shocked by my emotional outpouring. Sooner or later it was bound to happen. The truth would out and I’d lose my job but now, what with the
threat of closure looming, I was hanging in there for a decent redundancy.

Dreamy Stephan sat opposite me at a corner table, lights dim. The swelling of my eye had subsided, but the bruising hadn’t. It was camouflaged beneath layers of
delicately applied foundation. So much for keeping the faith. Nadia turned up at mine to babysit – a favour returned – and I had until 1 a.m. to seduce this man and get him between my
sheets.

Mid-course in a Primrose Hill restaurant and he was much amused by my job. Was I cool, relaxed? Not on your nelly. Jesus, but my stomach was in rag order, could feel my tummy-control knickers
biting, was sweating pig-fashion and gulping back as much red vino as possible. Also made the fatal mistake of ordering a garlic-saturated starter.

Nervous in case the eye put him off, I, casual as possible, spent most of the evening with the left side of my face in the palm of my left hand. Man, I was so out of practice: dick dates were
nothing in comparison to this.

Stephan was dressed in a crisp white shirt and blue jeans, having just taken off a black jumper. I was sucking up whiffs of his deodorant, imagining his broad chest beneath, the type you could
lick, tongue nudging into each and every crevice.

‘Sorry, what were you saying?’

‘I was going through Sarah’s personal stuff.’

‘Oh Christ, don’t tell me you found your mother’s vibrator?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Was that a joke?’

‘A feeble attempt.’

Wince, wince.

‘No, I was wondering what I should do with it all.’

‘Give it to charity, I suppose.’

‘There’s so much, it’s overwhelming.’

‘I’ll help you go through it, if you want.’

‘You would?’

‘Sure.’

The waiter arrived with our main courses, and as we tucked in Stephan continued on the same theme.

‘There seems to be so much organising to do. How do you dispose of a grand piano?’

‘Maybe donate it to a music school or any school.’

‘Great idea. I put her apartment up for sale today. I’ll have to return to deal with all of this.’

Ohh . . . so he was going to come back.

Thus there was the possibility of a long-distance love affair: how romantic. I gushed, excused myself and went to the toilet.

It was half-eleven by the time we’d finished our coffees. I was tipsy and merry, my confidence alcoholically bolstered, but the undeniable fact was we hit it off. I was getting that
good-vibe thing, and we linked arms, zigzagging the short distance back home.

His apartment approached first and we paused outside the door.

I played the man.

‘Can I walk you to your door?’

And further . . . if I play my cards right.

‘You’re one funny lady,’ he said, pulling me close into him.

‘Funny ha ha or funny weird?’

‘Bit of both. Want to come inside?’

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

See, we were on the same wavelength.

We were making out. It was a quarter to one and he’d only just touched first base, due to getting waylaid by a whisky or two – error in retrospect – leaving a
mere ten minutes to make a home run and relieve Nadia. Second base. I so needed this, my eyes rolling in their sockets, fingers on his zipper . . . Hey, come out, come out, wherever you are. Aha,
got you. Doing my utmost to coax him further, and then at the strike of one, the bells ringing out, there I was crying, ‘Come on, get a friggin’ move on, I’m running out of time
here.’

OK, so it was the wrong thing to say. Put it like this: Stephan didn’t respond so well under pressure.

Just my friggin’ luck. Two people steeped in embarrassment. Reality always falls short of fantasy.

Pissed off and pulling my clothes back on.

‘Great!’

‘I swear that’s never happened before.’

‘Yeah, right, and don’t go blaming it on my hideous eye.’

‘Come to think of it, it was kinda offputting.’

‘Stephan, I really have to go.’

‘We could always go back to your place.’

‘Max is there, he’s bound to come in . . .’

‘Guess I got to be up at five. Got an early flight to catch.’

He was trying to make light of a shite situation, which induced instant sobriety, and the realisation that we were two people who hardly knew each other.

Politeness descended.

‘Better luck next time, hey?’

He walked me downstairs and out on to the street.

‘Thanks for tonight, Stephan. Pity it had to end so abruptly.’

‘I’ll be back in a month or so.’

A rushed kiss, one last smackeroony, and then he waved me off as I, with my lower half aching so bad, dragged myself home.

Of course Nadia saw the funny side of things.

‘Why didn’t you ring – you could have stayed out longer. There’s a really good movie on.’

What? But! Whimper, whimper.

There was no way I could go back for seconds – way too desperate. Even I have limits.

