The Honey Trap by Lana Citron Read Free Book Online

it possibly be . . . ?
    ‘Are you . . .’
    ‘Finklestein,’ she said.
    ‘Yes, but is this about the finger?’
    ‘Finkle . . . as in F.I.N.K.L.E.S.T.E.I.N. Look, you can . . .’
CALL ME GLADYS
    Oi, Gladys, but did she go on some. I’m paid to listen – that’s what I kept saying to myself over and over.
    ‘He’s not himself. I don’t know what it is, but to be honest these last couple of weeks something’s changed. He’s lost his umph, you know what I mean?’
    ‘Umm . . .’ To be honest I didn’t.
    ‘Not umm . . . umph. He was always so full of it and now . . .’
    ‘How old is he?’
    ‘Seventy-nine.’
    ‘I see, and you think he could be having an affair?’
    ‘After fifty years of marriage you think I care . . . I know this isn’t strictly what your company is for, but look . . . Can you talk to him? Get some sense out of him? Make him
smile, though not too much – he’s just had a heart-bypass operation. What colour hair do you have?’
    ‘Brown.’
    ‘You a nice girl? Educated?’
    ‘Yeah . . .’
    ‘Think you could help me out?’
    ‘Excuse me for being naive, but why don’t you use an escort company?’
    ‘Have you seen how much they charge? Listen, he needs a bit of attention from a stranger, a total stranger . . . see what I’m saying?’
    ‘It’s not really our thing, Mrs Fink.’
    ‘From one woman to another . . . please . . . please . . . I’m at my wits’ end. Just the once. Please?’
    ‘OK, I’ll see what I can do.’
    ‘So every second Monday, he goes to Harry’s after work – you like chicken soup? They do good chicken soup . . .’
A DATE SET FOR MONDAY
    Me and the boy child got through the weekend, the pair of us gagging come Monday morning for some quality separation time. He flew out of my arms, screaming the name of his
best friend of the moment, without a kiss goodbye, not even a wave ta-ta. I turned and went to hang his coat on his name peg. Left the nursery and –
    Yes! Freedom, Monday. MY DAY. Reserved for doing things I wanted to do.
    Like read the Sunday papers, like call someone and have an uninterrupted telephone conversation, go see an early-afternoon movie, go to the gym, have lunch with a friend, but first I must settle
bills, clean the apartment, wash a week’s worth of laundry, consult the list of things to be fixed and decide to do it another day, plan the week, the weekend, counter-plan, un-plan, update
wish lists, daydream on what ifs, check my insurance, and just as I sit down with my coffee ready to open the papers, it’s time to collect Max.
    My big date with Mr Joel Finklestein was planned for that very evening. Fiona didn’t care that it wasn’t strictly kosher, just as long as she got paid. I was slightly anxious about
it. I mean how the hell do you go about flirting with an elderly man?
‘YO, DIG THE TURKEY WATTLE!’
    Joel Finklestein had shrunk with age. A slight man in a dark-grey suit, with silver hair, watery eyes sunk back in his face, and hand slightly shaking as he raised the soup
spoon to his mouth. He was staring out the large front window of the restaurant on to the high street. Harry Morgan’s, St John’s Wood, a comfort-food haven.
    The place was near empty when I arrived. I sat at the table next to him, my opening gambit a weak, ‘Evening.’ A nod received in reply.
    I’d been to the restaurant a few times. It had recently undergone renovation, jazzed up somewhat for the Noughties, expanded now to include a takeaway. The waitresses were all Eastern
European blondes, the food heart-stopping in both the good and bad way. I’d gone off it when Max was refused entry due to his buggy, which I felt unjustifiable seeing as it was supposedly a
family restaurant.
    Gladys mentioned that I was categorically
not
to mention the war. When I asked her what Mr F. did like, she said children. I ordered a chicken soup with
Kreplach
and a
Latka
, then rummaged in my bag for a photo of Max.
    The situation too forced, with at