The Brodsky Touch

by Lana Citron

  Suppressing the geyser of tears mounting, out I scuttled into the morning. Then, hitting street level, I crumbled, along with those long-clung-to vestiges of nonsensical, mythical daddy scenarios and ‘if only’ daydreams. My plump, fleshy heart was fissure-torn and a million thoughts of Max fell from my eyes.

  HERE COMES MY FIDDLER ON THE ROOF MOMENT

  Cue the violinist, the one with a splendid sense of balance dancing on the rooftops … and God …

  Well G, got to hand it to you, this time you’ve really outdone yourself. Wow, I’ve certainly encountered more than my fair share of crap lately. I mean, where should I start: falling prey to Lisa’s manipulation, acting as Fiona’s dumb-ass pawn, ending up as Geraldine’s excuse for continuing in a rubbish relationship, Darren’s paranoia come to life, and now, just for good measure, meeting Jan again and his girlfriend being pregnant all thrown into the mix so casually? Well guess what, G, I’m tired of it. I feel like I’m being hit from every angle, none of which I have any control over. Or maybe that’s the point, hey?

  Maybe that’s the point.

  Oh, I get it now, G. It’s another of your toughening-up exercises. Well done, Big Man. I feel so very insignificant. Shit, and all along I thought I was just doing my best. Playing the clown, trying to please the crowd, always keeping a happy medium. My mother was right – I have to stop seeking approval. What an idiot. What an idiot. Yet, and here’s the rub, weirdly reminiscent of my comedy character. Can’t believe it took me so long to work out.

  G, I reckon I’ve got you sussed now, so surprise me.

  Go on, I dare you, G, do something unexpected, do something wild.

  LONDON, ONE MONTH LATER

  ‘Max,’ I roared, ‘hurry up or we’re going to be late.’

  ‘Coming, Mum,’ he cried. ‘Just looking at a snail.’ A normal ten-minute walk could, at Max’s pace, take anything up to an hour, depending on any number of minute pavement distractions. It was frustrating, to say the least.

  ‘Max – now!’ I screamed.

  ‘You are so bossy!’ he shouted back.

  I left my five-year-old son for a month and had, on my return, received a mini-teen. He had a reinforced attitude, a baseball cap and ill-fitting jeans that finished midway across his bottom. Most annoyingly, though, he pretended to be dumb, and unable to register my voice, forcing me to repeat myself over and over.

  ‘Max!’

  There I had been, pushing my ‘everything but the kitchen sink’ suitcase into the arrivals hall, fairly dazed to be back in the land of reality, when a whirlwind force of boy energy almost tackled me to the ground. And I’d looked at him as a stranger would, down at this beautiful little boy.

  ‘Mum!’ he smiled and threw his arms around me.

  ‘Who gave you permission to grow so much?’ I demanded.

  ‘Mum!’ Agh, to be called Mum again. I’d forgotten how lovely it was to be one. ‘Mum, I haven’t seen you for twenty-eight days …’

  ‘Five hours and thirty-four minutes,’ I added. ‘Come here, Boy Wonder, and give me a big cuddle.’

  My parents approached with sheepish grins, Mother acting most coy and wearing lipstick.

  ‘Issy,’ my father’s voice boomed and he hugged me close to him, ‘darling, congratulations are due.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I was slightly baffled, unsure whether the congratulations were for surviving Edinburgh or for the review or for just being me.

  ‘Not you,’ my father flapped. ‘Darling, your mother must have told you?’

  ‘Told me what?’

  My mother’s smile developed into a peal of giggles. ‘Issy, your father and I have something to tell you.’

  You guessed it. My mother and father were getting married again. They were bursting with happiness, though how they thought they’d get it right the second time round I had no idea. I suppose I should have been more jubilant, but marriage, well, it was just such a drastic step. I urged them to take it slowly and live in sin for at least a couple of years.

  ‘We’re too old to hang around, gotta grab the opportunity.’

  ‘Mum, what about Wally?’

  ‘Your father was right,’ my mother acknowledged, throwing her eyes heavenward. ‘Wally was always telling me to confront my feelings, let everything out and not fester emotionally. So I told him I had unresolved feelings for your father, and he went crazy.’

