by Lana Citron
She explained, ‘Jonathan is of a generation where being emotional or opening oneself up is considered to be unmanly.’
‘OK, so he’s anywhere between twenty and eighty.’
Not a bit of it, he was a fifty-three-year-old solicitor. A mild-mannered, well-turned-out, well, gentleman. My mission was to tail him for a few days. He had been working late, a lot. Same old, same old, but you can never be certain, a lesson learnt on one of my early assignments.
FLASHBACK TO: WHEN FIRST IMPRESSIONS DON’T COUNT
I’d thought it was a clear enough case, having espied my dick verbally canoodling with another woman. Let’s call him D, ’cause I can’t remember his name. He had a suit job and I would loiter outside the firm and then tiptoe in his shadow, watching his every move.
One evening, after leaving his office in the City, he took a slow stroll from Fenchurch Street over the river to Waterloo, a good couple of miles, only to end up in the Goose and Fox, a non-descript working man’s pub. He hadn’t clocked me – after all, I was clad in black (mama mia, mama mia!). I waited outside for a while before entering. When I did, he was with a young woman. They sat at corner table chatting, and it was clear to me that this meeting had been prearranged. I noticed how he touched her hand, how he leant in to catch her words. She played with her hair and would look directly into his eyes: there was definitely something between them.
What else but a young mistress? Chuffed with my detecting skills, I assumed I had the case wrapped up.
D’s wife came by the office the following day and I broke the news to her as gently as I could.
‘Is she pretty?’ she sniffled.
‘Not a minger but she’ll never be a model.’
‘And thin?’
‘Not a grosser, size twelve-ish?’
Unfortunately his wife was a good size eighteen.
‘And . . . and how old?’
‘Much younger than you. Twenty-five or thereabouts.’
She began sobbing, deep, throaty, heartachy sobs.
I really felt for her and asked Trisha to take over. Trisha does empathy and compassion so much better than I do. Guess it’s because she’s a divorcee and could relate more.
Anyhow, it turned out I’d misconstrued the whole scenario. The woman was his daughter, the result of a fleeting affair with his landlady, a year or so before D had met his wife. Having had no prior knowledge of her existence, to his credit he welcomed her into his life. And so did his wife. It was a rare case for the Trap, in that it had a happy and humanly uplifting outcome.
This experience taught me not to be so presumptuous and eager to jump to conclusions. Reality doesn’t always match one’s rational logic. All of us are apt to prejudge: being a single mum is a prime example. When pregnant with Max I thought how cool, what an adventure. I had no negative feelings about doing it solo. It was quite a shock to learn that having a child alone does not garner you with social kudos, the stereotype being a young woman, strung out, benefit-dependent, of loose morals, uneducated, who spends her days in front of the TV, dreaming of being on Jerry Springer.
STILL WAITING
The past couple of hours had been spent at the Church of the Holy Trinity, Brompton. Not for the benefit of my soul, I hasten to add. It was mission work. Jonathan Taylor’s nocturnal wanderings were restricted to a brisk stroll from his office to the nearest praying house on the Brompton Road. There he would stay for the evening service. It was all very tedious. I remained outside, on the steps of the church, dressed as a Romanian gypsy. It worked a treat, I was conspicuously inconspicuous and even managed to make a bit of money. However, when the real McCoy turned up, I’d had to abandon the pitch. So having shivered my arse off, I then tubed it home only to find –
SANTA MARIA AND GOD GIVE ME STRENGTH
Outside the flat, I screeched to a halt and rubbed my eyes in disbelief.
In plain view (hadn’t yet got it together to replace the net curtains, top of the list for the past few weeks) where anyone could have seen them, were – get this – Maria and Bambuss. Yep, the babysitter and detective were sitting on my sofa and he, our very own cor-blimey Columbo, was gingerly kissing the tips of her fingers. The tips of her fingers! I noted a bottle of wine on the coffee table.
