by Lana Citron
Fiona eyeballed me suspiciously. ‘Tea?’ she gasped. ‘Brodsky, it’s after six, time to go.’
Home time, the weekend was upon us. Post-Scarface, I dreaded the weekends. They had a tendency to be long and lonely. In the office kitchen I stalled, rinsing the week’s supply of mugs that gathered on my desk obscuring my workload, and fretted over Arthur’s case. I wondered if I should come clean, or delay awhile and then in a couple of weeks say he’d absconded, or if I should borrow money from the Honey Trap and promptly return it as payment … Such were my scattergun thoughts, when amidst this I caught snippets of a conversation.
‘Blind to it. Smitten,’ Fiona was explaining to Trisha.
‘I understand. When Tony had the au pair …’
‘A total bitch … Had me thinking, she’s going in to hospital … so maybe the girlfriend …’
‘Anything’s possible.’
‘You’re right, but it puts me in an awkward position. I don’t want to be held accountable.’
‘Set her up.’
Fiona had been pacing the small office floor and then, hearing the water flow down the waste, popped her head around the screen partition separating the workplace from the cubbyhole kitchen.
‘Brodsky, you still here?’
‘I was just washing up,’ I stuttered, my voice faltering.
‘Oh right. We thought you’d gone ages ago.’
Indeedy, and I got the distinct impression from her blushing cheeks that perhaps I shouldn’t have overheard that conversation. There was a long, uncomfortable pause.
‘Guess I’ll go then …’
THEN …
A couple of days later Fiona was screeching down the phone at me.
‘Brodsky, I’ve done you a favour. I got you a gig.’
‘You what?’
‘A gig, you heard.’
‘Oh brilliant. Wow, right, well that’s great!’ I enthused, hardly believing my luck. Fiona had come up trumps. I’d been doing my utmost to keep my hand in with the comedy. Any chance to perform and I jumped.
‘And Brodsky, this is not just any gig.’ At the very last moment someone had pulled out of the finals of the ‘Women Can Be Funny Too’ competition. I couldn’t believe it and had Max pinch me in case I was dreaming.
‘Ow … okay, stop it, Max,’ I yelped. ‘So, when is it?’ It was literally a last-minute thing. Fiona was calling me from the pub.
‘You’ve got fifteen minutes to get yourself into that nurse’s outfit and down here.’ Geraldine needed an opening act and pronto.
‘But … but it’s a school night, what about Max?’
‘Can’t you palm him off on somebody?’
‘No, there’s no one at such short notice.’
‘Brodsky, fame costs, get yourself a bloody babysitter for Chrissakes.’
‘I can try ringing a few people, but it will take time to organise.’
‘Bring him along. I’ll buy him a Coke, that should keep him quiet.’ (Ha, I thought, one sip of Coke and Max went into hyperdrive. Fiona might have acquired the outward apparatus of a woman, but at the core she was still a man, and one with zero maternal instincts.) I gathered up Max and rushed to the pub.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER
Max was hyperdriving Fiona mad. I left them in the downstairs bar, where she was doing her best to keep him from playing Human Tornado, where the aim of the game was to destroy whole rooms in seconds by ricocheting off the walls.
‘Maxers, I’ll be upstairs for ten minutes tops,’ I promised. ‘You stay here with Fiona, okay?’
He growled and gave me the evil eye. He didn’t like Fiona and wasn’t afraid to show it. ‘Fiona, Mum said you used to be a man, can you play football?’
‘No, Max, I can’t play football, now drink your Coke.’
I ran up the stairs. Fat Adrian, the MC from the previous competition gig, was already on stage warming up the audience. Geraldine stood by the door and, as I entered, took me aside and said, ‘I appreciate this, Issy, thanks very much.’
‘Not a problem, it’s a great opportunity for me.’ I went for the schmoozy stance and commentated, ‘Unusual for someone to let you down at the finals.’
‘It was Brillo Boy,’ she explained. ‘Called away to a last-minute audition. Fiona mentioned you were on your way down, suggested I give you another chance.’ She winked at me. ‘It was a very close call last time, Issy.’
