The Honey Trap by Lana Citron Read Free Book Online Page A

least a couple of generations between us. To be honest my heart wasn’t in it. I wasn’t my usual happy-go-lucky self: the past week had taken its
toll.
    The waitress set down my meal and I tried once again to make contact.
    ‘Mmm . . . just what I need, soul soup.’
    No acknowledgement forthcoming.
    ‘Mmm . . . delicious. How’s yours?’
    He glanced up at me.
    ‘Fine.’
    Slowly he turned round to me, shaking his head gently.
    ‘She sent you, didn’t she?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘My wife.’
    ‘Your wife? You married? That’s nice. I’m single myself but I have a little boy. Do you want to see a picture of him?’
    I know, I know, cringy, but I didn’t know what else to say.
    ‘My wife, she sent you, didn’t she?’ he slowly repeated.
    ‘Well . . . actually,’ and I nodded an affirmative. Couldn’t pretend otherwise.
    ‘You an escort?’
    ‘Do I look like an escort?’
    ‘How would I know?’
    ‘Well, I’m not.’
    Conversation ceased. I was affronted by his comments, slurping soup on the defensive, and he sipping a lemon tea reading the
Antiques Gazette
.
    I felt the need to explain myself.
    ‘Look, Mr Finklestein, your wife called the company I work for and asked if I’d come down here and talk to you. Just chat. She’s worried, says you haven’t been yourself
these past few weeks.’
    ‘No disrespect, lady, but I’m not interested in talking.’
    ‘Fine, I didn’t mean to offend you.’
    It wasn’t fine. He was curt, bordering on the offensive, and I was thinking did I really look like an escort? On a downward spiral I spun into the negative.
    ‘So you don’t want to talk?’
    ‘You have a problem with English?’
    ‘I’m just trying to be friendly.’
    ‘Save yourself the bother. You want to move tables or will I?’
    Jesus, but I didn’t deserve this, sick to the gills of playing these stupid games. Since the Bob fiasco, my confidence was waning, and here is this old man making me feel small, smaller
than him even.
    I pushed back the chair and put on my jacket, left enough money to cover the bill, leant towards him and then snapped. I snapped and splurged.
    ‘Mr Finklestein, you are one of the most discourteous men I have ever met.’
    ‘Jeez. Do I have to listen to this? What are you,
meshuggener
?’
    No, just a single mum, on the brink of losing it. My mind, my job, my dignity . . . Oh no, my mistake, that went to a total dick a week ago, and unbelievable though it may seem, I also lost a
finger. Yep, to top it all I lost a real-life, hacked-off finger.
    I stormed out of the restaurant, stood on the pavement taking stock of my life. Christ, and there I’d been feeling sorry for him, just ’cause he was old.
    Bastard.
MEN, THEY’RE ALL THE . . .
    Well, not the same, just disappointing.
    My father wasn’t very supportive when I’d announced I was going it alone and having Max.
    ‘Every child deserves a father.’
    ‘So what was your excuse?’
    ‘Oh come on, that’s totally different. At least you knew who I was.’
    ‘But you weren’t there.’
    ‘Issy, you spent every holiday with me.’
    They split when I was four and my brother six. It must have been hell for my mother over the next few years. Indeed, I forgave my parents many things when I had a child of my own. Mum
didn’t have a proper boyfriend till I was ten and I remember being a total bitch to the two of them. No one was allowed time with my mother, yet here’s the rub, we allowed Dad his
girlfriends. They were somehow more like au pairs and were cool to hang out with. One actually was an au pair.
    ‘Dad, holidays aren’t reality, day-to-day living. Fun times are easy, and besides, you always sent Freddie and me off on summer camps.’
    ‘You enjoyed it.’
    ‘Only ’cause I was desperate to spend time around you.’
    ‘There, you proved my point. Max needs a father.’
    ‘You’re right,’ I conceded. ‘Yeah, come to think of it you’re going to be a major influence in his life, one of his