The Honey Trap

by Lana Citron

  PAX ME

  ‘Yes, Jeremy that’s right. You don’t mind me calling you Jeremy?’

  Beneath the scorching studio lights I prayed my sweat stains wouldn’t show. Prime-time TV; I mean who’d have thought? Maybe a five-minute slot with Richard and Judy, but this was beyond even my expectations. Jeremy Paxman. I think it’s the large sloping nose that provides the pow-wow factor. A hint of what lies below? Alas I would never find out.

  ‘And now we have in the studio, Issy Brodsky . . .’

  A human interest story that had a nice ring to it. (Painful, hey?) OK, so I didn’t exactly make it on to Newsnight, but the story spread like, well, spread, and before long I was munching on the leaf-edge of local celebrity.

  Bambuss called, offering advice on how to survive the limelight, and saying should he be required he was more than willing to contribute.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I think I can handle it myself, Detective.’

  ‘Be careful what you say. Journalists have a knack for twisting the truth.’

  I promised to bear it in mind and enquired after his recent all-over body wax. Maria had sought and taken my advice on finding him an unusual gift for his birthday.

  ‘Yes, Miss Brodsky, I have you to thank for my afternoon of torture.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ I assured him.

  Besides, on Maria’s last visit she’d confided, ‘He like a new man, a smooth operator.’

  FAME! I’M GOING TO LIVE FOR EVER

  Oh how my head swelled, and as I am so superficial, I got my legs waxed and even had a facial. As I said to Nadia, ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. The pressure to look good is unbelievable.’

  ‘Issy, you’ve been interviewed on two local radio shows.’

  ‘Tip of the iceberg, my good friend. How do I look?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Only fine?’

  The story had been covered, sans photo, in the Antiques Gazette, Ham and High and Camden New Journal. But now the big time beckoned and Max and I were expected at the Finklesteins’ to be zapped for the Jewish Chronicle.

  Nads generously offered to drop me and Max down at their house on Carlton Avenue, no doubt hoping to get her face in the picture too. So I decided to take the bus and we ended up arriving half an hour late.

  ‘What’s kept you?’ Gladys shrieked with relief, ushering us into her grand home. She was obviously house-proud: most of the furniture was covered in plastic.

  ‘So much easier to keep clean,’ she silently mouthed.

  There was even a clear plastic runner, which we were instructed to walk along in order to preserve the underfoot sea of beige, which, as if on cue, Max managed to destroy, by spilling his berry juice.

  Gladys’s face contorted in visible agony, in sharp contrast to her empty proclamation, ‘Don’t worry about it – these things happen!’

  I offered to clean up.

  ‘Under the sink you’ll find all you need.’

  Joel wanted to know why such a lovely girl as I wasn’t married.

  ‘The boychik needs a brother or a sister.’

  ‘First opportunity I get, Mr F, I’ll be on the case.’

  Meantime Gladys had grabbed either side of Max’s face and was tugging gently at his pinched-cheek flesh.

  ‘Get off me,’ he shouted at her.

  ‘Not until you give me a kiss,’ she demanded.

  ‘Yeughh yuck,’ squealed Max, and he ran for his life.

  The photographer was eager to get going, so while I mopped up, he began snapping.

  THE RESULT?

  A double-page spread with a creepy picture of Gladys in a suggestive pose reclining on her chaise longue, Joel standing uncomfortably by her side, and then a smaller photo of Max and my forehead. Goddamnit, but I was usurped by my own son taking centre stage and thwarting my special moment by masking eighty-five per cent of my face with his.

  THE ART OF SOCIAL HARA-KIRI

  My honour was positively impugned. Nadia howled with laughter, and Silvio decided to blow up the picture and stick it on the café wall, with ‘Issy’s Moment of Fame’ scrawled beneath. Served me right, I suppose, for having obnoxiously boasted about it to all and sundry.