Come again.
Listening to the friggin’ Fugees – hadn’t played that CD for ages – and then he made his move, went for the lunge.
One time . . .
An outrage, I tell you. I wasn’t having that.
Two time . . .
Oh for Chrissakes.
And who’d have thought?
Their lips within millimetres of touching.
I surveyed this tender moment, grossed out yet voyeuristically captivated. Hands cupped as binoculars, pressed close to the glass, the gravel giving way, bush rustling, and then, the siren shriek from Maria when she glimpsed me Tom-peeping. Next thing, she was reeling off a list of saints I’d never heard of, and Bambuss jumped up, as if ready to balance out my bruises.
‘It’s me,’ I yelped.
‘Issy! What you doing?’
Excuse me? I could well have asked the same of them.
Three sets of eyes sent pinball-whizzing. I didn’t know where to look, didn’t know what to say.
Maria gulped and mouthed, ‘You gave us such a fright.’
Likewise.
‘The Detective and I . . . We were just . . .’
I raised a flattened palm. After all, we were all adults.
‘Issy, you back early. I didn’t expect you,’ gasped Maria.
‘Clearly,’ I countered.
She was in a right old fluster, puffing up the cushions, while Bambuss pulled on his navy double-breasted blazer and then had the audacity to say, ‘Taken to begging, Ms Brodsky? I could arrest you for that.’
Very funny . . . Not. I threw him a stinker of a look. Besides I was truly miffed that I was the only one to have not yet got my leg over on my own sofa. I mean why the hell was he in my apartment in the first place? I’d made it clear to Maria that boyfriends weren’t welcome.
He left shortly after, though not before thanking me for the missing finger. Better late than never.
‘So how’s the case going? Caught the culprits yet, Detective?’ I queried.
‘Let’s just say we’re following up on some interesting leads.’
‘Hmm, well, do keep me informed. In times such as these it would be novel to see justice done.’
THE LITTLE MINX
Maria put on the kettle and we settled ourselves down to a little inquisitioning.
Arms crossed and eyebrows raised, I demanded a full explanation.
She duly complied.
‘He knock at the door, and I say you working and he say, I want company?’ (What a smooth operator.) ‘Issy, sorry if you are disappointed in me.’
Disappointed? I was jealous.
‘Maria, exactly how long has this been going on?’
‘Nothing is going on!’
‘Not from where I was standing.’
‘I swear, it was first time. My stomach so full of butterflies, I thought I’d burp one out.’
‘Oh my God, tell me, tell me, spare no details.’
‘Issy, we talk about everything, everything, and then he say . . .’
‘What?’
‘He say, I think you beautiful.’
‘Me?’
‘No. Me.’
‘That’s so romantic.’
Come to think of it Stephan hadn’t said anything like that to me.
‘And then he took my hand and . . .’
And all the while I looked at Maria thinking Max had a point, as she, at that very moment, was seventeen and fifty.
ME? UP TO NINETY
Having watched Maria whizz off into the night, so visibly glowing that she outshone her reflector belt, I realised anything was possible. I mean, she and Bambuss, though not exactly over the hill, were teetering on the summit, and well, there I was in the very prime of my
life.
Yep, a prime time to call Stephan. Seize the moment and all that, ’cause in truth I’d been dithering, waiting for the right time, mood, astrological line-up. Jeez, maybe he’d forgotten me. Yeah, definitely time to remind him of my existence.
‘That’s right, Stephan Bloch.’
‘Hold the line, please.’
Dum dum twiddly dee.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Brodsky, but his line is occupied.’
Shit, and this was after my fifth attempt and two glasses of wine.
‘Look, it’s important I speak to him – does he have voicemail?’
‘Would you like me to put you through to his personal assistant?’
Now, she offers me his assistant. I mean it wasn’t like I was selling double glazing.
‘This is Stacy. How can I help?’
His PA sounded hyper-efficient, terribly busy, and this made me nervous.
