The Honey Trap Read Online Free Page A

stupid thing to do.
    God?
    Hey, it’s not like I’m asking for world peace or anything, just a tiny favour. I really love this job, it’s a buzz and gets me out, and I swear to you in the future I’ll
be more charitable. I’m depending on you.
    Thanks, yours sincerely,
    Issy Brodsky.
HANGOVER REMEDY
    Is there such a thing? I slept for the next couple of hours. Felt even worse when I woke, glanced at the time, and realised I’d ten minutes to get to the nursery, a
fifteen-minute walk away. Christ, Max would be the last child to be picked up. In mother-speak we’re talking massive psychological damage here. So I ran or more like heaved myself down the
street. Puff, pant, retch, reaching my destination only to find I’d misread the tick-tock. Phew for Max, but it left me with an hour of fretting.
    I was doomed, whatever way I chose to look at my situation. Fucking Bob was not a good idea. By rights I should have already called the office and reported on last night’s activities.
Instead, I prevaricated in a café, mulling over a coffee and a Danish pastry. My body could no longer take such abuse. Time was, I could have partied for forty-eight hours flat out, but that
was before Max, prior to sleep-deprivation and the shackles of motherhood. What in the name of God was I going to say to Fiona? Then there was the coat, Fiona’s lovely coat, last seen in a
heap on my bedroom floor. Shit, and I hoped it wouldn’t require dry-cleaning.
    Had I done a Lewinsky? Poor Monica, my heart goes out to her. I mean what an idiot, so smitten and then globally shamed. How bizarre that a large percentage of the international community is
aware that she had a cigar stuck up her fanny by the President of the United States of America. What a legacy: imagine telling your grandchildren that. It must be costing her thousands in shrink
fees. How in the name of Western civilisation has it come to the point whereby we, the public, have a right to know of such graphic details? Two coffees and two Danish pastries later, I was almost
functioning again and went to pick up the love bundle.
MAKE MY DAY
    The best part of every day is, undoubtedly, arriving at the nursery and seeing Max’s little face light up with excitement: ‘Mummy, Mummy . . .’ It’s
kinda phenomenal the love they give and it’s totally unconditional, even when you’re in the most shitty of foul moods.
    ‘Hey, Maxy.’
    He threw himself into my arms and slobbered all over my face.
    ‘You have a good day?’ I asked.
    ‘David hit me, I said not nice and . . .’ A stream of babbling half-sense flowed out.
    I put on his jacket, wrapped him up warm, and home we strolled.
    Max is a beautiful child, always has been. Sure I’m biased, but the amount of attention elicited from passers-by sticking their faces into the buggy bears this out. I thank my lucky stars
he wasn’t a grosser, and believe me, I’ve seen many. The power of maternal love being such that no matter how ugly your offspring, you are blind to it.
COAT CHECK
    Back at the apartment I picked up the coat, gave it a good shake, emptied the pockets, and found the bus ticket with Bob’s number scrawled on it (reckon he liked me, a
tad). Chucked it out with the rubbish. All evidence must be eradicated. To all intents and purposes, what happened actually did not happen. Hey, an alibi was forming. From the murky depths of my
mind I realised exactly what had to be done. Deny everything in order to keep my job. Simple yet perfect. It would be fine, I would trust to faith, and feeling brave I called the office.
    Trisha answered.
    ‘All right, Issy?’
    ‘Fine, how’s Alice?’
    ‘Aw, it was just a tummy bug.’
    ‘Yeah? I’m not feeling too well myself.’
    ‘I think it’s going round.’
    Trisha, a divorcee in her late thirties with three kids, spends most of her day ferrying her kids from their various schools to their extra-curricular activities. I can’t make her out at
all – she’s terribly