The Honey Trap (8 page)

Clever Dick – See above, the type who uses the services of professionals. They are astute liars and very hard to pin down or expose. We usually caution the wife.

Dick (the honey pot) Dipper – into anything that moves.

Big Dick – a City boy.

Decent Dick – true to his wife.

Premature Dick – a bona fide letch, he loves to lookie, but no touchie and never nookie. The type mainly found in lap-dancing emporiums.

Dick Dock – wife had forgiven previous adulterous liaison but suspicions have been rearoused.

Slick Dick – gorgeous man, no wonder his wife is insecure.

Private Dick – strictly an Internet adulterer. Chatroom addict, or, as we like to call them, a techno wanker.

A dickhead. His emails continuing to blast the airwaves. In my heart of hearts, I strongly suspected the finger had fallen out in the car during our entwinement; most likely it
slipped down a crack. (No pun intended, so don’t even go there.)

I should have come clean and called Bob at work, strictly off the record, and said, ‘Look, mate, whatever happened, let’s just forget it, and by the way did you happen to find a
finger in your car?’ Somehow it didn’t flow right.

I hate confrontations, always have done. It was three months before I told my boyfriend Finn about Jan. He’d come back from his expedition and the first thing he said was,
‘You’ve put on weight, Issy. Suits you.’

I’d beamed with joy, instead of getting all uppity and angsty, and I guess this made him suspicious. A female happy to expand in girth? Unheard of in Western civilisation.

To be honest, I have never felt more womanly or truly beautiful than when I was pregnant. The fuller the better. My colossal reflection had a luminous glow. I pitied bony women, obsessed with
their bodies in their ever more frantic desire to remain young. Everything, bar this new being forming within me, paled into insignificance. How ingenious is the human body was the thought I
carried throughout my pregnancy. Says a lot for the hormones, hey? Like totally obliterating one’s rationality. Rendering you in effect something not unlike a beached whale going slightly
doolally.

Finn was fairly devastated, his trust in me shattered, though I believe he did love me. He couldn’t hack it, so he cut off all communication and I haven’t seen him since.

After meeting with the detective, I’d moseyed on down to the office to check out my week’s schedule. Nadia was in high spirits – she was on a roll, having
achieved positive results with her last ten clients. We have a monthly scoreboard, and there’s a bonus for the winner. I was lagging way behind, the loser in the race, which I blamed on the
tools I’d had the misfortune of having to chat up. Bob, Mr Finklestein . . . I ask you? I mean how could I possibly compete?

I recall saying something similar to my mother, the one year she managed to make it to my school sports day. And I’ll never forget the look on her face when I came in last every race. She
did her best to smooth over my disappointment, never mind the fact she’d given me a soup ladle for the egg and spoon.

‘Nadia, I think someone’s put a hex on me.’

She was merrily humming, strumming her fingers on the desk.

‘Cool. Hey, Issy, you won’t believe it . . .’

I booted the computer to check whether Bob had sent yet another email. There it was, loitering in my inbox with intent: ‘Sexy Bob on the horn 4 U. Tell me when, where, I’ll be there.
xxxxx.

How I wished I was in a position to say, ‘In your –’

‘Issy, are you listening? I said it’s finally beginning to happen.’

‘What?’

‘On the singing front.’

‘About time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Personally I thought you were past it, you know, like it was a dream you were hopelessly clinging on to.’

In previous moments of creativity, otherwise known as unemployment, I’d started up my own business. Convinced I was on to something big with Pipe Dreams. A revolutionary product, dreams
one could hold on to. In effect, salvaged pieces of pipe I’d found in a skip. Neat concept, hey? I tarted them up and put pieces in pretty boxes to sell to twee gift shops. Novelty gifts and
I was going to call the company It’s the Thought That Counts Ltd. You know how everyone has their own little private fantasies? Well, I reckoned on it being a cutesy, profitable idea. Drew up
a proposal for the bank but it met with zero interest, although I did manage to shift a dozen boxes to a shop in Ladbroke Grove.

Nadia took unkindly to my bluntness.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Issy.’

‘Pleasure.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Sorry . . . sorry, I didn’t mean it like that . . . So what’s the big news?’

‘Forget it.’