  JUST THE WAY IT IS

  On the night Stephan came to say goodbye and humbly apologise for misleading me, he reminded me of the wooden box I’d found in Sarah’s apartment.

  The box! I’d totally forgotten about it.

  Where the hell had I put it?

  Frantically, I scoured the apartment, finally found it at the bottom of one of Max’s baskets of toys.

  ‘Put there for safe-keeping,’ I glibly assured Stephan, handing it over to him.

  ‘Sure, and well, thanks, Issy – this is for you.’

  We exchanged boxes, a big for a little one.

  Stephan was to surprise me once more, though this time it was rather touching.

  See . . . as for the ring –

  It lay inside the box he gave me.

  And now I wear it on my little finger.

  My left-hand pinkie.

  THE LADY IN THE PARK (OR WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND)

  Way back when, in the mists of my memory, I vaguely recall an afternoon with Max, feeding the ducks and geese in Regent’s Park. Max was two and I merely existing, being sleep-deprived and functioning on auto-pilot. It was fierce cold, the middle of winter, and wrapped up warm, we were swarmed by feathered friends glad of the crumbs we scattered. Hundreds clucked at our feet and we soon ran out of stale bread.

  ‘What a beautiful boy,’ smiled an old woman, offering Max a large chunk of bread.

  Max continued to feed the ducks and we began chatting. I was so glad of the company, too much time spent on my own with Max, and we ended up in the lakeside café nattering about who knows what over tea and scones.

  When Max saw the ring, he said, ‘Like the lady in the park.’

  In the café my little magpie Max had taken a shine to one of the rings on her fingers.

  She’d let him play with it.

  I’m almost certain.

  But this was a long time ago and perhaps my memory was teasing me.

  ON THE UP AND UP

  I put my father’s generous present to good use and enrolled in a stand-up comedy course at the Amused Moose. Joe the comedian suggested I gave it whirl. Thus I found myself up at the Enterprise of a Saturday afternoon, making a right tit of myself, while Maria sat for Max. Hadn’t had so much fun in an age – jeez, when I think of all that money wasted on counselling.

  This coincided with my promotion at the café, to ‘general manager’. I’d persuaded Silvio to amend my status, arguing it would undeniably raise my morale and thus I would work harder.

  ‘You drive a hard bargain, Issy, but no more wage increases.’

  Having recently received one, I didn’t mind.

  ‘Oh and Silvio, can I wear a “general manager” badge, just so everyone knows?’

  ‘You buy it, wear whatever you want.’

  I had Silvio in the palm of my hand, having implemented certain changes in the café, which brought the punters rolling in. It was easy, and so damn obvious. I set up a mums’ morning club, so that full-timers could while away a couple of hours in a kid-friendly environment. All it took was a basket of toys in the corner and the ingenious invention of Fun Froth. Yep, while Mummy was sipping her mid-morning coffee, offspring was offered a cup of milk froth with hundreds and thousands scattered on top, not to mention a special kiddies’ menu, including puréed veg for the teeny-tinies. For the mums, lots of low, low-calorific but tasty guilt-free dishes.

  Plus, and as I am one to boast, our kid-friendly policy operated during the café’s usually dead hours, i.e. ten–twelve and three–five.

  Word spread and soon enough they were coming in from far and wide. ‘Oh, what a cutie,’ I’d insincerely coo about a thousand times a day at wee blighters, nay, savages, who ran amok, leaving grubby paw-prints all over the place and making an unholy mess. But
as Fiona once remarked, ‘Business is business.’

  WELL I NEVER

  She showed up in a rather fetching Nicole Farhi linen number.

  ‘Issy, can I have a word.’ Fiona hollered above a screeching brat.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ I pleaded, surprised to see her, then turned to the offensive tyke and said, ‘Oi, Beyoncé, zip it.’

  She got the message and pranced back to her yummy mummy.

  ‘Nice badge,’ remarked Fiona.

  ‘Thanks. So what can I get you?’