  Poor Wally. So much for his New Age, anti-patriarchal new man stance. When my mother came clean, he immediately reverted to type, ie, male and a bastard. He was initiating proceedings, hoping to sue to my mother for breach of their ‘Mutual-Respect-4-Infinity’ contract, an alternative non-legally-binding relationship document listing out one another’s expectations.

  ‘His reaction highlights what a wuss he is,’ my mother stated. ‘The more he tries to fight me, the more pitiful he appears. Really, Issy, I can’t believe you never said anything.’

  See, nothing changes – suddenly it was all my fault! Ah, it felt good to be home. We had a celebratory dinner the night of my return. Our entire family came together for the first time since Max’s birthday party. Freddie showed up with his boyfriend, sporting matching commitment tattoos. I saw my father bite his tongue, but all in all the evening was a great success. I couldn’t stop kissing Max and cuddling him and tickling him. Edinburgh already felt a million miles away, which was bizarre, considering it had only been a matter of hours since I closed the door on a crucial chapter of my life and one of the rankest flats I’d ever had the misfortune to inhabit. Our very last show had been dreadfully anticlimactic, a bit like having sex with Scarface (bitchy, I know, but irresistible). As quickly as the arts world descended on Edinburgh, it lifted like a plague of locusts and by the final night the town had a near-ghostly aura. During that day I’d tried to cram in as many shows as possible, but the best had sold out long in advance and many others had shut up shop. Deflated, I slowly traipsed home in the incessant drizzle, bumping into the Mingers and Adrian on their way to Bristo Square for the comedy cabaret finale.

  ‘Hey, girl, you not coming to the show?’

  ‘Nah, it was sold out. And I’ve an early flight tomorrow.’

  ‘Shit, right. We probably won’t be seeing you then.’

  ‘You all packed, Issy?’

  ‘Pretty much, Sandra.’

  Sandra gaped like I’d mooned in her face and Linda gave me a slow clap. Believe me, I was not proud of the fact that it had taken me almost four weeks to work out who was who in the Minger twin-set.

  ‘You’re such a one.’

  ‘Get her, what a one.’

  Being, ‘a one’, was high praise indeed coming from the Mingers and I was suitably flattered. I was tempted to brand them a massive number two, but opted for ‘pair’. They were ‘a right pair’.

  We decided traditional farewells were too hazardous.

  ‘No tears, right? It took me ages to put on this muck. Come on, Linda, I don’t want to be late.’

  They managed to hail a cab and in Sandra climbed.

  ‘Shove your lardy arse that way so’s I can fit mine in,’ Linda squealed.

  Adrian and I were left standing on the pavement.

  ‘Guess that’s it, Big A. My first and maybe only Edinburgh.’

  ‘Geraldine will come round …’

  ‘You think?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘Issy, watching you I saw the faintest glimmer of a star, though shrouded by heavy clouds and millions of light years of distance.’

  ‘Jeez, Adrian, I’m choking up.’

  Yes, for all the anxiety, craziness and stress experienced in the past month, Edinburgh had also been one of the most intense periods of my life. I’d indulged in a lifestyle impossible to re-create in London being a working mum. Or, rather, now just a mum.

  ‘MAX!’

  He was doing it on purpose, tailing behind. I’d only managed to get him out of the house by allowing him bring his Game Boy.

  It had taken a while for Max and me to reacc
limatise. Our natural rhythm had been disrupted and it was a few days before we resumed normal relationship services, such as his familiar patter down the hallway and clamber up into my bed, or his arm flung casually round my waist, or a kiss randomly planted on my cheek, or the pair of us cracking up over a smelly fart joke, or him playing while I read the paper, even our familiar bickering, the cheekiness, the heave-ho of routine, or just walking down the road separately yet together, him behind me, then in front, then at my side, a flibbertigibbet, a gibbertiflibbert, bending down to look at ants or pull leaves off trees or climb low walls to walk along, or …

  ‘Max,’ I repeated, volume raised to the loudest level, ‘hurry up, come on!’

  His reply a confounding, ‘Stop shouting. You are so rude, Mum.’

  ‘Come on or we’ll be late for the wedding.’

  My feet were killing me: heels, four inches high, sending me off balance, the upper soles pinching, my toes slightly scrunched. Couldn’t believe I’d fallen for the old ‘don’t worry, they will give in time’ line.