Nadia was pissed off and I, at least a fortnight away from PMT, had no excuse.

‘Nads . . . Nads . . .’ I whinnied and whined. ‘Aw, Nadia, pleeeeeease?’

‘You are such a bitch.’

‘Let me guess. You got a record deal?’

‘No.’

‘A producer heard your tapes and wants to use you.’

‘No.’

‘OK you won a place on one of the those “Make Me a Star” programmes.’

‘No.’

My second fabulous business idea. Sprung forth whilst singing in the kitchen, with Max dancing round my heels. A Robbie number, of course. Had been singing it for the past hour, over and over
again, being in one of those femy ‘emotional’ moods. Oh the longing! Thought it would make a brilliant reality TV programme:
It Could Have Been You!
The premise, not wholly
original because it’s a
Pop Idol
scenario, but different in being restricted to mothers, i.e. those who have suffered a long line of opportunity knocks. I mean why favour the young? They have
a lifetime of false hopes ahead of them. Give the has-beens a chance. One more go at failing fabulously. The tired, strained look of motherhood would lend itself quite well to the occasion. Most of
us already have that raccoon-eyed kohl thing going on, albeit natural.

‘You won the Lottery?’

‘NO.’

‘Just tell me your good news.’

She paused for suspense, then spoke very slowly.

‘I got a gig.’

‘Really?’ I came over all green. ‘Where?’

‘In the pub across the way.’

‘Not the –’

‘Yeah.’

‘When?’ I feigning nonchalance.

‘In ten days. Isn’t it great?’

‘Whoopie for you.’

Not fair. So not fair. I wanted something exciting to happen to me. I mean nice exciting, not finding-a-hacked-finger exciting, or fucking-a-Bob exciting. Arms crossed and sulking in my
corner.

‘Issy, you look exactly like Max when you do that.’

‘Do I?’ Christ, how far have I regressed?

‘So you are going to come and support me?’

‘Yeah . . . I mean as long as I can get a babysitter.’

Babysitters being the bane of my life. And expensive – even Freddie charges me. My own sibling and over the going rate, plus I have to make dinner for him. Prior to Maria, I’d used a
girl called Kate. An A-level student, nice enough and I thought it would be fine, she could study when Max was asleep, earn a few quid, but she was seventeen.

Seventeen, rubbing my face in the fact that I was older though not wiser. I’m certain since having Max my intelligence has eroded, as one, by default, downgrades to the level of a
Tellytubby. I doubt there is a mother out there who, hand on heart, hasn’t at one time or another forgotten what day of the week it is.

When I met Kate, I was under the illusion that on a good day I could pass myself off as a yummy mummy. However, beside her, I appeared about as appetising as leftover dog food. To make matters
worse she regarded me not as a mate or an equal, but as someone who was past it. I made the mistake of being friendly, and leaving out my Robbie CDs to show her I was still with it. Even went so
far as to tell her she could smoke pot if she wanted to. Listen, even I cringe thinking about it now. The worst of it was, she used to bring her boyfriend with her. Max didn’t mind, an extra
playmate and all that, but there she was: pretty, pert-titted, flat-stomached and brim full of youthful enthusiasm.

Yes, there she was getting laid on my couch while I’d been out scouring the city for a hint of a basic encounter. My heart goes out to women who have au pairs, especially beautiful ones.
Always employ an ugly au pair or you’re just asking for trouble.

Barging in on them, mortified, I yelped, ‘When you’ve finished, can you come and see me in the kitchen?’

Half an hour later she came. I could hear her. Jesus, no shame nor embarrassment, then ten minutes on, she and the boyfriend scabbed two cigarettes off me, asked if I’d had a nice time,
took the babysitting money and left. I never called Kate after that.

Maria is my sole babysitter at present. The only thing I’m likely to find her astride is her Raleigh Racer, but when she’s not sitting for me, she’s usually booked up by the
other Honeys.

Nadia shot me a look of disgust.

‘You have ten days to find a babysitter.’

‘OK, OK, I’ll do my best.’

And then it occurred to me: Why not marry the gig with the Bob? Loud music meant I wouldn’t have to talk to him too much and Maria would be legitimately babysitting. It could work. I
consulted with Nadia: she could see no problem. I punched a message into the keyboard and pressed send. Didn’t have to wait too long for a reply. Bob must have been online, and luckily he was
up for it.

