by Lana Citron
‘Sorry, what were you saying?’
‘I was going through Sarah’s personal stuff.’
‘Oh Christ, don’t tell me you found your mother’s vibrator?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Was that a joke?’
‘A feeble attempt.’
Wince, wince.
‘No, I was wondering what I should do with it all.’
‘Give it to charity, I suppose.’
‘There’s so much, it’s overwhelming.’
‘I’ll help you go through it, if you want.’
‘You would?’
‘Sure.’
The waiter arrived with our main courses, and as we tucked in Stephan continued on the same theme.
‘There seems to be so much organising to do. How do you dispose of a grand piano?’
‘Maybe donate it to a music school or any school.’
‘Great idea. I put her apartment up for sale today. I’ll have to return to deal with all of this.’
Ohh . . . so he was going to come back.
Thus there was the possibility of a long-distance love affair: how romantic. I gushed, excused myself and went to the toilet.
It was half-eleven by the time we’d finished our coffees. I was tipsy and merry, my confidence alcoholically bolstered, but the undeniable fact was we hit it off. I was getting that good-vibe thing, and we linked arms, zigzagging the short distance back home.
His apartment approached first and we paused outside the door.
I played the man.
‘Can I walk you to your door?’
And further . . . if I play my cards right.
‘You’re one funny lady,’ he said, pulling me close into him.
‘Funny ha ha or funny weird?’
‘Bit of both. Want to come inside?’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’
See, we were on the same wavelength.
RESULT
We were making out. It was a quarter to one and he’d only just touched first base, due to getting waylaid by a whisky or two – error in retrospect – leaving a mere ten minutes to make a home run and relieve Nadia. Second base. I so needed this, my eyes rolling in their sockets, fingers on his zipper . . . Hey, come out, come out, wherever you are. Aha, got you. Doing my utmost to coax him further, and then at the strike of one, the bells ringing out, there I was crying, ‘Come on, get a friggin’ move on, I’m running out of time here.’
OK, so it was the wrong thing to say. Put it like this: Stephan didn’t respond so well under pressure.
ONE DEFLATED EGO AND I
Just my friggin’ luck. Two people steeped in embarrassment. Reality always falls short of fantasy.
Pissed off and pulling my clothes back on.
‘Great!’
‘I swear that’s never happened before.’
‘Yeah, right, and don’t go blaming it on my hideous eye.’
‘Come to think of it, it was kinda offputting.’
‘Stephan, I really have to go.’
‘We could always go back to your place.’
‘Max is there, he’s bound to come in . . .’
‘Guess I got to be up at five. Got an early flight to catch.’
He was trying to make light of a shite situation, which induced instant sobriety, and the realisation that we were two people who hardly knew each other.
Politeness descended.
‘Better luck next time, hey?’
He walked me downstairs and out on to the street.
‘Thanks for tonight, Stephan. Pity it had to end so abruptly.’
‘I’ll be back in a month or so.’
A rushed kiss, one last smackeroony, and then he waved me off as I, with my lower half aching so bad, dragged myself home.
Of course Nadia saw the funny side of things.
‘Why didn’t you ring – you could have stayed out longer. There’s a really good movie on.’
What? But! Whimper, whimper.
There was no way I could go back for seconds – way too desperate. Even I have limits.
Nadia got out the emergency supplies, a tub of choco, double-fat-saturated, sad-singleton carton of ice-cream, while I rolled a spliff.
We pigged out, we smoked, she left and I went to bed.
I mean sometimes you gotta do things for yourself.
I was so sick of doing it for myself and then, interrupted, I heard the familiar plod, plod of Max on his nocturnal wanderings. I relish these nightly visits into my bed. My little time marker is growing way too fast and will, soon enough, find cuddling his mum a gross turn-off. That’s the way it is, I suppose, and by that time my hair will have turned grey and my fanny caved in.
Harbouring such thoughts, I sobbed into my pillow.
The ‘Woe is me’ floodgates opened.
I’d probably have to go back to counselling.
PINK PUFFERY
Then I heard this small voice whispering through the darkness.
‘Are you OK, Mum?’
‘I’m a little sad.’
‘Why?’
‘Sometimes people get sad.’
‘Why?’
‘Can’t be happy all the time.’
‘Why?’
‘Things don’t always work out. Like that time when we went to the park playground and even though we’d only just arrived, the woman was closing it and you got really upset.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause it was winter and they close the playgrounds early. So we never got a chance to play.’
‘Mum, did you not get to play?’
‘Not for ages.’
‘You want a cuddle?’
My heart was disintegrating, and though I’m not one for romanticising motherhood, there are melting moments of bliss that sweep through you, a love that is staggering in its impact, phenomenal and fundamental.
In short, it’s the answer to the question why.
LIFE STINKS
Another Monday night at the Honey Trap.
Fiona caught me mid-yawn, feet up on the desk and listening to The Archers.
‘You look busy.’
What could I say, but, ‘I’ve already done the filing.’
