The Honey Trap

by Lana Citron

  Yes! Freedom, Monday. MY DAY. Reserved for doing things I wanted to do.

  Like read the Sunday papers, like call someone and have an uninterrupted telephone conversation, go see an early-afternoon movie, go to the gym, have lunch with a friend, but first I must settle bills, clean the apartment, wash a week’s worth of laundry, consult the list of things to be fixed and decide to do it another day, plan the week, the weekend, counter-plan, un-plan, update wish lists, daydream on what ifs, check my insurance, and just as I sit down with my coffee ready to open the papers, it’s time to collect Max.

  My big date with Mr Joel Finklestein was planned for that very evening. Fiona didn’t care that it wasn’t strictly kosher, just as long as she got paid. I was slightly anxious about it. I mean how the hell do you go about flirting with an elderly man?

  ‘YO, DIG THE TURKEY WATTLE!’

  Joel Finklestein had shrunk with age. A slight man in a dark-grey suit, with silver hair, watery eyes sunk back in his face, and hand slightly shaking as he raised the soup spoon to his mouth. He was staring out the large front window of the restaurant on to the high street. Harry Morgan’s, St John’s Wood, a comfort-food haven.

  The place was near empty when I arrived. I sat at the table next to him, my opening gambit a weak, ‘Evening.’ A nod received in reply.

  I’d been to the restaurant a few times. It had recently undergone renovation, jazzed up somewhat for the Noughties, expanded now to include a takeaway. The waitresses were all Eastern European blondes, the food heart-stopping in both the good and bad way. I’d gone off it when Max was refused entry due to his buggy, which I felt unjustifiable seeing as it was supposedly a family restaurant.

  Gladys mentioned that I was categorically not to mention the war. When I asked her what Mr F. did like, she said children. I ordered a chicken soup with Kreplach and a Latka, then rummaged in my bag for a photo of Max.

  The situation too forced, with at least a couple of generations between us. To be honest my heart wasn’t in it. I wasn’t my usual happy-go-lucky self: the past week had taken its toll.

  The waitress set down my meal and I tried once again to make contact.

  ‘Mmm . . . just what I need, soul soup.’

  No acknowledgement forthcoming.

  ‘Mmm . . . delicious. How’s yours?’

  He glanced up at me.

  ‘Fine.’

  Slowly he turned round to me, shaking his head gently.

  ‘She sent you, didn’t she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My wife.’

  ‘Your wife? You married? That’s nice. I’m single myself but I have a little boy. Do you want to see a picture of him?’

  I know, I know, cringy, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘My wife, she sent you, didn’t she?’ he slowly repeated.

  ‘Well . . . actually,’ and I nodded an affirmative. Couldn’t pretend otherwise.

  ‘You an escort?’

  ‘Do I look like an escort?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’

  Conversation ceased. I was affronted by his comments, slurping soup on the defensive, and he sipping a lemon tea reading the Antiques Gazette.

  I felt the need to explain myself.

  ‘Look, Mr Finklestein, your wife called the company I work for and asked if I’d come down here and talk to you. Just chat. She’s worried, says you haven’t been yourself these past few weeks.’

  ‘No disrespect, lady, but I’m not interested in talking.’

  ‘Fine, I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  It wasn’t fine. He was curt, bordering on the offensive, and I was thinking did I really look like an escort? On a downward spiral I spun into the negative.

  ‘So you don’t want to talk?’

  ‘You have a problem with English?’

  ‘I’m just trying to be friendly.’

  ‘Save yourself the bother. You want to move tables or will I?’

  Jesus, but I didn’t deserve this, sick to the gills of playing these stupid games. Since the Bob fiasco, my confidence was waning, and here is this old man making me feel small, smaller than him even.

  I pushed back the chair and put on my jacket, left enough money to cover the bill, leant towards him and then snapped. I snapped and splurged.

  ‘Mr Finklestein, you are one of the most discourteous men I have ever met.’

  ‘Jeez. Do I have to listen to this? What are you, meshuggener?’