  ‘I have interesting news. Can we talk?’

  Long overdue a break, and notwithstanding the fact I was now general manager, I got one of our recent recruits, an aspiring actress, to hold the fort while Fiona and I skipped over the road, to a quieter café.

  BOB A JOB

  After all, he had lost me mine.

  Once seated comfortably, Fiona began to enlighten me on the Bob Thornton case, and the current state of his marriage.

  ‘Fiona, do I really want to hear this?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I think you do.’

  Bob Thornton and his wife had finally resolved the situation through the simple technique of communication. A procedure that if it should ever catch on would put the Honey Trap out of business pronto.

  But back to the saga. Bob’s wife had kept a steady check on all his extra-curricular Internet activity, which included membership of a heap of porn sites, dating chat rooms, etc. She was confused to say the least as Bob was a man who rarely veered off the missionary position. Yes, to all intents and purposes, he was the perfect husband, but for this unusual behaviour. She couldn’t make head nor tail of it and had then contacted the Trap hoping to obtain some hard evidence of marital transgression. At the same time Bob began acting cagey with her, suspicious of her every move, till finally, after skirting round the issue for an age, he confronted her.

  ‘He confronted her?’

  I was baffled.

  ‘He noticed payments made to net sites on his visa bill, to porn sites, and thought she was the culprit.’

  ‘Yeah right, Fiona. He was playing mind games, aware that she had found him out. Slime ball just wanted to pass the buck, blame her.’

  ‘Apparently not. In the end it turned out that their teenage son was the culprit and had been using Bob’s name and visa card.’

  ‘The son!’

  FLASHBACK TO . . .

  The youngster escorted from the bar on the night I went to meet Bob, the group of adolescents at the gig with the seductive chat-up line of, ‘Me mate wants to cop off with you.’

  It did make sense.

  ‘So are you saying. I didn’t fuck Bob?’

  ‘Suffering delusions, it would seem. An attention-seeking exercise that cost you your job. Issy, you caused us a lot of trouble.’

  ‘But we did.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Did.’

  Fiona lowered her eyelids and sanctimoniously remarked, ‘If I remember correctly you were very frustrated at the time.’

  ‘Fiona, I am not delusional.’

  ‘Be that as it may –’

  ‘Fiona, Bob is a bona fide head-messer. He’s a shrink. Look, he’s obviously got his wife in a state of derangement.’

  ‘Bob Thornton is a secondary-school teacher.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  The news took a few moments to sink in. So Bob wasn’t Bob, as in not the person I thought he was, as in, a complete stranger.

  Chrissakes, all the needless worry and grief I’d suffered. The saddest thing was, we’d had a laugh together that night. He was nice, gave me his number, asked me to call him. There we were, two lonely souls randomly seeking out some human comfort.

  ‘Shite, what a waste.’

  ‘Waste?’

  ‘Maybe I could trace him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The other Bob.’

  ‘Well, now that’s cleared up, fancy a piece of cake?’

  ‘Another? Jeez, Fiona, hasn’t anyone yet mentioned the hip-lip factor?’

  And the next thing I knew her face fell. Guess I must have hit a raw nerve. Her eyes welled up and she began blubbing.

  ‘It’s the hormones,’ she snivelled, ‘I can’t bear all this effusive emotion.’

  ‘Welcome to the real world of womanhood.’

  ‘I’m taking a drug that replicates the female menstrual cycle. It’s horrendous – one minute I’m snapping, next I’m weeping, then there’s the water retention. Why didn’t anyone tell me it would be like this?’

  ‘Would you have listened?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she quietly whimpered, dabbing a tissue at the corners of her mascara-run eyes.

  ‘Well, there are positives to being a woman.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Mmm, let’s see. The ability to bring another being into the world. For all its negatives, being a mother is, well, the very core of what it is to be a female.’

  ‘That’s so cruel, Issy.’

  Sure it was, but I couldn’t resist.

