The Honey Trap

by Lana Citron

  ‘Well, if you must know, I’ve found these past few months borwing.’

  ‘You mean boring.’

  ‘Yesth, borwing. Look, Fiona, I want to move on in my life, achieve something worthwhile. I want Max to be proud of me, not embarrassed that his mother works as a spy. I mean can you imagine how that must make him feel? Especially as he starts school next year.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Having a parent who’s a spy is the ultimate for a kid.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe.’

  Damn her. I cut the affectations, they weren’t working, and went for a plain old fuck-you attitude with a splash of moral high ground.

  ‘Fiona, for all I care you can keep your scuzzy job. I mean why am I bothering wasting my time in a two-bit agency that deals in grief? That generates suffering. Let’s face it, most of the guys are so bowled over by the fact an interesting person is talking to them it’s no wonder they succumb. It’s like giving a kid candy – they can’t help but take a lick. It’s deliberate provocation.’

  ‘Issy, you’re talking like a man. And by the way, may I remind you that these past few months no one was licking you.’

  ‘That was a run of bad luck, and you know it. Honestly, Fiona, there are nights I’m actually unable to sleep, grappling with thoughts of the hurt I’ve caused others. We manipulate these guys. If the shoe was on the other foot, I mean if their wives had a chance, they’d probably jump at it too.’

  ‘Business is business . . .’

  ‘It’s morally corrupt and you know it. It stinks, the whole of society is defiled, we’re force-fed a diet of titillating sex and then expected to be monogamous saints. It’s all bullshit.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean people expect dessert with every meal.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Expectations, expectations, expectations.’

  ‘And?’ she said, polishing off her coffee-and-walnut slice.

  ‘They are unrealistically high. You can’t have your cake and eat it.’

  At this precise point in the conversation, the café erupted. The sound of plates smashing to the floor reverberated throughout and was followed by the waitress storming out from the kitchen area. Spewing most virulently God only knows what (though it was music to my ears), the owner, Silvio, a short, tubby Italian, appeared in hot pursuit of her. There followed a scene of passionate anger, much arm gesticulation and verbal sparring, until she untied her apron, flung it to the ground and left. Silvio cursed her vociferously and then proclaimed, ‘I’ve had it with her bad attitude. She doesn’t want to work, she think she too good to work in café. Is true what they say. When will I learn? You canna work with animals and children. My own daughter. Pah.’

  He collapsed against the counter and beseeched the Lord above.

  ‘What now, Mister High Flyer? Why so impossible to find decent waitress? Honest, hard-working, easygoing, not complicated, pretty, but smart, young woman who lives local. Flexible hours, the pay not so bad. Where? Where I find this miracle worker?’

  HE PRAYED. I ANSWERED

  Or rather Fiona nudged me into action, elbowing me in the ribs.

  ‘Hey, over here. A perfect specimen ready to roll.’

  ‘Fiona, what are you doing?’

  ‘Sorting you out. Some things are fated to happen.’

  ‘I’m an undercover agent.’

  ‘Those days are long gone.’

  ‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’

  ‘ISSY, IT’S OVER.’

  Silvio rushed towards us and I flashed him a winning smile.

  ‘Hi, mmm, I couldn’t help but witness what just happened and, as I’m currently looking for a job, I wondered –’

  ‘You have experience?’

  ‘Some.’

  Under the table Fiona’s pointy-toed boot met with my calf.

  ‘Loads,’ I corrected myself.

  I’d done a couple of waitressing stints as a student and vowed never, ever, to do it again.

  ‘You good worker?’

  ‘Let me vouch for Ms Brodsky. As her former employer, I can safely say she gives her all to the job. Perhaps at times too much.’

  OK, so I was way overeducated for the position and felt it to be a massive come-down from the dizzy heights of undercover agent, but really, was I in a position to choose? I levelled with myself: it would be fine, for a while. A temporary measure taken to alleviate financial ruin. At least it would allow me space to look for a more suitable job. Silvio passionately embraced me and then set me to work.