  No, just a single mum, on the brink of losing it. My mind, my job, my dignity . . . Oh no, my mistake, that went to a total dick a week ago, and unbelievable though it may seem, I also lost a finger. Yep, to top it all I lost a real-life, hacked-off finger.

  I stormed out of the restaurant, stood on the pavement taking stock of my life. Christ, and there I’d been feeling sorry for him, just ’cause he was old.

  Bastard.

  MEN, THEY’RE ALL THE . . .

  Well, not the same, just disappointing.

  My father wasn’t very supportive when I’d announced I was going it alone and having Max.

  ‘Every child deserves a father.’

  ‘So what was your excuse?’

  ‘Oh come on, that’s totally different. At least you knew who I was.’

  ‘But you weren’t there.’

  ‘Issy, you spent every holiday with me.’

  They split when I was four and my brother six. It must have been hell for my mother over the next few years. Indeed, I forgave my parents many things when I had a child of my own. Mum didn’t have a proper boyfriend till I was ten and I remember being a total bitch to the two of them. No one was allowed time with my mother, yet here’s the rub, we allowed Dad his girlfriends. They were somehow more like au pairs and were cool to hang out with. One actually was an au pair.

  ‘Dad, holidays aren’t reality, day-to-day living. Fun times are easy, and besides, you always sent Freddie and me off on summer camps.’

  ‘You enjoyed it.’

  ‘Only ’cause I was desperate to spend time around you.’

  ‘There, you proved my point. Max needs a father.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I conceded. ‘Yeah, come to think of it you’re going to be a major influence in his life, one of his strongest male role models, so don’t go shirking your responsibility.’

  Of course Max should have a father but he doesn’t, and there’s nothing I can do about it, bar providing stable male figures he can relate to. He adores my older brother Freddie, who dotes on Max no end and has begun to take him out shopping. Freddie buys him tight white T-shirts and Prada jeans. He treats Max as a designer accessory, taking him on quick strolls up and down Old Compton Street. I say quick, ’cause the minute Max gets twitchy, I have to go and rescue Freddie. See, Freddie’s lifestyle doesn’t really cater to small children, though he promises to take him clubbing, when he’s in his teens.

  OK, so Freddie can’t provide the rough and tumble, football, blokesy bond, but they love each other and as far as I’m concerned that’s the only thing that matters. And you know, there are times I feel exceptionally lucky being on my own with Max. I’ve met too many women whose partnerships have broken down unexpectedly after the birth of their child. It really must be quite horrendous to be so suddenly deserted. It comes down to expectations, and as I never had any, it hasn’t been an issue.

  SINGLE MOTHERHOOD VERSUS THE CONVENTIONAL

  I have complete control over how I wish to bring Max up, and he can’t play one parent off against the other. There are no compromises to be struck. There is no resentment harboured, such as when one partner has more access to the adult world. This, I believe, is a big bug-bear in many relationships, as my more honest married friends will testify. Max is my sole responsibility and I share him with no one.

  The minus being, of course, Max is my sole responsibility and I share him with no one.

  THE FICKLE FINGER OF FATE

  I guess my luck ran out last week. I put
it down to the finger. Since then, near ruin on every front. It was haunting me. Why me? Hadn’t I enough on my plate not to be beset upon by flesh and tiny bones?

  I trudged home from my meeting with Finklestein to find Maria glue-eyed to Graham Norton. She was knitting a jumper for Max. A Spiderman one, red background with a big black web on it.

  ‘How’d it go with Finklestein?’

  ‘Not good, he wouldn’t speak to me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Maria, do I look like an escort to you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, seriously?’

  ‘Listen, Max is a bit cranky, he’s coming down with something.’

  ‘Great.’

  That’s all I needed.

  ‘And a detective called by when you were out.’

  ‘Huh?’

  I was hanging up my jacket, yawning loudly.

  ‘He left his number, asked if you’d ring him tomorrow.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘They found the body.’

  ONE PLAIN, ONE PURL

  Clickity clack went her needles as I made Maria a cup of tea.

