The Honey Trap

by Lana Citron

  Nadia dropped by to ask for a favour, hyper with excitement. Her whole life was on one big upward turn. There at the gig, unbeknownst to her, was an A & R man lurking in the shadows. He had listened well and then called her, wanting to set up a meeting.

  Down on her knees, she begged, ‘Issy, please, please, will you do my shift tonight?’

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ but on the condition that, when she became very famous, she would invite me to all the swell parties.

  ‘Course I will.’

  ‘Can I have it in writing?’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘It’s just, fame has a way of changing people.’

  ‘What are you like?’

  A hairball of pent-up frustrations, though beginning to unwind on sweet thoughts of the American.

  ‘I may have met a man, Nadia.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The son of the finger woman.’

  ‘Is he cute?’

  ‘Dreamy. He’s intelligent, good-looking . . .’

  And just when I was about to launch into a poetic spiel worthy of my newfound crush, Nadia interrupted the flow with, ‘Omigod, I forgot to tell you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know Trisha has been acting kinda odd lately?’

  ‘Like yeah . . . though I thought she just had it in for me.’

  ‘Listen to this.’

  Nadia, on her way into the office, had come to a halt outside the door on hearing raised voices from within. The voices belonging to Fiona and Trisha.

  The latter shouting, ‘I can’t take this any more, it’s over.’

  The former replying, in words to the effect, ‘One more chance, please, just one more chance?’

  ‘Fiona, I’ve tried, I . . .’

  ‘Please, Trisha, don’t go . . . we can talk about it.’

  ‘I’m sick of talking.’

  The door had swung open, revealing an embarrassed Nadia.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. How long have you been outside?’

  Before Nadia could even reply, Trisha had stormed off in the foulest of tempers.

  ‘Fiona was snivelling into a hanky. I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Christ, do you think those two are together?’

  ‘It looked like it.’

  We both imagined the scenario, then in unison squealed like a pair of school-girls, ‘Gross.’

  Trisha and Fiona – who’d have thought? I’d always suspected Trisha was a lesbian but Fiona was an in-betweener.

  ‘I wonder how long it’s been going on.’

  ‘It could be ages.’

  ‘Fiona could even be the father of Trisha’s children.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Possible.’

  ‘Scary.’

  I know some women get a kick out of emasculating their men, but to have him change sex? The lengths people go in the name of love – it never ceases to amaze. Take Mrs Dodd, for example.

  TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

  Once upon a time, though not so long ago, a woman called Betty decided to test the love of her husband. At the age of twenty-one, Betty had married her childhood sweetheart, a lorry driver called Ron, who was faithful to her in every way. Rarely did they fight and, if they did, they made up almost immediately. He was kind, considerate, respectful, a loving husband and good father to their three children.

  Together they led a charmed life. Betty had little to worry about. However, when her youngest started primary school, Betty found herself with time on her hands. Too keep herself busy, she took up gardening.

  One day, when she was tending her herbaceous border, her neighbour, a bitter, twisted woman called Vera, popped her head over the garden fence and upon exchanging a few words, offered Betty a packet of fast-growing seeds called Doubtus Insecuritus. In truth, she poisoned Betty’s simple mind with ill thoughts of falsehoods and deceit.

  ‘A lorry driver! Well, you’re a brave woman,’ sneered Vera.

  ‘How so?’ replied the naive Betty.

  ‘Away from home every other night – who knows where he may be parking his lorry.’

  Vera qualified her statement with outlandish tales of dastardly philandering truck drivers and loose women.

  To make matters worse Vera called by the next morning with disturbing news. A curvaceous and licentious woman had moved into the house three doors down from her. A woman with red hair and four children born of four different fathers.

  ‘You’d want to watch her,’ warned Vera. ‘Reeks of trouble.’

  Not three weeks had passed when Betty, on her way home from the butcher’s, noticed her husband’s lorry parked outside their house.

  ‘Strange he should be home so early,’ she pondered, but she was happy nonetheless and imagined how they could spend the afternoon together.

