by Lana Citron
‘I’m shocked, really. I don’t know what to say. How did you find out?’
‘He confessed.’
Hence the soul-searching. At least my work wasn’t completely in vain. I watched the tears well up in her eyes and motioned to Trisha to come over and rescue me.
Peeved to the nth, I couldn’t believe I kept getting landed with dud dicks. My scores on the board had gone into negative and Nadia won the monthly bonus yet again. Straight up I confronted Trisha and asked if there was a conspiracy against me.
‘No.’
Her abruptly negative reply, tinged with a certain amount of cynicism, wasn’t in my mind credible.
‘Yeah right, I know all about back-stabbing office politics.’
‘Issy, sometimes I feel really sorry for you,’ she snorted.
‘Thanks,’ I replied, ’cause this time the tone of her voice rang true.
BUT THE GOOD NEWS WAS . . .
Stephan called. Mr America done good. Never doubted he wouldn’t. Guess he was playing hard to get.
‘Issy, this a good time to talk?’
It was after midnight. The phone had pulled me back to consciousness.
‘Stephan?’
‘Sorry, I know it’s late.’
I yawned loudly.
‘I was asleep.’
‘You want me to call tomorrow?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
Besides which, I was awake.
‘I got your messages.’
Note, he said plural.
‘It wasn’t a social call,’ I blurted out, just so he wouldn’t think I was gagging.
‘Aw, shame, ’cause I’ve been thinking about you.’
‘What were you thinking?’
OK, so I was gagging.
‘Honestly?’
‘Yeah, I can take it.’
‘Well, I was thinking you’re a real sweet lady.’
What the fuck does that mean? Sweet as in insipid? As in little sister, as in yeah, she’s nice but I wouldn’t have a relationship with her?
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘Sure is.’
‘I like compliments.’
‘You have any for me?’
Wish I could have said yeah, you’re a great lay, but unfortunately I couldn’t. I did the next best thing and replaced his sweet with:
‘And there I was thinking what a nice man you are.’
‘Nice?’
‘Sweet?’
We were level-pegging and then he said, ‘What’s so urgent you rang ten times?’
‘Nine. I’ll show you my phone bill when you’re next in town.’
‘My assistant said it was really important.’
‘I found your mother’s finger.’
‘I know.’
‘You do?’
‘Uhuh. The fat detective told me. Issy, I have a favour to ask.’
‘Pray tell.’
As ever, I was open to suggestion. Oh, how I love to tease.
‘Remember, you said you wouldn’t mind helping me with Sarah’s stuff?’
‘Did I?’
OK, so where was this heading?
‘Well, I was wondering if you’d keep an eye on the apartment for me. I’d really appreciate it if you could pop in, put some fresh flowers in a vase, air the place, that sort of thing. I can wire you some money.’
Come again?
‘It would be a really great help. I’m hoping it will sell soon.’
‘Oh.’
‘Would you mind? And of course if there’s anything you want, feel free to have it.’
‘Like the grand piano?’
‘Maybe not the piano. I dunno, books, clothes, records. But please don’t feel obliged.’
‘Eh . . . OK.’
There I’d been hankering after a more romantic type of proposition.
‘Thanks, Issy, you’re a doll. I’ll call the estate agents, get them to give you a set of keys.’
Surely I would be doing a good deed in helping Stephan? Plus, it would further serve to impress the Almighty that I truly was on my way to becoming a better person, a giving person, and one deserving of finding a mate.
Stephan and Issy.
You must admit, our names went well together. Though I wondered why I pined after someone who lived across the Atlantic, and with whom previous experience had been so disappointing. Was it the challenge? The fact that it was so unlikely to work? His inaccessibility? No, none of it, to cut the pseudo analytical psychology, it was the sad fact there was no one else and life’s just so much more palatable when there is daydream fodder to mulch over.
