The Brodsky Touch

by Lana Citron

  ‘You’ll never believe this.’

  My ears pricked up. What could one do but listen in?

  ‘Well?’ Lips smacked in anticipation of the juicy rumour.

  It involved a certain Casting Agent, no names mentioned for fear of being branded a gossip-monger and thrown off his books (her companion knew exactly who she meant).

  ‘Exactly. Well …’ This Casting Agent, known for his high brand of sleaziness, ie, couch antics, discovered that one of his ‘casting’ tapes was (would you believe it?) missing (no!) (yes). He realised he was in deep merde. The star of the tape, notorious for being tricky, had already demanded a part and he assumed he was being stitched up by her (professional blackmail), so he got his spoke in first (as it were). Hoping to save his own skin, he grassed her up, spreading rumours of how this actress had fucked him about and shot this illicit tape.

  So then what happened?

  ‘Only it wasn’t the actress who had the tape, someone else had stolen it and sent it to the actress’s girlfriend, that comedy producer … What’s her name?’

  ‘You don’t mean …?’

  ‘Exactly, the very one.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Everyone’s talking about it. Absolutely everyone.’

  NEXT!

  I wasn’t entirely convinced that qualifying as a contestant on a TV reality show was really where my comedic intentions lay, but seeing as I was an open sort of person …

  NEXT …

  … thing you know I was offered a part.

  ‘FOR REAL?’

  My father thought it somehow cool to use Maxisms.

  ‘ ’Fraid so, Dad.’

  ‘Darling,’ he jokingly declared to my mother, ‘our daughter has finally found her calling!’ The pair of them had already shacked up together and were planning a global road trip. It was quite sweet to see them so loved-up, but only in the sickly sense.

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘What’s that, Issy?’ my mother asked, having been handed the receiver.

  ‘Mother, I’ve been hand-picked out of hundreds of candidates to be, wait for it, one of …

  ‘LIFE’S LOSERS’

  The band had struck up a good while back with most of us well on our merry way. Trisha and Fiona couldn’t restrain themselves from taking the piss out of me, while Max whizzed around high on Coke (of the fizzy kind).

  ‘So, Brodsky, you’re going to be a TV star,’ Fiona dryly stated. ‘One of Life’s Losers. Has a certain ring to it.’

  ‘Nell, my agent, thinks it will be really good exposure. Millions of people watch these kinds of shows.’

  ‘What, just to see you go about your daily business?’ scoffed Trisha.

  ‘Millions …’ mused Fiona, the implications sinking in.

  ‘And what did your parents have to say?’ Trisha coaxed me on.

  ‘Funnily enough, my father’s advice was identical to Darren’s. He said, “Whatever you do, don’t, under any circumstances, give up the day job.” ’

  ‘What day job, Brodsky?’ Trisha laughed.

  I looked over to Fiona and mouthed the word, ‘Millions …’

  ‘Think of all the free advertising,’ gasped Fiona. ‘Brodsky, you’re back on board from Monday.’

  SHOWDOWN

  Life lands these obstacles in your path and it’s up to you to swerve, retreat or stumble forward. Guess I should have watched where I was going, but my mind was full of choice thoughts when we collided in the street, backing into each other.

  ‘What are you doing, Brodsky?’

  ‘Walking backwards, hoping to see where I went wrong in my life, and look where I’ve stopped.’

  ‘Good to see you, too.’

  I was backing into the apartment building as Scarface was on his way out. Chivalrously he helped with my shopping bags and then came into the flat for a coffee. Just a coffee mind, no ulterior motives. Max was delighted to see him. During my absence he’d taken Max out to football on a couple of occasions. Turned out his new girlfriend was one of the Kiwi football trainers. Sure, I experienced a tiny twinge of bitterness, but I was over Scarface, he was too immature for me. I needed someone more, well, just more …

  His new girlfriend was in her early twenties, malleable, whereas I, it had to be said, was stuck in certain ways and less likely to compromise. In retrospect our incessant bickering had been detrimental to both our senses of self. We’d chipped away at one another. I guess after the hurt abated, there was a latent respect and it seemed we had the foundation of what could be a platonic friendship and, for me, an emergency babysitter.