  On the bright side it wouldn’t take long to master the art of serving and hey, waitressing, well, it’s not exactly rocket science.

  Jesus Christ, but have you any idea how bloody complicated a simple cup of coffee can become, how fickle a customer is, how demanding, rude and obnoxious people can be?

  ‘Hi, can I have a coffee?’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Mmmm black, mmmm, no, white.’

  ‘A latte?’

  ‘No, a cappuccino, without the chocolate.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘With skimmed milk, and an omelette.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But without the yolks.’

  ‘Want any bread with that?’

  ‘What sort do you have?’

  ‘White, wholemeal, soda, baguette, ciabatta, rolls.’

  ‘You have any crispbreads?’

  ‘Chrissakes, Fiona, just make a blinkin’ decision.’

  Fiona was my trial customer. Silvio had thought it best to test me, just to ascertain my suitability for the position.

  I managed to scrape through, though no thanks to Fiona.

  WHERE ART THOU, FAIRY GODMOTHER?

  She stood right in front of me, a little smaller than expected, but definitely of the fairy ilk with her pink tulle tutu, angel wings and a wand. Twirl that baton my way, babe. Instead she scoffed at me, her tiny nose upturned, and skipped away, waving her wand about her. I was contemplating my fate at the council-run Elysium, otherwise known as the playground. I’d picked Max up from nursery, and we’d headed over to the park.

  I am so jealous of a child’s sense of joy and freedom, the sheer ecstasy they derive from climbing frames, swings, and sandpits. These little people letting their souls dance are sovereigns unto themselves, still too young to be self-conscious. The children rule supreme in these safe havens, where the only knocks experienced are soft bruises and the niggling wounds of childhood, like from the kid who throws sand in your eyes or runs off with your tricycle, or clouts you when you’re not looking, but in the main, bliss abounds. While we, the parents, guardians, hover on the sidelines, waiting for the tumble, the call for help to push the swing, to build the castle, to buy the ice-cream.

  Speaking of which. Tantrum alert, tantrum alert, and there was no way his fingers would be prised from the railings. Max, steadfast and determined, clung to the rails on the far side of the playground, where the ice-cream van had pulled up, by the gap in the fence. The tingle, tingle tune that cuts to the bone of every parent and you just hope you remembered to bring your quid or all hell will break loose.

  Of course being the parent who forgot, I hung back in the sandpit hoping no one would point the finger at me. ‘Cruel mother ignores the pleas of her wailing child.’ There was no way Max would be persuaded to forgo an ice just because Mummy had no money. So I decided not to deal, sat in the pit, and how apt a place considering my situation.

  By rights, I should be an international lawyer, earning a fortune, married with two kids, a nanny and a 4 x 4. I should be living on the pig’s back, given my education, upbringing, and the opportunities open to me.

  Something went hideously wrong along the way.

  Maybe I didn’t suffer enough?

  Jeez, but how I wish I was working class or at the very least belonged to an ethnic minority. I have zero credibility, no excuses, and blame my parents for making life too comfortable. Where was the struggle? The long hau
l out of the gutter? I mean no wonder as a kid I used to dream of being an orphan, like the girl in Thursday’s Child.

  OK, so I could get nit-picky and blame my vast array of neuroses on my parents’ separation, but in truth, it’s probably a reaction to having been raised in a pretty relaxed and nurturing ‘right-on’ environment; excepting for the fact that I wasn’t ever allowed a Sindy doll or anything girly, was dressed in dungarees, ordered to climb trees and hence have a fear of heights. To be fair, my parents made loads of mistakes but on the whole have been very supportive: they helped me with my homework, urged me to go on to university, to travel, to take drugs and sleep around.

  My sole attempt at rebellion was to become all religious in my early teens. I experienced a brief Audrey Hepburn nun stage, and had a crush on the male lead in Jesus Christ Superstar. It lasted three months, coinciding with the arrival of Ollie, the new boy in class, who made me melt, blush and burst into hysteric peals of nervous laughter all at the same time.

