The Honey Trap

by Lana Citron

  I’d reached the office in a right old huff happy to see Nads and Trisha. If anyone was to understand how I felt it would be them, seeing as we were all in the same boat.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You take things too personally,’ sighed Trisha.

  ‘Do not.’

  ‘Do too – you make a big deal out of everything,’ Nadia groaned.

  ‘I can’t help it if I’m ultra-sensitive.’

  Their response? To laugh at me.

  ‘Thanks, guys, most empathetic.’

  Before I could go off on another whinge, Trisha silenced me and announced, ‘I’m throwing a party for Fiona next week. Nadia says she’ll sing. What about you?’

  FIONA’S REBIRTHDAY PARTY

  My first party in an age and I was intent on letting rip. As requested, I arrived early to provide a helping hand. The venue was Fiona’s home, a maisonette in Chalk Farm.

  Trisha whizzed round being hyper-efficient, Nads was practising her set and I, well, I didn’t really do too much. Mainly, I got in the way, though being the person who just gets under others’ feet is, I believe, a necessary role in the preparation of any celebration.

  With only five minutes to spare before the first guest arrived, Trisha sank back in the sofa to appraise her successful transformation of Fiona’s once chintzy home into that of a chintzy home with decorations. Chinese lanterns hung around the garden, which was half decked and half lawn. There were loads of floating candles in bowls of water, and large cushions strewn randomly. A special cocktail had been designed by a bar-tender friend, and there was lots of scrummy food on platters, buffet-style. Not the usual dips, olives and salads. Oh no, it was crayfish, crab, king-size prawn and rare beef something or other. It was catered, no expense spared, near on seventy people but way low on the hetero-male count.

  I flitted amongst the crowd, quietly getting sozzled, when Leanne, a writer, introduced herself and then proceeded to give me a detailed account of her life history. Her problem, if you ask me, was that she over-analysed everything. Man, but she bored the tits off me. I was trapped in a one-way conversation, all about her, her, her.

  Next thing was, she launched into a description of her latest opus, which, as far as I could make out, was, yep, all about her.

  ‘Fascinating,’ I yawned. ‘You’re obviously a very deep and complex person.’

  I excused myself and escaped to the makeshift bar in the sitting room. Unfortunately so did Leanne and we stood mutely beside each other, waiting to be served.

  I spied Nadia hovering on an arm of the sofa, talking to a pretty-looking guy. Trust her to home in on the only hetero male, and I made straight for them.

  ‘Jesus, Nads, I’ve just met the most self-obsessed person of my entire life.’

  ‘Were you looking in a mirror?’

  ‘Excuse my friend. She suffers from an inferiority complex. Hi, I’m Issy.’

  ‘Issy, this is Mack.’

  ‘Mack the Knife? Bet you haven’t heard that before.’

  He smiled, crooked teeth, endearing rather than off-putting, and probably around my age. A couple more drinks and I’d consider him a viable possibility.

  ‘Issy works at the Honey Trap,’ Nadia sweetly informed Mack before vamoosing off to set up for her little sing-song.

  Mack, an artist, had recently exhibited his paintings at a local library. The show, titled ‘Colour Conscious’, was, he explained, a comment on our multi-ethnic society. He painted different-sized canvases in different skin-tones.

  ‘Cool. I’ve often thought I could have been an artist.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. A conceptual one. I had this idea I’d get a toilet roll and on each sheet I’d write the name of someone I’d pissed off. I’d call it ‘Everyone I Ever Pissed On’.

  Mack didn’t like my idea, opined it was derivative, and went off to talk to Leanne.

  So I had another drink and then a couple more. The cocktails were lethal, they crept up on me slowly, then wham, like a sledgehammer, hit me full on, forcing me out into the garden for some fresh city air.

  I slunk down on the edge of the decking, half hoping to disappear, half hoping someone would stumble over me. Nearby, Fiona was chatting with friends. Centre of attention, she looked fantastic, a bit like a dark-haired Jerry Hall (OK, so my vision was alcoholically affected). She was dressed in a figure-hugging red number that accentuated all her newfound curves and a fine pair of legs.