‘Thanks Geraldine. I’ll try not to let you down.’
‘Brilliant!’ bawled Minger One.
‘Fabulous,’ added Minger Two. The Mingers were a Liverpudlian sister act, strong in accent and repartee. I knew them vaguely from the circuit. They were outrageous and definitely bound for Edinburgh. Both gave me a joyous double thumbs-up. ‘Good on you, girl,’ they cheered as I ran off stage. ‘Nice one.’
‘Thanks,’ I feigned modestly. The gig had gone well, miles better than anticipated, probably due to less fretting time.
‘You hanging around?’
‘Can’t, my five-year-old is downstairs.’
‘Bummer, we’re going to get blasted, have an ace night of it. Go on, stay for a few,’ they implored.
‘No really, I can’t.’
Sure, it would have been nice to stay for a few drinks, relax, let my hair down but, fact was, being a mum, I couldn’t. Motherhood had a way of interfering with my social life. Thus, as quickly as I’d arrived, I left, this time without waiting to hear Adrian announce the winner.
ONE-TO-ONE
‘Shut up, Max!’ I screamed. ‘I can’t hear myself think!’ Max had been playing Green Day’s ‘American Idiot’ non-stop for the past hour.
‘Sorry, Fiona, what did you say?’ I shouted into the receiver.
‘I’d like to have a one-to-one with you, Issy.’
The dreaded one-to-one. I lived in fear of the one-to-one. In my experience it was never a good thing and usually ended in me being let go, or made redundant or promoted to retirement. It spelt out Jobseekers’ Allowance.
‘Damn Fiona, I’m really busy, my diary is completely full for the next few weeks. What about …’
A time and a place were agreed.
Mine, an hour later.
MINE, AN HOUR LATER
I suspected that she suspected something was amiss vis-à-vis the Arthur Penn case. I could think of no other outstanding discrepancies. It was Nadia’s engagement party later that evening and I was in the kitchen ironing my least shabby of dresses and a pair of Max’s combats. I didn’t hear the doorbell go. Max let Fiona in and the next thing I knew, she was peering over my smalls. She struck an imposing figure dressed head-to-toe in Jaeger, which suited her long, shapely legs and fine, broad shoulders. I reprimanded Max for opening the door to potential strangers.
‘But I recognised his voice,’ Max shouted back provocatively. He really did not like Fiona and then, to further agitate, waved his Game Boy at me, knowing full well he had already used up his daily time-quota.
‘Domesticity suits you,’ Fiona smiled and then asked if I could whip up a little something for her, as she was absolutely famished. I offered her chicken nuggets, which she accepted.
‘So, to what do I owe this honour, Fiona? Let me guess: you’ve discovered some major discrepancy on my part?’ I asked in a mock-amusing tone (Rule Number 568, Article B, Subsection III of Detecting: A Way of Life: In certain situations pre-emption can be a lifesaver).
‘Why, should I have?’
‘Eh, well no, but …’
‘Agh, yes, Brodsky, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the Arthur Pe …’
‘Who?’ (Rule Number 569, Article B, Subsection IV of Detecting: A Way of Life: Always feign ignorance when under attack.)
‘The Arthur Penn case,’ she pronounced with crystal-clear diction.
‘All under control,’ I blurted.
‘I think I saw him the other day.’
‘Really?’ I gasped, far too interestedly not to invoke suspicion. ‘You actually saw Arthur?’
/> ‘Pretty sure, at least he looked identical to the man in the pictures you took.’ Of course, the pictures … I still had the negatives.
‘It was him, he was in the Portuguese deli round the corner, but Brodsky, we need that bill settled.’
‘Eh, right. Arthur loves his herrings.’
I was half-tempted to come clean and tell Fiona about the case, but the reality was I’d definitely be sacked if the truth came out. And then the microwave bell pinged and I laid down before Fiona a plate of chicken nuggets and baked beans and Fiona laid down before me a proposition so phenomenally life-changing that I then lay down at her feet and kissed them, coinciding with Max appearing at top skid-speed.
‘Yeughhh, Mum,’ Max blasted, ‘you are so gross.’
THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY
In combative mode, Max was playing Human Tornado again, having been given a Coke by one of Nadia’s kindly relatives. The happy couple had rented a room above a pub and filled it with family, friends and assorted M&S canapés. Feeling peckish, I had appropriated a corner of the table. Nadia and Tim were glowing, the entire place high on their transparent joy. It made me wonder if I should have tried harder with Scarface. My brows furrowed, pondering on the things that really matter, like family, friends, relationships. It was unsettling to be single again. I was back in that social limbo, unable to fit in with ‘couples’ or baggageless singletons. The former perceived me as a threat, or the unknown quantity. Neither did I fit in with the latter group as, due to the confines of motherhood, I couldn’t go out at the drop of a hat or stay out all night as others did.
‘You okay, Issy?’
‘Huh?’
‘You look a little distracted.’ Trisha had arrived with her boyfriend Pete, a younger man she’d met at the gym. Trisha, a divorced mother of three, was the quintessential workout-aholic, with an amazing body for a forty-four-year-old. Post-Scarface, she had offered to get me a discounted membership at her gym, as my endorphins plummeted and I broke out in zits.
‘Really, Issy, you should go the gym, you’d feel so much better,’ she advised.
‘Never seem to find the time,’ I responded.
‘It’s the perfect place to meet someone,’ she whispered. ‘You’re not going to meet anyone here.’
It was depressing to be surrounded by a room full of couples. The behaviour was fairly predictable; for one thing, the sexes usually segregated halfway through events, the women ended up talking to the women, men to the men and there’s scarce a chance of any type of flirtation. At the time though, it wasn’t men that were on my mind. It was Fiona’s proposition. I couldn’t think of anything else. So portentous was her proposal, I was in a state of shock.
‘Cheer up, Brodsky, you’ll find someone.’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’
Nadia merrily drifted over. ‘Issy, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ she said. ‘I have a huge request … a really big favour.’
Oh my God, just like buses. Never sight nor sound of one, then along come two in a row. Immediately my eyes narrowed, sceptical of Nadia. Her favours had the knack of becoming incredibly time-consuming, -wasting or complicated.
‘The answer is no.’
‘Issy, you don’t know what I’m going to ask yet.’
Since the wedding announcement I sensed our friendship had been changing, and not for the better. It seemed there was distance growing between us. It felt like I was losing her to Tim: she’d jumped shelf from singleton to commitment, a state I scorned due to my recent Scarface experience.
Nadia cleared her throat.
‘Issy Brodsky, my best friend ever, I would be honoured if you would be my chief bridesmaid.’ In one swoop she put all my negative thoughts to shame.
‘What?’
‘Chief bridesmaid.’
I was astonished. ‘Nadia, you have no idea how much that means to me. I never thought I’d ever be a bridesmaid.’ Tears sprang to my eyes and I threw my arms around her and whisked her about the dance floor.
‘Look, it’s quite a responsibility, there’s lots to do. We’ll have to start planning stuff immediately.’
‘Why? You’re not getting married till next year.’
‘We brought the date forward. We’re going for a September wedding.’
‘In a couple of months. But … ?’
My heart sank, unsure I could accept Fiona’s proposition and be a bridesmaid for Nadia.
‘There is a reason,’ Nadia was prattling on. ‘Promise not to tell anyone, especially Fiona and Trisha?’
‘Promise.’
‘I’m serious, Brodsky, I don’t want to jeopardise my job.’
‘What, what? Damn it, why did you bring the date forward?’ The more I thought about it, the less possible it seemed that I could undertake both roles. ‘You haven’t got a record contract or something?’ I asked her. Although her band Silver Rider had split up, Nadia was beginning to work as a session vocalist and it was only a matter of time before she found some trendy producer to whisk her off to superstardom.
‘No, Issy, I’m pregnant.’
‘Oh no!’ I blurted out.
‘Thanks.’ Nadia stood back, blatantly hurt by my reaction.
‘Nads,’ I bit my lip, ‘I mean, congratulations, but if you’re getting married in a couple of months, then I don’t think I’ll be able to be your chief bridesmaid.’