  He also never gave me a second glance, and went for the biggest breasts in the class, belonging to a girl who used to charge boys fifty pence for a peek at her nunny during break times. I bumped into Ollie years later, on Oxford Street, wedged between sandwich boards, handing out leaflets. I scoffed at his lowly predicament and also ’cause he’d gone to seed and lost all his hair. Knowing my luck he’d probably be my first real café customer.

  ‘Mum-meeeeee, Mum-meeeee.’

  Max’s screeches had become almost sing-song. And I wondered how long could I feasibly ignore him before one of us snapped.

  Minutes? Seconds?

  But hark, what’s this?

  The far corner fell silent.

  Yes, respect to the man in the ice-cream van.

  He must have caved in, taken pity on my poor deprived child.

  As I brushed the sand off my clothes I could see Max licking a cone, sitting on one end of the small seesaw.

  I went to join him.

  ‘Nice one, Maxy.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘In the sandpit. Can I have a kiss?’

  ‘No way. Get off.’

  He’s already sussed my fake-kiss manoeuvre where I swoop down in the pretence of love and go for a lick.

  ‘ISSY, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE?’

  On the way back to the apartment my father’s voice resonated in my head as I prepared myself for one of his lectures.

  At key moments throughout my early life, I would stand in his study and he’d say, ‘Issy, what are you going to do with your life?’

  And I’d answer, ‘Well . . . I’d really like to travel.’ Meaning, ‘Can I have some money?’

  Or, ‘Actually, I was thinking about . . .’ Meaning, ‘Can I have some money?’

  Or, ‘There’s this amazing course, I just have to do it . . .’ Meaning, ‘Can I have some money?’

  My father would contemplate my request, and wide-eyed I’d promise him I would finish the course this time, or take the job, or get my act together. He’d pontificate about how spoilt I was. I’d then exploit his sense of guilt for leaving us and ruining our lives. Next he’d throw his eyes to the heavens, I’d recant, say I was joking, give him a winning smile, and finally he’d write me a cheque.

  There then occurred a change. A time when I did finish my degree, did get a job or a series of jobs and was getting my act together. Next up the Max arrived . . . and I have to say, becoming a parent has forced me to reevaluate my relationship with my parents. The role of a grandparent can be a vital and wonderful thing and not just from the babysitting aspect. I begged my parents to consider moving over to London. They both refused me.

  ‘DAD, THERE’S SOMETHING I HAVE TO TELL YOU . . .’

  ‘It sickens me. It truly sickens me. To think after all that money spent on education, all those course taken, then this should happen. A waitress! A goddamn waitress!’

  In a rage, I continued on defiantly.

  ‘Can you imagine how I feel? It pains me. No, really. I know you expect more from me and I expect more from myself, but it’s hard with Max being so young and –’

  My father laid down his Financial Times, peered over his reading spectacles and regarded me with an air of bemusement.

  ‘Issy, what are you talking about?’

  ‘I lost my job today, and then found another. I’m now a waitress.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘Well, it’s outrageous, that I should descend to this.’

  ‘Darling, it doesn’t matter. Max is your number-one priority.’

  ‘But you don’t understand . . . If only I’d suffered.’

  ‘I bumped into your upstairs neighbour today. He seems nice.’

  ‘Why did you make it so easy for me?’

  ‘Asked after you and Max.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me –’

  ‘Interesting young man.’

  ‘He has a girlfriend. OK! Look, all my life I just wanted to achieve something.’

  ‘You have. Max. He’s brilliant.’

  ‘Anyone can be a mother.’

  ‘Issy, stop beating yourself up. Who cares what you do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All I want is that you’re happy.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose waitressing could be fun. I mean at the very least I’ll get to meet loads of caffeine addicts. And you get tips, though not a lot. Silvio is a bit of a wild card. What’s this?’

  ‘Flowers. They were delivered about half an hour ago.’

  A lavish bunch of flowers met my gaze, and when I say lavish this was not an understatement. My father had left them in the sink.

  ‘Couldn’t find any vases.’