Nadia got out the emergency supplies, a tub of choco, double-fat-saturated, sad-singleton carton of ice-cream, while I rolled a spliff.

We pigged out, we smoked, she left and I went to bed.

I mean sometimes you gotta do things for yourself.

I was so sick of doing it for myself and then, interrupted, I heard the familiar plod, plod of Max on his nocturnal wanderings. I relish these nightly visits into my bed. My little time marker
is growing way too fast and will, soon enough, find cuddling his mum a gross turn-off. That’s the way it is, I suppose, and by that time my hair will have turned grey and my fanny caved
in.

Harbouring such thoughts, I sobbed into my pillow.

The ‘Woe is me’ floodgates opened.

I’d probably have to go back to counselling.

Then I heard this small voice whispering through the darkness.

‘Are you OK, Mum?’

‘I’m a little sad.’

‘Why?’

‘Sometimes people get sad.’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t be happy all the time.’

‘Why?’

‘Things don’t always work out. Like that time when we went to the park playground and even though we’d only just arrived, the woman was closing it and you got really
upset.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cause it was winter and they close the playgrounds early. So we never got a chance to play.’

‘Mum, did you not get to play?’

‘Not for ages.’

‘You want a cuddle?’

My heart was disintegrating, and though I’m not one for romanticising motherhood, there are melting moments of bliss that sweep through you, a love that is staggering in its impact,
phenomenal and fundamental.

In short, it’s the answer to the question why.

Another Monday night at the Honey Trap.

Fiona caught me mid-yawn, feet up on the desk and listening to
The Archers
.

‘You look busy.’

What could I say, but, ‘I’ve already done the filing.’

She pointed to a pile of post I’d been ignoring. I sprung into envelope-opening action. I hadn’t seen her in a long time, not since the Bob episode. She’d put on a little
weight, those sharp masculine edges rounding off.

It was deathly quiet, no new leads, no dicks pending, not even a Bob email to occupy me. Thus Fiona kindly set me a list of painful, irksome tasks to do, including updating her address book,
sorting out the clothes in the emergency cupboard and checking stationery stock-levels.

Whilst I busied myself, she watched. When sufficiently bored, she put on her ‘Melanie Speaks’, an audio guide on how to talk like a female.

‘One word men use more than women is “want”. Men “want”. Women don’t “want”, they “like” things. They “would like”
things.’

‘Fiona, don’t tell me you actually believe this,’ I smirked.

‘Shut up, it’s interesting.’

‘A guy will go to a fast-food restaurant and say, “I want a Big Mac.” Whereas a woman will go, “I’d like a small salad, please.”’

‘Fiona . . . it’s total rubbish.’

The male in her still dominant, she turned the volume up and totally ignored me.

‘Women can have moods . . .’

‘OK, that bit’s true.’

‘But they can’t have opinions. A man would say, “I’m going to do this,” whereas a woman would say, “I was thinking I ought to do this,” meaning,
“I’m inclined to, but if you have any objections I’ll reconsider.” To feminise your voice stay away from assertive words, and use the “kind of, sort of”
words.’

‘As if,’ I groaned, having a grand aversion to such stereotypical crapology.

Fiona switched off the machine.

‘OK, enough of this. Issy, d’you want a coffee?’

‘Mmmm, I’d like a cup of tea.’

‘Have a coffee, don’t be so difficult.’

‘Oh all right then.’

‘Got you.’

She pointed her finger at me and burst into affected peals of girlish laughter.

I grimaced back at her, thankful the green light began blinking, and reached over to lift the receiver.

‘Hi, the Honey Trap, how can I help?’

‘Oh hello, er.’

My caller sounded nervous, a little bit anxious, all perfectly normal in the circumstances.

‘Mmmm you do . . . you er, test out . . . I mean set up . . .’

‘That’s right, madam. Are you considering using our service?’

‘My husband and I, we’ve been married fifteen years and I have a feeling, looking back on things, it’s struck me –’

‘He may be seeing someone else?’

‘Quite, but, to further complicate things, I think he may be gay.’

‘Oh . . .’

‘So I was wondering if you have any male decoys?’

‘Hold the line, please.’

This was a first.

I put her on hold and signalled to Fiona to take the call. I’m not sure what would be worse in the rejection stakes: discovering your husband was gay or that he was having an affair.
It’s all too confusing – sometimes I reckon it won’t be long before we evolve into self-satisfying hermaphrodites. Either that or we’ll clone ourselves as the opposite
gender.