  ‘A detective,’ she said. ‘His name is Bambuss.’

  He’d asked if I would be so kind as to call at the first opportunity. A body had been found. A murder? Who’s to say? He hadn’t elaborated further, no other clues given. He’d had a quick look around the apartment.

  ‘A Cypriot,’ remarked Maria. ‘Originally from Cyprus, greying at the temples. Very distinguished man – reminded me of that actor, Omar Sharif.’

  ‘Oh.’ I perked up, so he had a whiff of the Omar. ‘My age?’

  ‘No, my age,’ Maria replied.

  Maria is the same age as my mother. Olive skin, dark hair, Rubenesque and small, not quite an aged and tubby Penelope Cruz but with a twinkle in her green eyes. Her husband passed away a couple of years back and, instead of crumbling, it’s as if she’s finally come into herself. Her children have nest-fled to disparate points of the globe and all have children of their own, which means Maria gets to travel quite a bit. She misses being a hands-on gran, though, luckily for me, she’s all but formally adopted Max as her grandson.

  Her role at the Honey Trap evolved naturally. She’d been cleaning Trisha’s house and had done some babysitting. Trisha referred her to Fiona, who then took her on.

  Time to go. She gathered up her bits and bobs, sighed, and then made the sign of the cross.

  ‘Poor old dear, let’s hope she at peace now.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s awful. Guess I’ll find out the whole story tomorrow. Thanks, Maria.’

  Standing in my hallway, I watched as she put on her helmet, bicycle clips and reflector bands, then disappeared on her push bike, off into the night.

  BEYOND THE FINGER

  I hadn’t thought beyond the finger, not really. It hung suspended in my imagination like a novelty. I ignored the fact it had once belonged to a hand, to a living, breathing person. Old women are two a penny, clumping along all over the place with their shopping trolleys. One passes them by, forgetting they were ever young, assuming they were always as they appear: slow-moving, wearing worn-out coats.

  My mother, initially a reluctant granny, finally caved in once she saw Max. She spends a month with us every summer. Last time she came, Max and I collected her from the airport. I hadn’t seen her for a year and was shocked at how she’d aged. The fine lines had become entrenched, and though she was still very striking, her hair was now grey and she refused to dye it.

  Practical by nature, she had given me plenty of advice when I fell pregnant.

  ‘Issy, you want to make sure you have a strong support group around you, find out about as many mother-baby groups as you can and sign up now.’

  Unsurprisingly I ignored her advice and came to regret it.

  She had a good life in New Mexico: a partner and a job as an office administrator in a production company. She was loath to run to my side and exhaust herself. She’d been there, done it, worn out the T-shirt.

  Of course we got on each other’s tits no end within twenty-four hours of her arrival, but the summer had been so much sweeter with her around, especially when she gave me a whole seven days and seven nights of freedom in Barcelona.

  Mum and I speak about twice a week. When I told her about the finger she, being into the mystical, was convinced it was a sign.

  ‘Your chi is unbalanced. You are dislocated from yourself, Issy – it’s time to look within.’

  ‘Mother, I’m totally spent.’

  ‘You need to meditate.’

  ‘Stop with the mumbo jumbo. The fact is I’m straddling two worlds, being single and being a mother.’

  ‘Surrender to your situation. It’s the only way forward.’

  ‘How did you cope with the two of us on your own?’

  ‘I got stoned a lot.’

  I’d forgotten the sweet herbal smell that was my mother’s scent. I know a fair few mothers who puff to relax at the end of a day, some during the day, or who pay a nightly visit to the bottle that takes the edge off the situation and aids a quick exit to sleep.

  ‘Are you advocating I take drugs?’

  Having spent much of my youth wasted, I’d turned away from the dulled numbness and brain stupefier that is weed.

  ‘I’m just saying, you’re trying to do too much and gotta slow down. Your life has changed. There are constraints now, and you have to find a way to work within them.’

  She’s right and I hate her for it.

  I’ve never subscribed to the idea that motherhood changes one as a person. Fundamentally you remain the same, though perhaps become more patient.

