by Lana Citron
Next up I had to assert what I considered to be my qualifying strengths for the position. I stated that of the many men I’d encountered during my life a fair few had called me a prick-tease, basically because I’d refused to sleep with them.
‘Interesting,’ she replied.
Actually it’s rather tedious.
‘Do you hate men?’
‘On the contrary, I’m fascinated, but to be honest, there’s few and far between who I’d ever, well . . . consider an appropriate partner.’
‘What are you looking for, Mr Perfect?’ she snorted rather condescendingly.
‘See the thing is, Fiona . . . I’m not actually looking. I enjoy male company but I guess, what with Max, my time is stretched as it is.’
Hey, and there was absolutely no way I’d be able to deal with a second kid.
‘Hmm . . . so do you think you’d be interested in the job?’
‘Yeah. Definitely.’ Sure would beat working as a supermarket cashier.
‘OK, Issy, we’ll try you out.’
As interviews go it was easy enough. Max and I celebrated with ice-cream cones from Marine Ices: a double scoop of pistachio and morello cherry for me, and for Max, strawberry with strawberry sauce.
‘Max, this is the beginning of something big,’ I proclaimed, to which he’d replied, ‘More, I want some more.’
‘Max,’ I continued, ‘I love you.’
‘I want to do a poo, Mum.’
Ended up having to sprint the buggy home to avoid a minor accident.
SO . . .
Eight months back I joined the Honey Trap and became a special agent of sorts, an agent provocateur, a fidelity barometer, a sticky honey strip (like the yellow ones my Gran hung in her kitchen attracting hosts of summer bluebottles to an early demise – though it must be said, not the most appetising sight when sitting down for a Sunday roast).
Hey, at the end of the day I have a job and a reinforced sense of self-worth. It’s amazing what a brown envelope can do. The added bonus being I’m able to get out a couple of times a week with a free babysitter thrown in for good measure. In a nutshell there’s enough cash, which, topped up with Child Benefit, lone-working-parent tax relief et al, is enough to keep Max and me bobbing sweet.
SO . . .
Eight months later and Fiona was screaming at me, ‘What the fuck is this?’
‘What does it look like?’
THE STARTING POINT
‘It’s a finger,’ shouted Max. ‘Look, Mummy.’
He’d picked it up and come sprinting over to me. Pointed it at me and said, ‘See, it’s a finger.’
‘Sweet fuck!’
I usually do my best to cut down on the bad language, I swear. OK, so I confess, part of me, the weak-pun part, harbours delusions of being a stand-up comedian. No, really, upon motherhood I have had to amend my vocabulary accordingly.
Max gaped at me strangely, and then from out his rosebud lips there trilled a sing-song tirade of ‘Sweet fuck’s.
Crouched down by his side I turned a greenish hue, due to the finger, not the foul-mouthed boy child whom I then ignored. At the same time I desperately tried to gulp back a recently digested cheese sandwich that was trampolining on the lining of my stomach.
‘Where did you find it?’
I’d shuddered, expecting to see the rest of the body lying in the near distance. Together we searched our pathetic patch of grass with one solitary rose bush, otherwise known as the garden. Thankfully there was nothing, absolutely nothing.
‘This is so weird, Max.’
‘Sweet fuck, Mum.’
To whom did it belong? Where had it come from, and more importantly, what the hell was it doing in my garden? So many possibilities, though I figured it probably belonged to a kidnap victim. Some poor ultra-wealthy woman was walking around with only four digits. Which meant . . . I would be generously rewarded for finding the missing finger and get my picture in the papers.
In the distance I heard the doorbell buzz and guessed it was Maria.
WHICH MEANT . . .
Time to don my alter ego and go fight the evil forces of potential adultery.
I casually explained all this to Fiona, whose mouth curled at the edge in disbelief.
‘Anyhow I thought I’d drop it by a police station on the way, but I was running late so I just popped it into a freezer bag and left it in the fridge.’
Fiona wasn’t very sympathetic.
‘Issy, it’s disgusting. I want the finger removed.’
‘It already has been removed. Hacked off, in fact.’
She had no idea how long, and how much effort, it had taken me to get Max to let go of it. All the distractions and clowning about.
‘Mine, mine, mine. My finger!’ he’d howled, refusing to let go of it.
‘Max, you already have ten fingers – one more ain’t going to be of any use whatsoever.’
And so I’d had to chase him round the flat for twenty minutes, and then play hide and seek. This gets real boring ’cause Max only has one hiding place, under the covers of my bed.
Fiona was furious.
‘Issy, I have a thing about fingers. Can you please get rid of it?’
‘Fine, fine. I’ll go to the police station right now. That OK?’
Fiona wasn’t even meant to be in the office tonight.
‘Actually no, I’ve got a job for you. Trisha’s had to pull out of it. I need you to take over.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a case she’s been working on for ages and I don’t want to blow the account.’
OK, so Trisha is a six-foot-tall, slim, blonde, brassy dominatrix type, and I am none of those things.
‘How come she can’t do it?’
‘Her youngest has a fever. You’re going to have to do it.’
Fiona handed me a chipped mug of instant espresso and a case file.
Mr Bob Thornton, thirty-nine, married with two kids. His missis had been poking her nose into his computer and found plenty of virtual adulterous activity. His method of covering up such dirty doings was to spell his name backwards. Clever that. Trisha, her alias being Trixi, had been communicating with him for the past three weeks, egging him further down the line towards maintenance payments with lascivious emails of the like:
Dirty Bob, your last email left me soaking, had to take a long shower and scrub hard, was thinking of you all the while. Can’t help wanting to meet you for real. Are you really like you say you are? Trixi.
Trixi, I’ve been a v. bad boy. Need to be taken in hand and disciplined hard. I dream of you walking all over me with your six-inch heels and long red nails clawing into my hairy back. How big is your mouth?
Dirty Bob, you disgust me, just the way I like it.
Trixi, I want to ding-dong you. Let’s meet and do it.
Figured I was in for a sophisticated night, not. Bob described himself as: having brown hair (a full head of), a six-footer and looking remarkably young for his age. Thankfully Trisha hadn’t mailed him a picture of herself, but it was clear from the emails he was expecting one powerful dame.
‘Fiona, I’m not sure I’ll get away with this.’
My whole demeanour spelt out nice, gentle woman, not ball-breaker, bitch, emasculator.
Fiona, clicking her knuckles, regarded me with disdain, my skirt too long, my make-up too demure.
‘Borrow something from the cupboard.’
The emergency cupboard contained odds and sods of clothing for such situations. I had a rummage and found a short, tight skirt and a pair of high-heeled, knee-length black boots. I swept my hair up off my face into a super-tight ponytail, Sade style, stretching back the skin on my face. Next up I smeared a real generous amount of blood-red on my lips and finished off the look with a false beauty spot.
Time ticking onward, expected in half an hour and I was looking more the part till I put on my puffa jacket. Fiona eagle-eyed me whilst reading out bits and pieces from the file: Bob collects cigarette
picture cards. Bob’s favourite drink is beer. Bob has a caravan and every summer takes his family camping in France. Bob is a member of a bird watchers’ society.
‘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.
MISSION: TO TAPE BOB IN A NEAR COMPROMISING SITUATION
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.
BOB . . .
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.
EXCUSE ME!
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.
FOR A SHAG
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 . . .