She pointed to a pile of post I’d been ignoring. I sprung into envelope-opening action. I hadn’t seen her in a long time, not since the Bob episode. She’d put on a little weight, those sharp masculine edges rounding off.
It was deathly quiet, no new leads, no dicks pending, not even a Bob email to occupy me. Thus Fiona kindly set me a list of painful, irksome tasks to do, including updating her address book, sorting out the clothes in the emergency cupboard and checking stationery stock-levels.
Whilst I busied myself, she watched. When sufficiently bored, she put on her ‘Melanie Speaks’, an audio guide on how to talk like a female.
‘One word men use more than women is “want”. Men “want”. Women don’t “want”, they “like” things. They “would like” things.’
‘Fiona, don’t tell me you actually believe this,’ I smirked.
‘Shut up, it’s interesting.’
‘A guy will go to a fast-food restaurant and say, “I want a Big Mac.” Whereas a woman will go, “I’d like a small salad, please.”’
‘Fiona . . . it’s total rubbish.’
The male in her still dominant, she turned the volume up and totally ignored me.
‘Women can have moods . . .’
‘OK, that bit’s true.’
‘But they can’t have opinions. A man would say, “I’m going to do this,” whereas a woman would say, “I was thinking I ought to do this,” meaning, “I’m inclined to, but if you have any objections I’ll reconsider.” To feminise your voice stay away from assertive words, and use the “kind of, sort of” words.’
‘As if,’ I groaned, having a grand aversion to such stereotypical crapology.
Fiona switched off the machine.
‘OK, enough of this. Issy, d’you
want a coffee?’
‘Mmmm, I’d like a cup of tea.’
‘Have a coffee, don’t be so difficult.’
‘Oh all right then.’
‘Got you.’
She pointed her finger at me and burst into affected peals of girlish laughter.
I grimaced back at her, thankful the green light began blinking, and reached over to lift the receiver.
‘Hi, the Honey Trap, how can I help?’
‘Oh hello, er.’
My caller sounded nervous, a little bit anxious, all perfectly normal in the circumstances.
‘Mmmm you do . . . you er, test out . . . I mean set up . . .’
‘That’s right, madam. Are you considering using our service?’
‘My husband and I, we’ve been married fifteen years and I have a feeling, looking back on things, it’s struck me –’
‘He may be seeing someone else?’
‘Quite, but, to further complicate things, I think he may be gay.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘So I was wondering if you have any male decoys?’
‘Hold the line, please.’
This was a first.
I put her on hold and signalled to Fiona to take the call. I’m not sure what would be worse in the rejection stakes: discovering your husband was gay or that he was having an affair. It’s all too confusing – sometimes I reckon it won’t be long before we evolve into self-satisfying hermaphrodites. Either that or we’ll clone ourselves as the opposite gender.
Fiona took the call.
‘Unfortunately,’ she explained to the woman, ‘in this instance we won’t be able to help, but the Honey Trap is hoping to expand and cater to those precise requirements. If I could just take your number . . .’
The Honey Trap turning down work? Something weird was happening to Fiona. She handed me a coffee and sat back down.
‘I’m getting the snip, Issy, it’s official. The appointment has been made,’ she said, flicking through some letters.
‘I noticed your hair had grown.’
‘Issy, I’m having the chop.’
‘But short is more masculine. I think your hair suits you as it is.’
‘I am having my operation.’
‘What? Your operation?’
‘Yes, it’s imminent. Very shortly I will be as nature intended.’
‘Isn’t that kinda subverting reality?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Are you nervous?’
‘Issy, do you get that smell?’
‘Huh?’
I sniffed, nothing untoward unfurling in my direction.
‘I seem to have been followed by a bad smell all day. I thought it was the hormones I’m taking. They change your body odour.’ She was sniffing her pits. ‘No, it’s not me. I’m sure I smelt it over by the kitchen.’
‘I’ll check it out.’
Up I got and popped my head round into the kitchen.
‘Yeah, I get it now, but it’s coming from over here.’
A strange smell was emanating from the doorway, though not from outside. It seemed to be coming from the coat stand.
Nostrils flared as my nose approached the target.
Fiona’s beautiful coat hung draped off a peg.
The smell stemmed from the coat.
Or to be more specific from the hemline of the coat.
Oh dear Christ.
As it wasn’t caked in shit I had a feel and . . .
Remember the finger? It must have slipped through the lining and . . .
‘Fiona, I think I know what it is.’
‘What?’
‘I think something is rotting in the lining of your coat.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘When was the last time you wore it?’
‘Today’s the first time in ages.’
‘You mean ages, as in the night I borrowed it?’
‘Yeah, the night I opened the fridge and found the fing –’
We looked at each other; we looked at the coat.
Fiona started screaming.
‘Issy, get that damned coat out of here!’
‘What do you want me to do with it?’
‘Now!’ She was dry-retching. ‘To think I’ve spent the day walking round with a decaying human finger in my coat. Get it out.’