  However, her joy was shortlived when she caught sight of him strolling out of their new neighbour’s house, carrying his tool box.

  ‘What, in the name of God, have you been up to?’ Betty demanded.

  ‘Just helping out our new neighbour,’ explained Ron matter-of-factly.

  ‘Doing what exactly?’ demanded Betty.

  ‘The woman had a flood on her hands, of biblical proportions. She was in a right old state.’

  ‘So you sorted her out, did you?’

  ‘Course I did, Betty.’

  ‘Being neighbourly, were you?’

  ‘Course I was, Betty.’

  Poor Betty – for the seeds sown had taken hold, and were destroying all the good in her. Racked by such destructive feelings and encouraged by her confidante Vera, she arranged through the Honey Trap to test her husband’s faithfulness. Vera suggested to her husband Phil that he ask Ron out for a few bevvies with the boys and a trip to the dogs.

  To the dogs indeed.

  Ron, having no interest whatsoever in greyhound racing, reluctantly agreed to go.

  Vera and Betty would follow on incognito.

  HELL HATH NO FURY

  She was a woman scorned and I her target.

  Poor Ron, I’d cornered him, claiming I was a niece of an old friend of Phil’s. It was a set-up – what more can I say? Out of politeness Ron did listen to me prattle on till Betty, flushed with rage, came screaming through the crowd, swearing and spitting, pushing Ron this way and that, and then smacked me in the face with a closed fist.

  WHOA, BLACK BETTY, NAH NAH NAH.

  ‘I’m going to kill her,’ I blubbered.

  Maria was wrapping ice cubes in a tea towel, ready to apply to my left eye, which was now all the colours of the rainbow.

  I’d stood in complete shock as Betty’s hand, in slow motion, inched its way directly towards my face, her fat pudgy fingers adorned with rings. Her mouth open wide, swear words cascading forth. Vera, at her side, arms folded defiantly, egging her on.

  Ron, saintly soul that he was, had gasped, ‘No, Betty, don’t!’ and he having just told me what a wonderful woman his wife was.

  Came to a total standstill, as if I’d fled my own skin and spirit scarpered. Next thing I knew, I’d been bundled into a cab and was on my way home.

  ‘He was meant to be Nadia’s dick,’ I wailed.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Maria cooed, doing her best to calm me down.

  The shock was subsiding and the realisation rising of how very vulnerable I was. If anything should happen to me, who would look after Max? Thoughts from the back of my mind rushed forth. I should write a will, insure myself against a worst-case scenario.

  ‘Maria, I don’t get it – everything is going wrong.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, stop worrying. It’s not as bad as it looks.’

  What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  It really couldn’t look any worse.

  Maria dabbed my eye and I noticed something different about her.

  ‘Maria, are you wearing lipstick?’

  ‘It’s quite nice, no?’

  FREAK ON FREAK

  Two freaks on a windy morning. />
  FREAK ONE: What the hell happened?

  FREAK TWO: What does it look like? (Pause, then deadpan) I got into a fight.

  FREAK ONE: Did you win?

  FREAK TWO: No.

  FREAK ONE: Better luck next time.

  FREAK TWO: Thanks. How did your brain-haemorrhage operation go?

  FREAK ONE: What brain-haemorrhage operation?

  FREAK TWO: The one you were in hospital for. (God bless, but he must have lost a portion of his cranial matter.)

  FREAK ONE: You thought I had a –

  FREAK TWO: Yeah, all those migraines you were having.

  FREAK ONE: No, I fell, knocked myself out. I was changing a bulb, got an electric shock, lost my footing on the ladder and was flung six feet downwards. I cracked my skull.

  FREAK TWO: That’s a relief, I thought you’d nearly died.

  FREAK ONE: I did nearly die.

  (FREAK ONE rubs his bandaged head while FREAK TWO deftly touches her swollen bruised shiner of a black eye.

  FREAK TWO pushes her key into her door latch.)

  FREAK TWO: Well . . . take care.

  FREAK ONE: Yeah . . . you too.