  I spotted Bambuss and Maria and waved over to them. Maria was all made up, cheeks glowing and cleavage showing. Bambuss had his arm wrapped protectively round her waist. He’d made an effort too, his hair greased back, double shiny, and was dressed more casually than usual in denims and a loose sweater.

  ‘Issy, you not drinking too much?’

  Maria leant forward to kiss me.

  Wasn’t sure how to answer that, so turned to Bambuss to congratulate him on the piece in the journal.

  ‘Great detecting, Detective, great piece, but it missed a certain something.’

  I was in catty mode.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A mention of me.’

  ‘Ah, Ms Brodsky, of course.’ He patted his left breast. ‘But I think they edited you out. I told them everything.’

  ‘Figures.’

  Trisha did the honours, hushing the crowd, before a nervous Fiona made a short speech, thanking all for their support in her journey to becoming a woman.

  My impromptu rendition of ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ didn’t catch on and Fiona continued, ‘. . . I’d also like to thank the one person who has been my anchor, my support, my true friend and partner and whom I love with all my heart . . . Trisha, thank you so much. I could never have done it without you.’

  Nads and I clocked one another. Was this confession time? So Trisha and Fiona really were a couple?

  Overcome by emotion, Trisha began blubbing real tears. Wow, Trisha had feelings.

  So wished I’d brought a camera.

  They hugged, the crowd cheered, and Nadia began her rendition of torch songs.

  ‘Issy, you OK?’

  Trisha came and sat down beside me.

  Drunkenly, I hiccuped a response.

  ‘Do you think you’re going to be sick?’

  I shrugged my shoulders, too early to tell.

  ‘So, Trish . . . is it true about you and Fiona?’ (Wink, wink.)

  ‘What! Don’t be an idiot.’

  ‘Bitch.’

  I was rather inebriated, not nauseous but definitely obnoxious. I’d reached that stage where you can’t control your tongue any more and all the shit you’ve stored up starts spilling out.

  ‘Trisha, you have a real problem with me. Don’t you?’

  ‘I think you’re drunk.’

  She went to stand up but I grabbed her arm.

  ‘Go on. Let’s just clear the air. You can tell me to my face.’

  Unfortunately at this moment I burped in hers.

  ‘Issy, if you really want to know, I came over to say sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I think I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I came down heavy on you with the Bob Thornton case.’

  ‘Oh, not that –’

  ‘Yes, that. Look, I was very stressed and I realise I took it out on you. So, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Aw shit.’

  The over-emotional drunken stage hit. I threw my arms around her and splurged, ‘Trisha, you’re great, no, really I have to say that, I really, really admire you.’

  Jesus, but my heart was pounding, I was puce in the face, on an adrenalin rush. The formidable Trisha had apologised to me.

  Unheard of.

  Unreal.

  She was obviously as smashed as I was.

  I was off the hook, could put that dirty little Bob episode to rest.

  Torch songs over, the DJ started spinning tunes, and the garden heaved as we all reared up and let loose.


  But see the thing was . . .

  Ten minutes later, Nadia and I were strutting our stuff. Or rather I was jerking about rather haphazardly but jubilant in mood.

  ‘Nads, I mean she actually apologised.’

  ‘I told you, she’s not so bad.’

  ‘About Bob! She apologised to me. I mean it’s such a relief.’

  The music blaring as the pair of us fog-horned across to one another.

  ‘Nice one.’

  Thumbs up to me.

  ‘Yeah.’ Then I had to tell her, couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. I leant over and drunkenly confided, ‘But see, the thing was . . .’

  ‘You shagged Bob!’ shrieked Nadia.

  This wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t coincided with the music suddenly stopping and Trisha dancing within earshot.

  Nadia looked at me aghast.

  Trisha gave me the most vile stare ever, then slowly walked off.

  ‘Oh shit,’ sighed Nadia. ‘Issy? Issy, are you OK?’

  OK?

  An understatement perchance?

  No, I was not OK, I was far from OK, I was . . .