COME THE REVOLUTION
I’d be out of there pronto – it’s the cowardly streak within. Since Max’s arrival, I’d only ever had skirmishes of the heart, nothing as substantial as a deep and meaningful relationship. For the first two years of his life it really wasn’t an issue, but now Max doesn’t depend on me so much, I have time to pursue the possibility. Working at the Honey Trap hasn’t helped either. All I witness are crap relationships, heavy with insecurity, inequality; ones where, to be frank, the woman is always the loser. The thought of trading in my independence for a life of continual compromise ain’t awe-inspiring. Still, what I’d give for a heart flutter, a little ping ping . . .
PLONK
Peter Branson was pouring me a glass of red. Yep, back at work and on another dick mission, with Nads. Peter was an accounts manager for an advertising company, thus socialising was a big part of his job. Soho House was the venue. Peter was easy to spot, being six foot two and sporting a trendy mullet.
We found him on the top floor, sitting with clients, all boys. It was easy to infiltrate the group. Nads and I, placed a little distance away, spent half an hour passing glances till we were asked to join their table. One guy latched on to Nadia real quick, a Frenchman who was very cute, and who, if the circumstances had been different, I wouldn’t have minded myself.
My job was to focus in on Peter. Early thirties, successful, he mentioned his wife every second sentence, which translated to me as a clear signal to back off. I marked him down as incorruptible. Here was a genuine good guy, a family man. We ended up talking about kids, and it was obvious he was mad about his own.
When I announced I was a single mum, his reaction was one of gracious admiration.
‘You’re brave. It’s hard enough with two parents.’
‘How does your wife cope?’
‘Poor thing, suffers dreadfully from post-natal depression.’
Cue for the conversation to open up. Nadia took centre stage, the men quizzing her about the band, which made me feel like the ugly mate, so I butted in with my Gonad joke. It fell flat and I finally had to admit it wasn’t funny. Though Peter did raise a corner of his upper lip, but only to let out a plosive burp.
By the third bottle of champagne, we’d turned to the topic of midriffs and pop singers. Yep, Nads was still under the spotlight and baring her flat honey tum. The guys all wanted a yank of her piercing. Shame, I couldn’t join in: my protruding belly hung over the top of my black jeans. Very soon I was either going to have to go on a diet or admit I was a size twelve.
The evening continued until Nads, having come back from the toilet, announced we really should get going, babysitters and all that. Peter suggested sharing a cab, my place being on his route home. How gallant, I thought, and so we black-cabbed it. The conversation returned to domesticity, the importance of family, etc. A perfect husband sat at my side, though unfortunately not mine.
I joked, ‘Peter, if you should ever get divorced . . .’
Again it bombed and he looked kinda horrified.
Then, well, I did something I probably shouldn’t have. It was clear he was a hundred per cent kosher, and I felt I needed to save face, so I came clean about the situation.
‘Look, your wife obviously needs reassurance, otherwise she wouldn’t have called us.’
His reaction was one of utter astonishment.
‘Excus
e me?’
Then changed to one of disgust.
‘Wait . . . Nadia and you . . . You’re telling me this was a set-up?’
‘I wouldn’t worry – you passed with flying colours.’
‘What a fucking bitch.’
I assumed he meant his wife.
‘Well, she is depressed.’
‘What?’
‘Your wife, you said she was depressed.’
We sat in silence till the cab pulled up outside my apartment.
I had an ominous feeling I’d landed myself straight back in the shit again. Blowing your cover whilst on duty was deemed as sacrilegious as blowing your dick. Placing the dick in such an awkward position makes for an irate customer, unwilling to foot the bill, and shifts me back a pace into the position of job on the line. Which let’s face it wasn’t a great distance.
Will I ever learn to think before I speak?
‘Look, Peter, I really shouldn’t have said anything.’
He put his fingers to his lips and sneeringly said, ‘I won’t say anything, just as long as you and your “friend” Nadia don’t.’
I staggered out of the cab and limply waved him off.
Shit and double shit.
Called Nadia the minute I’d managed to oust Maria off the comfort of my sofa and out into the cruel night.
‘Nads, I think I may have fucked up again.’
‘What do you mean again?’