‘Hey, Nads, I got a great name for your band.’

‘What?

‘The Go-Nads.’

Max time upon me. The nursery beckoning, fines levied if not punctual, on the threshold of mummydom, I was halfway out the door.

‘The what?’ Nadia asked, wide-eyed and bemused.

‘The Go-Nads.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘Nah, I can see it: you on stage, lights flashing, the crowd whipped up into a frenzy and chanting, Go, Nad, Go, Nad, Go, Nad.’

Coincidences, the chances of, and I saw him first. Recognised him from the back, even after near on four years. He was peering at the windows of Habitat on the Finchley Road. I
could have walked past and he wouldn’t have noticed; instead, his name blared out from my lips.

‘Finn!’

Glanced over his left shoulder.

‘Issy!’

Max was holding on to my hand, sucking on a lolly. I was really glad he was wearing his cool clothes, that they weren’t totally stained and his nose wasn’t dripping.

‘Issy . . . Wow, is this your son?’

I beamed proudly. OK, so my face exploded with a vast smile.

‘Max, this is Finn.’

‘Hi, Finn.’

‘Issy, he’s beautiful.’

‘Thanks.’

I always feel slightly weird taking compliments on behalf of Max – he’s his own person. My child-rearing philosophy is to treat him at all times as I would wish to be treated myself.
That may sound kind of obvious and it should be obvious, but believe me, I’ve witnessed many parents who regard their offspring as a mini me, or the living bind of their relationship. Or
worse, parents who regard their children as lesser people, to be trained and moulded. Never underestimate a child’s capacity to understand, think, feel and emote. Granted, they may not
initially have sophisticated means of communicating, but I reckon trying to make out what they’re saying is part of the joy of being a parent.

‘Issy, he’s really beautiful. Looks nothing like you.’

The kick-back, the prick of reality. It’s always the same. Max by some weird fluke has blue eyes and blond hair. In effect a mini-version of my dream man.

‘Finn, you look great.’

He did, like he’d grown into himself. A man, no longer so boyish. The old Finn had shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair and was a skinny student. His hair was now cut short, no signs of
receding or baldness. He’d filled out a little and was dressed in the latest street labels, so effortlessly cool.

‘So do you,’ he replied.

He was lying, of course. As his eyes were still focused on Max, I let it go.

‘And Max must be . . . what, three?’

‘Three-and-a-half,’ Max corrected him.

‘Wow . . . and Issy, what are you up to?’

‘Being a mum.’

‘I mean are you working?’

How come ‘Being a mum’ never seems to be enough of an answer?

‘A little, nothing much. What about you?’

‘Things are good.’ He reached into his pocket and gave me his card. ‘I set up business with a friend. You remember Barney?’

‘Barney? What, beautiful Barney who was always taking Es?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘How is he?’

‘Married with three kids.’

‘Jeez. What about you, any kids?’

‘Not yet.’

Semi-uncomfortable pause, so much left unsaid. Do we lift the lid on the past, or wrap things up pronto?

‘So what’s your company?’

‘It’s called Craft Design, we’re agents for craftspeople.’

There stood my eco-warrior, blew that one, hey . . .

‘What, like thatched roofs?’

‘Yeah and . . .’

His words were lost on me, the underlying conversation at odds with the spoken one. What I really wanted to ask was is there any love left between us? Was it there in the first place?

Then he laughed and glibly muttered, ‘So if you ever need a picket fence.’

Aha, I was grasping at straws, for the picket-fence reference could mean only one thing: a twee little cottage, Mummy at the door, bun in my oven, bread in the oven, Max chasing chickens and
Finn off to chop wood in the forest.

‘I’ll keep you in mind.’

‘Good to see you, Issy.’

‘You too, Finn.’

He leant forward and pecked me on the cheek, then pushed through the glass doors of Habitat.

‘Max, that was an old friend of Mummy’s.’

‘Did you used to kiss him?’

See, even though only three-and-a-half, Max is way clued in.

‘Yeah, a long time ago.’

Five minutes later and Max was sitting in a trolley whilst I pushed it up and down the aisles of Waitrose supermarket.