‘Oh hi . . . I’m Issy Brodsky, a friend of Stephan’s. I’m calling from London and was wondering if you could put me through to him.’
‘Stephan’s out. May I take a message?’
‘Well, it’s quite important. It’s of a personal nature. I was hoping to speak to him directly.’
‘Would you like me to take a message or not?’
‘OK . . . could you say that I have vital news regarding his dead mother’s finger and could he give me a call as soon as he gets this message.’
‘What’s your number?’
‘He has it.’
‘In case he doesn’t.’
Hark at Miss Snooty, so direct and to the point and someone I never wish to meet face to face. She made me feel I was taking up valuable telephone-line time.
‘So, you’ll tell him it’s really important?’
‘Yes.’
‘And can you emphasise the really?’
‘Thanks for your call.’
‘Oh, OK, well –’
She cut me off in mid-flow.
WHERE WAS I?
Deep in pending and if there’s one thing I hate it’s when people say they’ll call and don’t. Worse still is the fact you know the call ain’t going to come but harbour a smidgen of hope. I hate smidgens of hope, so disappointing and slight.
So very disappointing.
Stephan never got back to me, and forty-eight hours later, my mind was spiralling. I highly suspected Stacy hadn’t passed on the message. Probably fancied him herself. Christ, maybe they were having an affair, maybe they were doing it over the desk when I rang.
I kept busy, anything to distract myself, and indulged in some long-overdue spring cleaning. There I was, going through my young man’s wardrobe and filling bags bound for the charity shops. Ah bless, but don’t they grow so quick! Rummaging through his pants drawer I was discarding his Bob the Builder ones, as he now favoured Spiderman. So enthralled was he with his new kacks that he’d taken to wearing four pairs at the same time.
Fiona Apple was blasting in my eardrums, me being so in the mood for some female angst. I’d already given away most of Max’s baby stuff, like the cot, pram, baby bath, crib. It had been a poignant moment, acknowledging that the likelihood of having another child in the near future was slim. I’d gone through a phase of wondering why women bothered to have children, considering the sacrifices one has to make. I’m unconvinced women can have it all: the man, the career, the kids. Something’s got to give. Unless of course they’re wealthy enough to have full-time nannies.
Being a special agent and looking after Max, I really don’t see how I could ever find the time to fit in a decent relationship.
Yeah right. Who am I trying to kid?
And as for having another?
The fact is nature pulls so damn hard. I swear it’s primal. The internal egg timer just keeps on running. I’ve already made a note in my diary that when I hit thirty-six I should get a few eggs frozen. When Max turned two, my body was ready to go at it again. Mid-cycle was hell – it was as if my insides were rebelling against me for not giving them what they desired. OK, so I’m not exactly an earth-mother type, but I concede there are times when I’d love another little being to nurture. Such moments are, however, transient. The thought of having to go through the whole baby thing again is wholly unappealing. All that selfless giving has severely depleted my coo factor. On sighting a newborn, I tend towards the ‘Aghhh!’ rather than the ‘Awwww . . .’.
Damn, why hadn’t Stephan returned my call?
I was tempted to take a break from my chores and dial again, but held myself back.
I could do aloof.
Besides, it was the middle of the night in La La Land, as the security guard kindly informed me.
Duh, did I feel stupid.
OK, so I could do aloof, if I tried really hard.
Distracting myself was proving rather difficult. God damn it, but why didn’t the phone just ring?
And on that note it did.
Power of positive thought, hey – but how wrong could I be?
‘Hello, may I speak to Issy Brodsky?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Hi there, it’s Julia from the nursery office. Now don’t get alarmed but Max has had an accident.’
‘Oh my God. Is he OK?’
‘He’s fine, but –’
‘What happened?’
‘Really, he’s fine.’
The call every mother dreads. The thought of my boy being in pain is excruciating.
Julia continued in her sing-song voice.