  ON COURSE (AND FEELING VERY PLEASED WITH MYSELF)

  Fiona and I had patched things up and I’d got my job back, not bad for one of Life’s Losers, eh? Okay, so we had reached that part of the evening where all of us were hoping for a happy ending.

  ‘So, Brodsky what do you think?’ Nads and I were sitting out a love song, feet resting up on facing chairs.

  ‘I think you and Tim have a great life ahead of you.’ I raised my umpteenth glass of bubbly.

  ‘You’re just saying that to be nice.’ We were both tipsified, she rather less so because of her condition.

  ‘Yeah, but I reckon you guys will give it a good go.’ Drunkenly I punched the air for effect. ‘Cheers, Nads, to you and your new man.’

  ‘Cheers, Brodsky,’ and then she chimed in with, ‘and here’s to you and yours.’

  READER!

  Look, I didn’t want to say anything before, because it was early days, and there was no point in shouting about it from the tree tops, especially if it all went to pot and fell in on itself like Chicken Licken’s premonition or one of my soufflés. My favourite dessert, most definitely …

  MY NUMBER-ONE CHOICE

  The gate was closing, the last passengers for the flight called. I heard my name and in that instant put the entire month behind me. My whole Edinburgh experience seemed like a just-played reel of film, the celluloid flapping in its still-spinning can. I rummaged for the ticket in my bag, realised I must have left it at the computer stand and dashed off to retrieve it. I sprinted back to the gate, post post haste and was the last to board the plane. There he was in row thirteen, my number-one choice. My favourite number.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Sorry, I couldn’t decide what computer game to buy.’

  ‘What did you go for?’

  ‘It was a toss up between Scooby Doo and Super Car Crash Hell.’

  ‘Strange, you don’t strike me as a Game Boy addict.’

  ‘It’s for my son,’ I explained.

  ‘You married?’

  ‘No, how about you?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘And your choice was?’

  ‘Both, haven’t seen my boy in a month, my maternal guilt floweth over.’

  ‘Sounds about right, then.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Though you are late, and you know how I loathe tardiness.’

  ‘As opposed to tidiness?’

  ‘Plus I wanted the window seat.’

  ‘Well, if you ask nicely I may let you look over my shoulder.’

  He said to me, ‘Issy, you can be terribly elusive, did you know that?’

  To which I replied, ‘Thanks, that means a lot.’

  ‘So,’ Nadia pressed, ‘when are you seeing Jake Vincent again?’

  ‘Tomorrow. He said he was going to show me a mean time.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’re going to Greenwich.’

  Nadia groaned.

  ‘I know, I told him one more quip like that and it’s over.’

  Greenwich would be our second date, not counting the plane coincidence. On our first date we went for a Japanese and a spot of karaoke. Sake imbibed, we ordered up our song and ended up entertaining a small group of businessmen.

  Nadia was eyeballing me. ‘And … have you kissed?

  I nodded.

  ‘And?’

  Honestly? It was awkward, our bravad
o disappeared, it was tender, cautious, took a while to get going and then we ate each other’s face off.

  ‘Lovely. And has he met Max?’

  I was always very protective of Max in matters of the heart and didn’t want to expose him to a conveyor belt of potential daddy/uncles (chance would have been a fine thing!). I adhered to a set of strict regulations, perhaps too rigidly. No potential boyfriend was let through the net (hall door) for at least three months. With Jake, it happened by chance and they met fleetingly at the airport. There we were, flirting away coming out of arrivals and I saw this gorgeous little boy, shouting out my name.

  ‘Mum!’ He ran towards me. I scooped him up and lavished kisses on him. I totally forgot Jake Vincent was at my side. In the meantime he’d introduced himself to my mother and gave her his number to give to me.