  MY PROTECTOR

  ‘What happened, Mummy?’ Max asked, prodding the swollen skin. ‘You look horrible.’

  ‘It was an accident. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Who did it, Mum? Tell me, I won’t be angry.’

  This is exactly what I said when he came back from nursery with a scratched face and pinch-sized bruises on his arm.

  ‘A woman hit me by mistake.’

  ‘Not nice,’ he said, and then asked in the sweetest tone of voice, ‘Do you want me to kill her?’

  My little protector, hunter, always running ahead of me and into everything, his curiosity knowing no bounds. From the moment Max could walk, he was picking up sticks to wave at passing prey, though in the main he’d chase birds and squirrels.

  THE WAY I SEE IT

  Through one eye, and feeling like a battered wife, having received more attention from passing strangers than in God knows how long, I made my feelings clear to Trisha.

  ‘We should sue the bitch.’

  Trisha scratched her chin.

  ‘I wish it was that easy. I received a fax from Betty’s solicitor today, saying they were going to sue us.’

  I was incredulous.

  ‘What? The woman attacked me. Is she totally crazy?’

  ‘Apparently, there’s some archaic trade law that we may be in contempt of.’

  ‘What!’

  Trisha began reading the faxed statement.

  ‘“My client’s husband was unfairly tempted, as the woman in question was considered too attractive, the likelihood being that most heterosexual males would find it difficult to fend off such advances.”’

  ‘That’s absurd. It’s total bullshit as well.’

  ‘I know.’

  (I let Trisha’s underhand insult go.)

  ‘But if it goes to court, we could be threatened with closure.’

  ‘What about our satisfied clients?’

  ‘They’re all going through costly divorces, and don’t want to get involved.’

  ‘So I’m not going to be compensated.’

  ‘Issy, did you hear what I said? We could have to close.’

  ‘You can’t friggin’ well blame me for this.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘Makes a nice change.’

  Trisha and I were caught in a moment of stalemate.

  ‘Issy, as you won’t be able to work till your eye heals, Fiona and I have decided you can make up the hours running the office. This place needs a thorough spring clean.’

  ‘And there I was, thinking I’d be granted sick leave.’

  ‘Hazard of the job, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Does it say that in the fine print?’ This woman was pushing me to the limit. ‘Know what, Trisha, maybe I should call a solicitor.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘What the fuck is your problem?’

  ‘And another thing, have you called Mrs Finklestein yet?’

  Pronounced pincer digit movements and Gladys’s voice on speaker phone, for the benefit of mein Führer, Trisha.

  ‘Hello, you’ve reached the Finklesteins. Sorry, but we’re unable to answer your call. For the next couple of months we’re in Florida . . .’ Her voice abruptly changed tone as she groaned, ‘What, Joel?’ the message interrupted by background grumbling, then, ‘What date?’ More grumbling then, ‘You think you should do it? You do it . . . if you’re so . . .’ Beeeeeeeeep.

  God damn it and heavens to Murgatroyd, I left the following message:

  ‘Hi, Gladys. It’s Issy here from the Honey Trap returning your call. Please can you call me when you get this message. Thanks.’

  A cold-war silence descended between Trisha and me, lasting an hour until Nadia flounced into the office, whereupon she gave me some much-needed attention.

  ‘Omigod, Issy! You look awful.’

  I told her the story of the eye, in full goryfied detail, elaborating upon reality by adding in some hair-pulling and then ending the horrifying episode with:

  ‘A hazard of the job, apparently.’

  ‘Thank God, it wasn’t me,’ she squealed. ‘But you’ll never guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We just got another gig and some studio time.’

  SURPRISE, SURPRISE

  Max made me a get-well card. He can draw an almost decipherable face, a lopsided circle with two inner eye circles, a circle for a nose and a wonky line for a mouth. Pretty good likeness, considering my present state.

  Then at home further delights lay in store: a blinking answerphone, a rare occurrence these days. Pressed play and was rapt by the dulcet tones of Stephan asking if I was free on Friday, for dinner.