  ‘There’s a reason the finger found its way to you.’

  ‘OK, Mum, whatever. So when are you coming over again?’

  ‘The summer. Have you spoken to Freddie lately?’

  ‘Not for a while.’

  The last I’d heard from Freddie was a few weeks back, when he went on a major clubbing/drugs binge. I’ve learnt from previous experiences not to contact him for about a week after, as he is ‘coming down’, which translates as being a paranoid pain in the arse.

  ‘Mum, do you think I’ll ever fall in love again?’

  ‘Give it time, it’s bound to happen.’

  ‘But my prime is passing me by. I’m getting ugly, Mother.’

  ‘I’m hearing a lot of negativity, Issy. Are you still going to your group-therapy sessions?’

  Oh Christ, that was a laugh.

  NOT

  Nadia had told me how a friend of hers met a really cool man in group therapy. They had since married and were expecting a kid.

  ‘Don’t dismiss it – it’s a great way to meet people and get a load off your chest.’

  So, off I went to my local GP, got an instant referral, easy-peasy. No sooner had the words ‘single mother’ fled my parted lips than she had me signed up. A week later, I sat in a sterile room surrounded by a bunch of depressives talking about their childhoods and coming to terms with their feelings. I couldn’t get a word in and had to listen to some pretty appalling stuff, which incidentally cured me on the spot, as I realised how lucky I was in comparison.

  On the male front there were but two, a geezer in his fifties and a younger one. The latter not-too-bad-looking, actually, if I squinted hard, a bit Hugh Grant-ish, if he shaved off his face fur, but alas, he turned out to be married.

  Then, like a bolt from the blue, a thwack of a realisation bludgeoned me and I recalled his name . . . Bob.

  Yeugghhh . . . Imagine if it was the same guy. But of course I would have recognised him . . . unless that is he had shaved off his beard and tache.

  Yeugghhh . . .

  Nah, surely I would have clicked?

  Thrice yeugghhh, as snippets of conversation vomited into my consciousness. Yeah, on recollection, I had been struck by his seemingly genuine sincerity and empathy. Yet, it was inconceivable to marry the email Bob with this one, but now it kinda made sense. Th
e guy was obviously schizoid. Although thinking about it, he was the counsellor.

  OWEE OWEE OWEE, MUMMY’S IN BIG TROUBLE

  ‘Max, I’ve got to see a policeman today,’ I announced.

  Max lay warm in the bed beside me, all cuddly and edible. One of my main fears when he was a baby was that I’d eat him. I swear, the smell, the soft skin, pink flesh, tiny fingers – I’d bury my face in his belly, gobbling the love off him. Now things have begun to change and his bottom is not quite so endearing, as he blasts the morning chorus, trumpeting the dawn call a little too close for comfort.

  ‘Max! What do you say?’ I chastise Mr Fartypants.

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  Ah such sweet denials.

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. It was you.’

  Damn, no longer can I get away with it. He’s way too clever for his age and I, guilty, changed the subject.

  ‘I have to meet a detective today.’

  ‘Are you going to prison?’

  ‘Hope not. It’s about that finger you found.’

  ‘The finger in the garden?’

  ‘Can I have a kiss?’

  ‘Later, in a few minutes.’

  Kisses used to be on tap, whenever I wanted, free access to the Max, but now I ask and have to wait. Unless of course he’s tired and unable to fend off my advances.

  Oh lovely, beautiful Max and I woke in a good mood, for some unknown reason. Chased Max through the apartment, ending up with a tickling session and much giggling.

  DETECTIVE BAMBUSS

  Bambuss leant back in his plastic chair, corpulent and hirsute. His chest hair met with his beard line, which was meeting with his forehead. He sat directly opposite me, picking luncheon scraps from between his teeth and then tongue-sucking at the remains. His face wore an air of mild perplexity and he appeared to be looking at me somewhat suspiciously. Omar Sharif? My arse.

  ‘Miss Brodsky, so it was your son who found the deceased’s finger?’