Of course after I extracted the finger, I had the coat dry-cleaned.
Fiona didn’t want it back after that. Looking at it only made her feel sick.
And that’s how I came to own the beautiful black coat.
TAKE TWO
Finding the decomposed finger unleashed within me a strange sense of optimism. The finger provided a means to several ends: the end of guilt on my part, having lost it in the first place. For Sarah, well, she could finally rest in one piece. For the investigation, it was a prime piece of evidence. And finally, I confess, it could aid my desire to conquer Mr America. I would call Stephan and triumphantly declare, ‘I found it, your mother’s finger!’ and he’d come post-haste over to my side. The abrupt ending of our last encounter would be forgotten, forgiven, glossed over, and we’d go at it like rampant rabbits. Oh yeah, almost forgot, and then he’d declare undying love, and we’d all live happily ever after.
Wishing my life away as Max does, convinced at present he is four and stretching his arms up over his head, to reinforce the point.
‘No, Max, you’re nearly four.’
‘I’m four.’
‘Nearly four.’
‘Three and four.’
‘You can’t be two ages at the same time.’
‘You can!’ he declared defiantly, ‘I’m three and four,’ before storming out of the kitchen and into the sitting room where he immersed himself in his current obsession, Bey Blades.
See, the business with Stephan niggled, and being female I took his failure to perform personally. I’d mulled over the scenario a zillion times. Had my eye really put him off? Had I been too pushy, forceful? Was my seduction technique due for a revamp? (I guess, in retrospect, ‘Sock it to me, big boy,’ is not the most seductive of mating calls.) Perhaps I should have played the girly card more? I tried to fantasise about us but ended up back at the same point. Deflated.
Sometimes I wonder if I couldn’t somehow manage to make a living out my neuroses. How perfect would that be? If I could just package all my anxieties and then offload them in a financially viable way.
‘Mum, are you listening?’
On the phone, having our ritual catch-up chat. Me, baring my soul to her and all she could do was scoff at my predicament.
‘Mother, can you be serious?’
‘Issy, I don’t know . . . do some performance art or something.’
‘What, don my black leotard and tights and express my emotions through movement?’
My mother and I were struck by the same mental image. Yes, we both remembered that painful moment. I was twelve, pudgy, and on the precipice of puberty – and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive her for allowing me to make such a colossal prat of myself. It was the school’s Christmas variety show, and I was naive and centre stage, dancing, or rather ‘physically emoting’, to . . . wait for it, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. The audience laughed. It wasn’t meant to be funny. I swear it was one of the most cruelly humiliating moments of my life. I fled the stage in a complete state of shock, only to be dragged on again to uproarious applause. Afterwards my mother consoled me, promising that by the next day everyone would have forgotten it.
My whole school career was blighted by that incident.
‘So what happened to the finger?’
‘Damn detective. I mean at the least you’d have thought he would have been grateful.’
When Fiona booted me out of the office, I’d handed the finger in to the police station. Bambuss wasn’t there, so I’d left it with the duty officer and that was that, no acknowledgement, no thank-you call, no nothing. So much for being the good citizen, for being a responsible, law-abiding, honest person
who pays their taxes, toes the line, keeps to the kerbside but in a middle-of-the-road sort of way.
‘Oh and Freddie sends you and Max his love.’
‘Sorry?’
‘He’s here at the minute.’
‘Christ, like he could have told me. How long has he been there?’
I could hear my brother grumbling in the background, pretending he was me.
‘He arrived last night, it was a spontaneous decision, and don’t be horrible to him.’ (Who, me?) ‘He’s feeling a bit down.’
‘Oh boo hoo, poor little lambikins.’
‘Issy!’
‘Well, make sure he brings me and Maxy back some good presents.’
Sod, wish I could jet off to sunny New Mexico at the drop of a mood.
WHERE’S THE PAYOFF?
God,
I have a complaint to make. I’m doing my best down here, and yes – I admit there was some personal satisfaction derived from finding the finger, a sense of achievement, but the fact is, I’m not wholly satisfied with my lot. There, I’ve said it. I have this feeling of being short-changed all the time, like I’m missing out on loads of things. Well, like having fun, for instance. OK, I’ll be more specific. The ability to lose myself in a moment, to not know what’s coming next. To find a sense of freedom within the boundaries of motherhood. All this routine stuff – it sometimes feels like I’m wading through the days. Oh yeah, and I haven’t had any of those flying dreams for an age.
Are you certain you’re looking out for me up there?
Issy.
UNDER SURVEILLANCE
Unbelievable as it may sound, the glamorous world of Honey-Trapping is not always what it’s cracked up to be. Many of the dicks I come across live up to the name and, of course, it’s not all bars, bistros and booze. A lot of the time is spent waiting, an activity I am not particularly good at.
My next mission was to test my capacity for boredom. His better half sought out our services because she was anxious (see, it’s not just me!). There was something amiss, probably not an affair, but something was definitely wrong.