  ‘OK, what about all the male attention we get? Though to be honest it only lasts till you’re about thirty. Yeah, hit thirty, the lines start coming, the hair starts turning grey and before you know it you’re up Blind Alley, way past your sell-by-date and ignored by all mankind. Sure, who am I to tell you, Fiona?’

  Her eyes spouted a fresh batch of tears.

  ‘Issy, it took me twenty minutes to reverse-park this morning.’

  THEN TWO LEMON TARTS LATER . . .

  Her mood swang back and she was happy as, pie. (Ouch, but I think I’m perfecting the art of naff gags.)

  Blushing, Fiona excused her little outburst of emotion and proceeded to inform me that my replacement had turned out to be a total psycho. A deeply insecure woman who ended up frightening off all her dicks by acting like some emotional cripple on acid.

  ‘The upshot being, Issy, that now the Bob file is closed, we’d like you to –’

  ‘Fiona, I get the gist. But before I consider anything, it would be really nice if Trisha was to call me.’

  RUBBING IT IN

  I be the smuggest of all.

  ‘Sorry, what was that, Trisha? I can’t hear you.’

  Monday afternoon, a fine summer day. Max and I had just reached the top of Primrose Hill. London lay at our feet, and as we peered into the distance, the future was looking good. And that’s when Trisha’s call came through.

  ‘So as I said, we were hoping you’d consider coming to work for us again.’

  Goddamn, the background silence was deafening.

  ‘One more time, Trisha, but with feeling.’

  ‘Would you like your job back?’

  Squirm, lady, squirm.

  ‘My job back? You’re offering me my job back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As in, work for the Honey Trap?’

  ‘Yes, Issy.’

  ‘And just so we get things straight, what exactly are the working conditions and pay?’

  ‘Same as before!’

  ‘Hmm, what about a sweetener?’

  ‘We’ve really missed you.’

  ‘Not tempting enough.’

  ‘OK, how does a five per cent rise sound?’

  ‘Pitiful.’

  ‘Ten per cent.’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’ll give the offer due consideration and get back to you in a couple of days. How’s that?’

  ‘Fine, but don’t leave it too long.’

  Oh, but it does feel good to be wanted. Besides which, I really wasn’t sure how long I could bear another morning of having to deal with a troop of spoilt, demanding café brats, and I’m talking here about the mothers.

  Turning to Max, I joyfully exclaimed, ‘Maxy, I have a strange feeling.’

  ‘What, Mum?’

  ‘That things can only get better. OK, kid, race you to the bottom of the hill.’

  Off we sprinted and this time I didn’t l
et him win.

  REVIEWING THE SITUATION

  Friday night and I was on a slow saunter home from visiting comedian Joe and Dina, now the proud parents of a seven-pound baby girl.

  ‘So are you going to do it?’ Joe asked, alluding to the end-of-the-comedy-course, five-minute gig.

  I wasn’t convinced I had the nerve.

  ‘Nah, it’s been fun but –’

  ‘What do you have to lose? Worst-case scenario you fall on your face.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m used to falling.’

  ‘I’ll help with your material.’

  ‘Promise?’

  Me, a stand-up comic? Hell, I’d give it a go, nothing ventured . . . I let my mind spin different scenarios as I turned the corner into my street. In this cloistered world of my own, I bathed in the sound of applause, laughter and adulation. Then, but steps away from the apartment, a guy suddenly stumbled out of the shadows, grabbed my shoulder and stopped me in my tracks.

  The Brodsky touch!

  Just when I was feeling confident again, only to turn the corner and be mugged. Hey, and there’s a joke in there somewhere.

  So this was it then, to be assaulted but seconds from safety. My lower jaw dropped open, ready to emit a screech, but nothing came out. My fight or flee mechanism failed to kick in and I froze on the spot, as an icy fear enveloped me.

  Christ, and destined to happen on this of all nights. I mean how did the geezer know I was carrying my wages on me?