  Nadia was impressed. ‘This guy could be the one, Brodsky.’

  ‘We’ll see. Come on then, Mrs, time to throw your bouquet.’

  FLYING FLOWERS

  There was only a handful of eligible women, as most of the guests were in their thirties and already hooked up. I felt fairly conspicuous. It was me, Fiona (which frankly shouldn’t have been allowed, considering her new boyfriend), a few teenage girls, various cousins and nieces. Nadia stood about ten feet in front of us with her back to us. We counted down and then she tossed the bouquet over her head. It hurtled mid-centre straight down the line and …

  RESULT!

  Look, what does it matter the girl was only thirteen? She’d have plenty more opportunities and I didn’t forcibly grab it off her or indulge in dirty tricks. Her head knocked into my elbow as my arm stretched up to grab the bunch of flowers. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I slid to my knees, fists clenched, arms pulling down on my victory.

  ‘You’re right, Nads!’ I hollered. ‘This one could be the one.’

  The end of an evening and the beginning of a marriage. Goodbyes were issued, carriages were waiting, kisses thrown and then a very tired boy slipped his hand into mine and away into the night the pair of us went.

  COUNTING ONE’S BLESSINGS

  Dear God,

  I am on the homeward amble, barefoot and blistered, thinking over all the stuff that has happened lately. It doesn’t feel too bad being one of Life’s Losers. Know what? It feels great. I’ve my job back, experienced the Edinburgh Festival, have good friends (oy, reader – get those fingers out of your throat pronto – I ain’t quite finished), family, a beautiful son, a gorgeous new man. Not so bad for a thirty-recurring woman.

  G, things are boding well, everything’s looking up, so guess that’s about it. Oh yeah, before I forget, one other thing,

  Thank you … and good night.

  Footnotes

  1 General warning to all readers: the following pages will be tinged in a chocolate-coloured, bitter tone (70 per cent pure lachrymose), notwithstanding a substantial amount of self-pity and a dollop of cynicism.

  2 There was no weekend daddy on the scene, and no grandparents lurking in the wings (more like in the auditorium: Grandma was living in the States, Grandpa in Switzerland).

  3 In place of the word ‘talk’ one could also use ‘argument’.

  4 Listen, I was only in there as my Bunny had come with a lifetime guarantee.

  5 As above. What lifetime, I wondered, were they measuring in? A flea’s? I demanded my money back.

  6 Big shout out to my main man, Yeats, though if I was really clever it would have been Burns.

  7 ‘Your bum’s the very model of my pre-motherhood posterior, and from where I’m looking it seems terribly familiar.’

  8 No I don’t, Yes you do, etc

  9 I could have crossed the road, there was no oncoming traffic.

  10 úber-bitch. Last I heard of her, she was working for the EU as an MEP – natch.

  11 Check out The Honey Trap, page 117.

  12 Note to self: when famous must get Paris’s shrink’s number.

  13 I’m sure that phrase could be valuable to someone in the Department of Heath – they could use it in a public-service ad campaign.

  14 Christ, I love that skit, it gets me everytime.

  A Note to the Author

  Lana Citron could do better if she beat herself

  harder. Easily distracted, she is prone to

  daydreaming and should pay more attention

  to her grammar.

  By the Same Author

  Sucker

  Spilt Milk

  Transit

  The Honey Trap

  The Honey Trap

  Ever felt like the world was giving you the finger?

  Meet Issy Brodsky, 36–26–36 (in her dreams) agent provocateur, lone parent of Max and a woman on a mission. Issy works at the Honey Trap, a firm specialising in testing men’s fidelity. The Honeys get to play any flirting game they want, as long as they abide by one rule – never, ever sleep with a client’s husband. Oops …

  ‘Funny and vivacious’ Independent

  ‘An entertaining, sassy crime novel’ Daily Mail

  To buy this book, visit www.bloomsbury.com

  First published in Great Britain 2007

  This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Copyright © 2007 by Lana Citron

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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  eISBN: 978-1-4088-5640-6

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