It’s always the way, eh? You plan something and then some other temptation appears in your path and you realise you can’t be in two places at the same time. You also have no excuse, ’cause your tongue gets tangled, your cheeks redden and you draw attention to yourself, and in the mid-distance you spot your two bosses raising their glasses, when the bride to be, who is on an emotional overload anyway, due to being pregnant and what have you, starts to blubber …
‘Brodsky, you’re such a bitch.’
See what I mean about the touch? Well, how about this – the day actually got worse. I left the party soon after, using the extraction excuse that Max had to be in bed by six-thirty. Nadia was upset, yet I couldn’t explain myself, as I’d promised Fiona that until all the boxes had been ticked, etc, I wouldn’t. Obviously, I was gagging to tell someone and my first thought was Scarface. He was the perfect person to whom I could reveal my momentous news.
There hadn’t been a peep out of him for weeks. He’d gone to ground and not one glimpse of him caught. Glad, yet pissed off about it, I’d wanted to see him but pretended to myself I didn’t. He plagued my thoughts twenty-four/seven. In essence he was like a virus. He made me feel sick.
Having knocked on his door, called and texted twice (okay, three or four times), I decided to wait for him on the stairs. It was a lovely summer evening. Around 1.30am Scarface arrived home.
‘What you doing, Brodsky?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you locked out?’
I was sitting on the steps with a glass of wine in my hand.
‘Just pretending I live in a brownstone in Manhattan.’
‘These stairs are inside,’ he pointed out.
Okay, so not so cool.
‘Scarface, I wanted to … mmm … Well, I was wondering if …’
‘Issy, don’t do this …’
‘I need to talk to you. I have some amazing news.’
I was blocking his passage up the stairs.
‘Please can I get by now, Issy?’
‘Password is?’
‘Issy, I’m not in the mood.’
You know when you do something so very embarrassing you are going to be cursed by its memory for the rest of your life.
‘Go on, just guess the password,’ I teased, forcefully flirty.
‘No.’
I refused to budge. His options dwindled and, in a manner most derisory, he said, ‘Okay, I bet it’s something like: “I’m sorry Issy, I was wrong,” or, “Issy is always right,” or, “I am a twat.” ’
‘It was, “I love you.” ’
‘It�
�s over, Issy.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Now let me pass.’
And I thought, ‘Bastard, what a total bastard.’
LIKE BEES TO THE HONEY (TRAP)
As instructed by Fiona, I went to meet Geraldine the following day at a Pizza Pronto. Fiona’s ‘proposal’ concerned Geraldine McIntosh and Lisa. Yes, the very same Lisa who stole the competition from me, who wrenched the title from out of my grasp. Edinburgh was looming and, for the first time in twenty years, Geraldine was unable to attend, due to an operation she was booked in to have.
‘Brodsky, I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Anyone,’ Fiona had reiterated, stuffing her face with chicken nuggets, the passion in her voice apparent. ‘Let’s just say Lisa has to go and this is where you come in.’
Fiona suggested that the most effective, efficient way to ascertain whether Lisa was cheating on Geraldine was to have someone on the inside follow her. To chaperone her as it were. In the form of direct interventionist detection, the ideal scenario would be a comedienne doubling up as a private detective. Get the picture? ‘Someone to keep an eye on Lisa in Edinburgh: not so much keep an eye on, but an eye out for. Do you understand what I’m getting at, Brodsky?’
I nodded, ‘As long as you don’t want me to give her the eye.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Look there’ll be no lesbo agent provocateur action.’
Fiona laughed. ‘I doubt you’re her type.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Brodsky, I want you to set her up. She’s taking Geraldine for a ride, using her. I want evidence. I want Geraldine to know.’
‘Why?’
‘None of your business.’
‘I get you, discretion is key.’ Reassuringly, I tapped the side of my nose.
‘Whatever it takes to get the evidence, just do it. And in return, Brodsky, you get your wish come true, to perform up in Edinburgh.’
I didn’t exactly know how Fiona had managed to get me a place in the show, but the fact was she had. My big transgender of a fairy godmother boss had sat in my kitchen picking bits of chicken nuggets from out of her teeth while I jumped for joy and strummed my air guitar.