‘It seems . . .’
(I hate such words, so very vague.)
‘It appears he was playing with another child when a fight broke out over a ball, and the other child hit Max on the face. He’s had a nose bleed and as it bled for quite a while, we’re a little concerned and think maybe you should have him checked out in Casualty.’
‘What? Who did it?’
‘It was one of the other children.’
The nursery adheres to a strict policy of not giving out the assailant’s name, in case distraught mothers seek revenge.
‘What was he hit with?’
‘A wooden toy car.’
‘Christ . . . I’ll be there as fast as I can.’
Poor Maxy. I raced to the nursery, swift as my legs could carry me, guilting about leaving him prey to other people’s fucked-up kids. It truly grates that he should have to suffer for another child’s psychological problems. What’s worse was that I knew who the kid was, ’cause Max had been coming home with bruises galore of late and had been bitten. You do your best to arm them with confidence and then some little vomit knocks it out of them. And I know it’s the way of the world, but . . .
CONFESSION
I am a victim/survivor of a biter. Yes, it’s true. I can remember, even after twenty-five years, being led into the toilets by a certain girl and allowing her free access to my four-year-old arm, to munch on. It wasn’t a one-off, indeed it became a sort of ritual. I can’t recall when it ended – maybe it coincided with an outbreak of warts on my inner elbow. In retrospect that sounds about right. Jesus, and come to think of it, maybe it was she who had given them to me in the first place.
‘Max!’
He was sitting in the corner, quietly reading a book.
‘Max, what happened?’
When he saw me he started to cry. I lifted him up into my arms and covered him in kisses.
‘Are you OK?’
His nose was swollen and there was a gash across his cheek.
‘What happened, Maxy?’
The teacher regarded me sympathetically, pushed an accident form into my hand, then started on about the incident with the other ‘child’, but Max set her straight.
‘I was playing with the ball and David’ (Aha, I was right) ‘wanted it. I said no, and he said you’re a donkey head and hit me with the car.’
I could see David in the corner and so wanted to fling it straight at him but . . .
‘That’s a nasty thing to do. Did he say sorry?’
With friends like those . . . and the worst thing was, Max appeared more upset about David not being his friend than about his sore face.
‘These things happen,’ smiled the teacher inanely.
‘Yeah . . . whatever,’ I replied.
We sweated it out in Casualty. No bones broken, so it was fine, but I bore a grudge and mentally struck through David’s name on the list for Max’s next birthday party.
MY REAWAKENING
Spring sprang upon us and flowers peeped shyly out of the hard soil before being plucked to death by Max. There seemed to be a universal sigh of relief as light flooded our afternoons, stretching the days out. The grey backdrop of the city changed to light-grey and everyone appeared uplifted in spirit. Everyone that is, except Mrs Taylor.
After two weeks of tailing Jonathan (the religious freak), I’d come to the conclusion that he may well have been suffering a personal crisis or a spiritual reawakening but he wasn’t seeing anyone.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ his wife sighed, her lip scrunched up tight at one side.
‘I can assure you, Mrs Taylor, every evening was spent deep in prayer. I witnessed him with my own eyes.’
‘Then why, Magdalena’ (my aptly chosen name for this mission) ‘has he asked me for a divorce?’
My answer was I hadn’t a clue.
‘Magdalena, he’s in love with someone else.’
‘God.’
I shook my head in genuine disbelief.
‘I don’t require flippant sympathy.’
‘No, I mean he must be in love with God. So I guess the one thing you have in your favour is that you exist . . . tangibly, I mean.’
‘Magdalena.’ She regarded me with an overly large amount of disdain. ‘No, you see, he’s in love with his junior partner.’
It transpired they’d been having an affair for three years. She too was married, which meant their activities were restricted to between nine and five. (Phew, at least that was me off the hook.)
‘Jonathan said he was finding it intolerable to live with himself, and me, and now wants to marry her.’