  A Date

  Was I free

  Yes Yes Yes

  As a bird

  But

  Fuck

  Hideous eye eye eye

  Another time

  See, I’d called him straight back.

  ‘I’m leaving on Saturday for the States. Don’t worry if you can’t make it.’

  ‘I’d love to but . . .’

  I ran through the eye saga.

  ‘So I should book somewhere dark and atmospheric.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Dug his sense of humour. Ha Ha Ha.

  ‘Pick you up at eight?’

  ‘Great.’

  Dearest Almighty God,

  Me again! First off, can I just say how amazing you’ve been to me recently. I still have my job and my neighbour is alive. Thank you so much, I really do appreciate it. I have been trying to be a better person, and, well, actually, the other day, I did my friend a big favour by working her shift but, as a result, I now have a swollen bruised eye. I realise in the scheme of things this isn’t such a big deal, but I also have a date this coming Friday. My first proper date in an embarrassingly long time. So I guess what I’m trying to say is – God, can you fix it for me? Please? I mean I know beauty is only meant to be skin deep, but the date in question is with a man. So let’s be realistic here. God, make me better.

  Thanks for listening,

  Issy.

  DISTRACTED BY THOUGHTS OF STEPHAN, TWIDDLING THUMBS (oh yeah, baby – just there) AND ABUSIVE MALES (harder . . .).

  Just for the record, I hate filing (Stephan pressing his lush lips against mine in a passionate embrace). The office system had almost reached meltdown. With the best of intentions I took everything out, had a good old rummage (mmmmmm . . .) and then ended (astride Stephan, his hands gripping my breasts as I . . .) putting everything back exactly as was.

  Trisha was much impressed with my apparent diligence. We were back on monosyllabic speaking terms, until, that is, a near hysterical (aghh, Jesus, this feels good . . .) Mrs Bob Thornton called saying (no no, hold back . . . then shifting position to take him . . .) she was going out of her m
ind, having found yet another email, though (he lifts me and kisses me, bears his full weight down upon me and together in perfect harmony . . .) in the trash can, i.e. not sent.

  Trisha calmed her down and told her to send it through. The email read: (post-coital sweet nothings) ‘Trixi bitch, I hate you after what happened. You’re just one big prick-tease. Slag.’

  ‘So it seems Bob was at the gig?’

  Bob was hanging round my neck, like a loose noose, and what with the eye, the impending date, the gathering emotions, I flipped. Near hysterical breaking point.

  I screeched, ‘He wasn’t at the gig, Trisha. He wasn’t there. Ask anyone, ask Nadia.’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  ‘It was your case to begin with. I was only meant to be helping out.’

  ‘OK, I hear you, I’ll sort it out. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  I was shocked by her conciliatory stance. I was shocked by my emotional outpouring. Sooner or later it was bound to happen. The truth would out and I’d lose my job but now, what with the threat of closure looming, I was hanging in there for a decent redundancy.

  CALL ME RELLY, CINDER RELLY

  Dreamy Stephan sat opposite me at a corner table, lights dim. The swelling of my eye had subsided, but the bruising hadn’t. It was camouflaged beneath layers of delicately applied foundation. So much for keeping the faith. Nadia turned up at mine to babysit – a favour returned – and I had until 1 a.m. to seduce this man and get him between my sheets.

  Mid-course in a Primrose Hill restaurant and he was much amused by my job. Was I cool, relaxed? Not on your nelly. Jesus, but my stomach was in rag order, could feel my tummy-control knickers biting, was sweating pig-fashion and gulping back as much red vino as possible. Also made the fatal mistake of ordering a garlic-saturated starter.

  Nervous in case the eye put him off, I, casual as possible, spent most of the evening with the left side of my face in the palm of my left hand. Man, I was so out of practice: dick dates were nothing in comparison to this.

  Stephan was dressed in a crisp white shirt and blue jeans, having just taken off a black jumper. I was sucking up whiffs of his deodorant, imagining his broad chest beneath, the type you could lick, tongue nudging into each and every crevice.