  CAUGHT IN A NIGHTMARE SCENARIO

  The call came through at 21.00, one week after the party. Big boss Charlie on the blower, requesting my presence, or else. I faltered, couldn’t bear to pick up the handset. My heart went all tribal with a boom, boom, boom. I paced the long hallway, muttering under my breath, ‘They’re not gonna get me, they’re not gonna get me.’ And it occurred to me that maybe I could sue Tatu for breach of copyright, considering that specific phrase was my very own intellectual property.

  Trisha was out for her pound of flesh. How vindicated she must have felt, her intuition correct all along, her bloodhound nostrils moist and twitching, face gurning in readiness to pounce on her prey, which was me, and rip it to pieces, nay, smithereens. Ever so slowly, with relish, her sharp, orthodontically whitened gnashers biting, tearing, would strip me of all human dignity and reveal me as the barefaced liar I was. A fraud, a liability, the weakest link.

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘No, Trisha . . . No, you don’t understand.’

  She came to get me in the deep dark night. Then, the next thing was she had me in a head grip, was dragging me up the stairs and into the office.

  ‘I knew it,’ she screamed, a woman obsessed. ‘Traitor. Infidel.’

  ‘Trish, mate, I made a mistake, a human error.’

  ‘You think that’s what Judas Iscariot said to Jesus?’

  ‘Maybe, who knows? I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me, young lady.’

  ‘But maybe that’s why Jesus said forgive others and not go casting stones about. Correct me if I’m wrong, but did he or did he not say “Turn the other cheek”?’

  Head locked, I tried turning mine and my neck clicked. On the bright side Trisha may have inadvertently corrected that wayward vertebra back into place.

  ‘Snivelling dog,’ she barked. (I know, I know, an awful pun.)

  The door of the office creaked opened and she flung me into total blackness. Gee whizz, but the gym thing really works for her.

  Into a void, a big black hole of nothingness.

  ‘What do you have to say for yourself, Brodsky?’

  ‘Mummy, I want my mummy.’ Yep, I truly did say that.

  I was scrabbling about on all fours. She nabbed the nape of my neck, then with Hulkish strength, pulled me up and pushed me down into a chair. A mega-wattage desk lamp clicked on and shone directly into my face.

  ‘Listen, Trish . . . I know we haven’t exactly seen eye to eye, but don’t you think you’re overreacting?’

  ‘Shut up. Rope, please.’

  A shadowy figure emerged from the murky blackness. I recognised the silhouette as Nadia’s. Damn, but she even looks good in monochrome.

  ‘Et tu, Nads? Turncoat.’

  And she called herself a friend.

  ‘Sorry, Issy, I . . . She made me.’

  ‘Yellow-bellied cowardy custard,’ I hissed in Nadia’s face.

  It’s weird the phrases that come out when one is under such extreme pressure.

  ‘Shut up, Brodsky. Nadia, tie the bitch up.’

  ‘Trisha, I swear I didn’t do it.’

  My last stab at denial, reckoned I’d nothing to lose.

  ‘Playing schtum, hey? You can’t pull the wool over my eyes.’

  She slapped me hard across the face, which I thought was uncalled for. Literally was struck dumb and couldn’t think of a half-decent retort.

  ‘Nadia, make sure she doesn’t fall asleep. Keep the light shining till she cracks.’

  ‘Ha,’ I bellowed, ‘I’m a mother, you dipstick, immune to sleep-deprivation.’

  ‘Yeah, she has a point.’

  In the background I heard a tape machine whirr and then, ‘We have ways of making you talk.’

  It sounded like Fiona. Kinda like a woman, definitely like a man.

  ‘Trisha, it was just, a mistake, more like mutual masturbation. We were drunk, it was non-emotional, a slip of the –’

  ‘It’s too late for apologies, Issy.’

  ‘No, please no.’

  Jesus Christ. I watched as she reached into her trousers and took out a . . .

  ‘Oh my God, Trisha, not that.’

  A dick, I mean a penis, a male member, severed, and I blushed. Hadn’t seen one up that close in an age.

  She was jabbing it at my face.