Oh yeah, I’d forgotten she didn’t know anything about Bob.
‘Nothing, it’s just, I let slip it was a set-up.’
‘You what?’
‘It kinda just came out. Well, he guessed.’
‘What do you mean, guessed?’
‘OK, so I thought he was a nice guy, genuine. I mean he really loves his wife.’
‘Issy, he was a complete sleazer. He had his hand on my knee most of the evening.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t you see him put his little finger in my belly button? And he gave me his card, “Let’s do lunch” scrawled on the back, kiss kiss.’
‘But at the club he was –’
‘Issy, he couldn’t take his eyes off me. Didn’t you notice?’
‘Nadia, what am I going to do? There’s no way we can tell his wife.’
‘Why?’
‘I sorta made this deal with him. He wouldn’t tell her he knew it was a set-up and I’d say he was a great husband, because that’s what I thought he was.’
‘Issy, are you asking me to collude in this nonsense with you?’
‘That’s precisely what I’m asking. I need my job.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘She’s depressed. One more thing could send her over the edge.’
‘Issy, she’s depressed because she suspects her husband of cheating.’
‘Semantics. Please, Nadia. I made a mistake. He so blatantly didn’t fancy me, and I thought –’
‘He wouldn’t fancy anyone else?’
Ouch, that hurt.
‘It’s just – I tried hard to impress him.’
‘And I was thinking it was a clever ploy on your part, playing the desperate singleton to get him to notice me.’
Did she really say desperate?
I thought I was being cool.
‘No . . . I . . .’
‘You didn’t think. Fuck it, Issy. Let’s speak tomorrow.’
My brittle ego fairly shattered, two steps forward, one step back, seems like I’m inching my way down a hot-coal-laden path. A change of direction required.
No matter how hard I tried to put a spin on my life, it just wasn’t going as planned.
SAVING ONE’S ARSE
By exposing it with head buried, the ostrich way. In plain English, I hid out in Sarah Bloch’s apartment, away from the phone, ignoring the mobile and submerging myself in another’s life. OK, so I’m a nosy bugger and was sniffing through her wardrobe. A bit like rummaging through your mother’s, as a kid. Flashback to me in my mother’s wedding dress, wading about in her high-heels, or those Godawful hippy skirts with tiny little bells attached.
Spent the entire morning dressing up. In the main it was old-lady stuff, twin sets and such, but there was a whole load of cashmere jumpers and a few dated ball gowns. She’d probably kept them as souvenirs of times past. One was a seventies dress, halter-necked, A-lined and deliciously vile, with a vomit pattern that swept down to the floor. Retro gold so I swiped that pronto. Another was a floaty chiffon number, very Pan’s People. On alert my heart-beat, in case the estate agent walked in unannounced and found me in my underwear, or worse, my altogether.
I put aside a few more pieces of clothing and then began sifting through her shoes. Sarah was into shoes: silver, gold, mules, wedges, strappy sandals, boots, some with matching bags and belts. I opened the bags and discovered bits of tickets from years back, opera, ballet, concerts, dance, bus tickets; notes with numbers, gloves, even hard-boiled sweets (they tasted fine to me), coins, hairgrips, boxes of matches from restaurants.
On my knees, my grubby little paws Narnia-bound, I reached further into the wardrobe past the fur coats and extracted a hard-edged object, or box. Aha, what have we here, my hearties? Hidden treasure, dust-laden. I carried it out into the light. A secret box, mahogany, heavy, inlaid with with another wood. Maple? I wasn’t sure. I placed it on the bed and lifted the lid. A thousand secrets lay hidden: OK, I exaggerate, it was full of old photos and scraps of letters, but there at the very bottom was a girl’s diary. Here was free access to the innermost thoughts of a teenage Viennese girl. I could get it translated, the first few pages anyway. Imagine if she turned out to be the next Anne Frank? Here was a project to immerse myself in. I’d been on the look-out of late for a hubby, oops, Freudian slip, hobby.