  ‘Even patent leather?’ I’d asked, and the assistant had grinned inanely. ‘If you wear them round the house for a few hours, you’ll be fine.’ I had two blisters before I’d even shut the hall door behind me.

  Max was looking exceedingly dapper in his crisp white shirt and black canvas jeans. Thankfully the invitation stated that dress was informal, lounge, black tie optional. Max was already very conscious of his appearance and personal hygiene – a splash of aftershave slapped on his cheeks being a habit picked up from his grandpa and his hair spiked with gel so that his curls were fairly rigid on his head. There we were on a beautiful late summer day at the end of September, the two of us inching ever so slowly up Regent’s Park Road on our way to Nadia’s wedding. Nads had opted for a civil ceremony and managed to book the grand room in Cecil Sharp House in Primrose Hill.

  We met Maria and Bambuss at the gates. Both were deeply tanned and happy. They had just returned from a bargain two-week cruise around the Seychelles.

  ‘Issy!’ Bambuss awkwardly grasped my shoulders to bear hug me.

  ‘Detective Bambuss, how was the cruise?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ answered Maria, pinching Max’s cheek flesh between her thumb and forefinger and then wagging it violently.

  Max nearly went ballistic. ‘Get off me,’ he shrieked.

  ‘Such a big boy,’ she chuckled and to add insult to injury ruffled his carefully styled hair. An action that, if administered by myself, would have brought a swift kick to my shins and much sulking. In this instance Max merely snarled and then, incredibly, gave Maria, as ordered, a big Kissie Wissie. For his trouble he was promptly presented with a crisp ten-pound note. Lucky for me he still hadn’t grasped the concept of money.

  ‘I’ll keep it safe for you, Max,’ I suggested and quickly deposited the note in my clutch bag.

  ‘So, Bambuss,’ I began, ‘first I provide you with the woman of your dreams [if it hadn’t been for me those two would never have gotten together] and then hand you your nemesis on a golden plate.’ Darren Deacon was, at present, for the safety of the general public, languishing in a high-security prison awaiting trial.

  ‘Indebted, Brodsky.’ With a closed fist Bambuss thumped his heart. ‘Really, if there is ever anything you or Max need, you just have to ask. We are family now.’

  I was flattered and relieved that Bambuss and I had finally laid our chequered past of misunderstanding behind us. ‘Any sign of a knighthood?’

  He winked. ‘I hear it’s coming, next time round.’

  Trisha arrived with her three teenagers and toyboy. Max was thrilled – there was nothing cooler than playing with an older kid, especially one who was as dedicated/addicted to Game Boy as himself. The usual warnings of ‘don’t get into any trouble’ were issued and off they scampered.

  Post-Edinburgh I’d met up with Trisha when I’d called by the office one afternoon to pick up my stuff, return the keys and, on pain of conscience, repay the hours I’d misappropriated. Admit it, you thought I’d forgotten about that money. I hadn’t – it niggled at the back of my mind. I’d called in advance to make certain I wouldn’t run into Fiona while I was there. She wasn’t there and nor, as it happened, was anyone else. I could have waited outside but, as I had the keys, I let myself in.

  All my personal bits and bobs had been cleared and carelessly tossed in an open cardboard box with my name scrawled across it. A quick rummage revealed a paltry testament to my past working life as a Honey: chewed-upon pencils, spot cream, a packet of mints, a miniature cow bell, chipped mug, soluble vitamin-C tablets and a pair of laddered tights. I sat at my old desk, whistled aimlessly awhile, flicked through Fiona’s latest issue of Vogue, when the phone rang and automatically I reached out to answer it.

  ‘Hi, the Honey Trap, how can I help?’

  ‘Brodsky, is that you?’

  ‘Eh … Hi, Fiona. Where are you?’

  ‘Where am I? What the hell are you doing at the office?’ She was fuming, steam coming out of the receiver. ‘Don’t you get it, Brodsky? You’re sacked. Put me on to Trisha.’

  ‘Trisha is … out, she’ll be back in five.’

  ‘And make sure you’re gone in five.’

  An hour later Trisha walked in. I’d fielded four calls in the meantime and taken on two new potential cases.