  And that’s when I forced myself to wake up.

  There is a limit to how far my subconscious will go.

  MY FALL FROM GRACE – REAL TIME

  Yep, I woke up and Max was flicking my cheek.

  ‘Mum, Mummy, it’s time to get up.’

  What, what? Morning already? A quick glance at the alarm clock confirmed I’d overslept.

  My father’s face popped round the door.

  ‘Thought we’d let you sleep in. I’ll take Max to nursery.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  I hadn’t mentioned my impending doom to him. My imminent sacking weighed heavy on my mind and he sensed something was amiss. The whole weekend had been shadowed in gloom, and I found myself snapping at Max for no valid reason. Being a confident kid he took it in his stride.

  ‘Mum,’ he stridently declared, ‘I am nearly four and you are thirty. Do not shout at me!’

  He was staring up at me and I could see he had a point.

  ‘You’re right, Maxy, sorry.’

  On edge and waiting, oh, how I wished to put off the inevitable.

  Crawling out of bed, I went to take a shower. I let the water pelt down, hoping it would somehow permeate my skin and cleanse my thoughts, only to be interrupted by the sound of an insistent bell. I cursed my father for forgetting his keys yet again, and wrapped in a towel sloped off to open the door.

  ‘Jesus, Dad, but how many times –’

  Surprise, surprise.

  It was Fiona, clad in a very becoming Burberry mac. I have to say she’s got good taste in clothes.

  ‘Nice coat, is it new?’

  ‘Brodsky, you and I have some serious talking to do.’

  ‘We do?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Meet me at the café round the corner in twenty minutes.’

  THE END WAS NIGH

  I complied, found her twenty minutes later in the café on the corner, tapping away on her laptop.

  ‘Hey, great party the other night. Christ, I was so drunk.’

  ‘Glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Drank way too much, can’t remember a thing.’

  An inane smile graced my bullshitting, and desperately I continued digging a hole into which I might fall.

  ‘Regret getting so drunk, always end up talking such shit.’

  A surly-faced waitress intervened.

  ‘What can I get you, ladies?’

  We ordered coffee and cake. Then, just as I was nervously about to embark on recounting my hideous dream, Fiona hushed
me with a flattened palm and opened her briefcase. Reached her finely manicured hand in and took out a file. Or rather, the –

  BOB THE BANE OF MY LIFE FILE

  And you wanna know something?

  ’Twas the sweetest sacking in all of Christendom.

  Fiona went for the caring, motherly approach.

  ‘Issy, you’re a complete and utter tool.’

  ‘Thanks, Fiona, the feeling’s mutual.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I think so too.’

  She peered across the table at me, gulped back an espresso, reached out a hand, which she gently and ever so reassuringly placed on mine, then soothingly sneered, ‘You’re finished at the Trap.’

  ‘As in –’

  ‘Yes.’

  Although she did say that if I wanted I could consider my situation as being on permanent suspension without pay.

  ‘Can’t say I’m terribly surprised.’

  My tone was sardonic and I flicked her hand off mine. The last thing I needed was insincere pity.

  ‘Issy, I feel I should tell you this. Normally, in situations such as these, people have a tendency to say don’t worry, it’s not personal. One mustn’t take these things personally.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, in your case, it was.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Personal. Trisha always doubted you. Right from the start. She’s been watching you like a hawk –’

  ‘Fiona, you’re the boss.’

  ‘Trisha founded the company. The whole thing went belly up a couple of years back, so I bailed her out. We’re equal partners. Anyway she thought you were, how can I put it, an encumbrance, bound to mess up. She thought you were using the position as an attempt at a social life.’

  Whoaa there, matey, time to douse my tongue with a petulant fragrance and pretend I was a six-year-old, little Miss Precocious.

  ‘Fiona, have you any idea how tedious it is to be fawned over constantly? It’s actually quite distressing having all this male attention. OK, so I’ll admit it was fun at the beginning, meeting people and going out, especially considering my situation, but frankly –’

  ‘What?’

  My voice pitched higher than usual and I threw in a lisp for effect.