  Chief suspect was Stephan, and I ran to confirm my suspicions and examine further evidence of his lust. Aha, and there was a card peeking out.

  ‘GET WELL SOON.’

  I ask you. So I opened the card only to be greeted with: ‘Best of luck in your new career. Trisha. Dizzy Issy, crazy babe, luv u lots, mis u alredy. Nads.’

  She was currently going through a text-addiction phase.

  ‘Thanks for all your hard work, Issy. The Trap will sorely miss your warped sense of humour. Take care and see you soon. Charlie/Fiona. Lovely Issy, I do cheap rates for favoured customers. Big kiss to Max. Maria. PS You have my number, use it.’

  So that was it. It was over.

  Finito, no going back.

  ‘Dad, I think I’ll go and get drunk, then curl up in a corner of self-pity and weep.’

  ‘OK, lovely. I’ll sit Maxy.’

  DEEP IN SHITSVILLE

  Seeking solace from a bottle of red wine shared with Nadia, who answered my plea as a true friend should and hastened to my side at Steele’s. Soon enough I was infected with good cheer, encouraged by Nadia’s optimistic outlook and general enthusiasm.

  ‘Nads, you’re the best friend I have.’

  ‘Best and only one, by the looks of things.’

  ‘Yeah.’ My sozzled brain reaching fermentation point. ‘So, superstar, wha’s goin on with the producer bloke, geezer?’

  ‘It’s over.’

  The producer, so very keen on her musical talent, had turned out to be an arsehole supremo of the first order.

  ‘How could I have been so naive?’

  ‘You’re too trusting, you gotta understand. They are gonna get you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Human nature, it’s complex. What happened?’

  Simon the schmoozer talked the talk and bigged her up. Oh but the promises he made, big deals in the offing, stardom awaiting, the glory to be had, but first. But first, let us retreat to my studio, he slimed, that being his studio flat, and snort a little cocaine and swill a little bubbly.

  ‘What about the rest of the band?’ an innocent Nadia had enquired.

  ‘You’re too good for them. I see you more as a solo artist.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘A diva. An oyster pearl just waiting to be opened.’

&nb
sp; She wasn’t convinced but such was her desire to succeed.

  And so Schmoozer lured her back to his pad and heaped compliments upon her. My, my, but such a talent. Here, have a CD or two or three.

  ‘There’s a track I’d really like you to listen to.’

  Yawn, I’d been there, experienced saviours of the like, fallen prey to the manipulative male. How twenties, as in age.

  ‘Nads, Nads, I expected more from you, what with your streetwise sophistication.’

  ‘My what?’

  So she’d ended up in his studio, freestyling over a track.

  ‘Nice, dig it, babe.’ And he transfixed by her youthful beauty. ‘Let’s have another drink?’

  Intention being to ply her with booze, so she’d be all the more pliable, and loosen up those vocal cords.

  ‘He could have doped me. Put something in the drink.’

  She was right. Actually she was lucky. You hear so much about about date rape these days. Who would notice a pill fizz in a glass of champagne?

  He’d laid a hand upon her firm thigh and had then begun to stroke softly in a north-south direction.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Come, come, Nadia. I’ve noted the way you’ve been looking at me.’

  ‘You what?’

  The schmoozer for all his efforts was gobsmacked. Our Nadia landed him one in the mush. Did I forget to mention her kick-boxing passion? How remiss of me.

  ‘No one, but no one, takes the piss out of me,’ declared a drunken Nadia.

  I wish I had her sense of bravery. I probably would have succumbed.

  ‘Jesus, I can’t believe you did that. What did he say?’

  ‘I didn’t hang around to find out.’

  We neared the end of the bottle and ordered another. Yes, I was feeling a million times happier.

  ‘Nads, knowing your singing career has gone belly up has made me feel much better.’

  ‘Issy, you’re pathetic. But I know what you mean.’

  We toasted our failures and future successes.

  HA BLOODY HA

  A week later Nads and I played the same scene, only this time at the Enterprise in Camden over whisky and Coke. She was doing her best to sort out my life.