EVEN KEELING
The next few weeks passed uneventfully: nothing untoward. Work was bearable, no mad missions, just an average Joe whose wife was using us to boost his flagging confidence. Freddie showed up looking fresh from his recent jaunt and arrived laden down with goodies. Max was thrilled with his bag of the latest Disney toys and I was chuffed with a couple of DKNY T-shirts, a Prada shirt, and a pair of Seven jeans. My brother is the only person I’d ever trust to buy clothes for me. He’d done good then treated us to lunch at Wagamama’s.
Still unattached, he began complaining about not having had sex for three weeks.
‘I’m going crazy, it’s killing me. I just don’t think I can take it.’
‘Get a grip. Three weeks is nothing.’
‘What are you talking about? It’s the equivalent of three years in gay time.’
‘Earth calling Freddie.’
‘Don’t take the piss, Issy. Do you think I’ve put on weight?’
‘No.’
Sometimes I wonder if he is aware how much he winds me up. My brother has a body to die for, is gorgeous, has some amount of brains, which he tends not to use, and the incredible knack of rubbing in just how boring my life is at present.
‘You, though, have definitely put on weight.’
‘Thanks, bro.’
‘So I was wondering about liposuction. Maybe we could get a family discount. What d’you think?’
‘I think it’s unnecessary. If someone loves you they’ll accept you, warts and all.’
He flinched, remembering the attack of genital warts that had massacred his social life for months the previous year.
‘Bitch,’ he fumed, fanning the menu in front of his face, and then turned to Max to declare, ‘I don’t know how you put up with her!’
However, his sulky mood quickly dissipated with the arrival of a terribly cute waiter. Quite the charmer, Freddie switched to predatory mode and by the end of the meal they had exchanged numbers.
Bastard.
He called me after their first date, saying the guy had an absolute whopper.
Double Whammy Bastard.
And after the third date, that he was in love.
AS FOR STEPHAN
Thoughts of him continued to fill my mind. It was like I was experiencing a sense of nostalgia for how it might have been, if only our date hadn’t been so crap. He called a couple of times, and we had long conversations that never seemed to go anywhere. I told him about the box, and that there were loads of baby pictures of him.
‘Very cute, Stephan.’
‘Wonder if there’s any of my father?’
‘Maybe.’
And I promised to have another peek.
The property market was experiencing a slump and no offers had been made on the apartment. He said there wasn’t much point in coming over till then. I did manage to lure one male over my threshold but, seeing as he was a Jehovah’s, it didn’t really count. Nice enough though, very enthusiastic and spiritually inspiring.
When he left, I appealed to the Lord to deliver unto me a male, and on the double.
G man, hast Thou forsaken me in my hour of need? Or are you just a big teaser? But seriously, I’m ready, and well, the fact is, Holiest of Ones, the weather’s on the upward turn and I’m longing for a bit of –
DICK DICK DOCK
After all there was a spare going.
Indeedy, for Fiona had gone for the chop and come out a new woman. Christ, I hope she knew what she had let herself in for. I’d warned her, it wasn’t all lipstick and high-heels. Then again, she’d have it fairly easy, wouldn’t be blighted with monthly cycles, nor the possibility of getting pregnant, which, let’s face it, is a major part of being a woman. I’d always thought that, in her efforts to be female, she tried too hard. Her idea of what a woman was came from a male point of view, but still it tended towards a pastiche vision, i.e. either vampish or going for the mumsy look, just never normal.
You are who you are, whether you lose a leg or get a cosmetic makeover. Your psyche will remain the same. Though maybe that will be the next scientific breakthrough. People will opt to improve their personalities, discarding therapy in favour of brain surgery: let’s zap those synapses. Criminals will be targeted first. They’ll be sentenced to lifetimes of being goody-goodies. The rest of us will cotton on, offering up our scalps, hoping to be reprogrammed: no more negative thoughts, anxiety, insecurity, depression, stupidity. There will be a choice of A-, Bor C-type personalities. (Yo, Doc, give me ambition with a high IQ and a confident, positive outlook, purrlease.)