  ‘His name is Manny, he’s under the impression we’re an escort agency and …’

  ‘I hope you told him where to go.’

  ‘The thing is, he’s a masochist. This could be a runner, Trisha, just torment him with the idea of getting close to being laid but never actually do it. Easy money for a Honey.’

  ‘Brodsky! You’re not getting any ideas about being reinstated.’

  NOTES ON MY EMPLOYMENT STATUS

  The café at the end of my street had been the first port of call on my search for a new job. Unfortunately, it had a full set of waiting staff. Silvio backtracked like nobody’s business after having sworn to me that, ‘Whenever, whenever Issy, you need a job, you come see Silvio and I sort you out, eh?’

  ‘Trapping and I are over,’ I told Trisha, although to be honest I’d only sought to retrieve my box of crap on the premise of begging for my job back. ‘Though, Trisha, it has to be said, it’s heartening to see the office operating so efficiently in my absence.’

  ‘As you well know, Issy, decent staff are hard to come by.’

  It felt like old times: the sarcasm, the kettle put on, the mini street mission to buy some cakes. We sat gabbing the afternoon away, Trisha probing me about Jan. I related the whole sad episode.

  ‘You did right, Brodsky, in the circumstances.’

  Considering the circumstances, there was no right or wrong. I’d left Jan with just enough information about Max to draw a conclusion should he wish to. Trisha put her faith in ‘Father Time’, as opposed to ‘Father Hood’. Time, she believed, had the same effect on concentrated emotion as washing-up liquid had on grease. It cut straight through it. I guess at the very least and if the time ever did come, Max could look for him later in life if he chose to.

  ‘How was Fiona with you on the phone?’

  ‘Not particularly friendly,’ I responded.

  ‘Issy, you do know it wasn’t her who dumped you in it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She was pretty shook up when you went for her.’

  ‘Trisha, it had to be Fiona. She was so in love with Geraldine she was bordering on obsessed.’

  ‘Hate more like. Fiona hated Geraldine.’

  ‘What?’

  Turned out that for most of senior school Fiona had had a huge crush on Geraldine. A hideous crush of much magnitude and wholly unreciprocated. Geraldine used to call Fiona her shadow boy and looked straight through him.

  ‘Meeting Geraldine again presented a choice opportunity for Fiona to exact revenge. She wanted to humiliate Geraldine,’ explained Trisha.

  ‘I thought she was in love. That’s awful.
’ I’d always considered Fiona to be fairly level-headed in matters of the heart.

  ‘Pretty low, I agree, and in the end fruitless.’

  See, the more Fiona sought her pound of flesh the more she realised how pathetic she was being. Prior to the hen trip to Edinburgh, Fiona and Geraldine had a cathartic meeting during which Geraldine offloaded years of harboured guilt regarding her appalling treatment of Fiona. Fiona didn’t say anything with regards to her own misdeeds, hence stopping the case, and she was hoping no details of Lisa’s misbehaviour would come to light.

  This information left me stunned. It had to have been Fiona.

  ‘So what’s happened between her and Geraldine?’

  ‘Fiona feels dreadful and Geraldine refuses to take her calls.’

  ‘Jesus, Trisha, I was so convinced Fiona grassed me up.’

  ‘Between us, she realises she misled you and her behaviour was shoddy. She felt pretty awful when you were dropped from the show.’

  Not as awful as I was beginning to feel. I’d sought out Brillo Boy, the comedienne I’d replaced in the Titter Club, to clarify whether I’d earned my place on merit or if it had been a fix. She told me Fiona had paid her to drop out of the finals of the competition at the very last minute, thus enabling me to take part.

  ‘But you did win it.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘That night it was down to the audience’s votes. You won it, Issy, fair and square.’ Well, not quite fair and square – if it hadn’t been for Fiona’s magnanimous gesture, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity.

  ‘So how much did she pay you off?’ I asked.

  ‘Fifty quid.’

  ‘That little!’ I was appalled.

  ‘In any case, I wouldn’t have been able to do the show. I’d been offered a part in Mamma Mia.’

  ‘We are sorry how things turned out for you, Issy.’

  ‘Thanks Trisha.’ I was glad of the sympathy and appreciative when she subtly refused the money I’d offered her for the misappropriated work hours.