The Honey Trap Read Online Free PDF Page A

go.’
    ‘No, it’s late.’
    Now, the thing most kiddie winkies thrive on is routine, and no matter how laid-back one is initially, by the end of the first year a routine of sorts evolves and, before you know it, you are
planning your days around them. Basically Max was well peeved when I suggested a walk to the office.
    ‘Sorry, kid, know you’re tired, but I have to do this and you’re too young to be left alone.’
    I bundled him up and off we set.
    ‘Hello, Trisha?’
    I buzzed the intercom, hoping I wouldn’t have to lug the buggy and Max up three flights of stairs.
    ‘Trisha, it’s me. I’m downstairs with Max. You wouldn’t do us a favour and run down? I’ve got Fiona’s coat.’
    ‘Give me five minutes.’
    Ten in reality. She was really winding me up. And it was freezing. I acted overly grateful when she arrived, smarming at her generosity of spirit that she should venture down three flights.
    ‘Hi, sweetie,’ she clucked at Max.
    ‘Thanks, Trisha – it’s such an ordeal with the buggy. You know how it is.’
    ‘Issy, word of advice. Between you and me, you’d better toe the line. Fiona’s getting pissed off.’
    I swear I couldn’t say anything. I was choking on a response that never quite made it. I bit my tongue. It rankled and hurt (my tongue, that is). Just ’cause she’d been working
there the longest. It gnawed at me, making my lips purse and eyes glower. She was jealous – probably fancied Bob. Yeah, come to think of it, their communications went way beyond the bounds of
professionalism. I should take another look in that Bob file. I even considered calling Nadia for a conspiratorial chat.
HOMEWARD BOUND TAKE TWO
    Cranky, AKA Max, was distracted by a made-up monster story. ‘Trisha the Troglodyte’. Oh, don’t you know it? Trisha is a very stupid troglodyte who comes to a
horrible, twisted demise when her tongue, under the spell of the good witch Issy, begins to grow longer and longer, and in the end strangles Trisha. This twisted tale took us halfway home, then we
spotted several diggers, which never fail to excite, and finally had a minor dispute about whether or not Max was allowed to have an ice-cream. This being the dead of winter. He won, but we made it
back.
    The evening rituals thus began. Fixed Max his tea, then played his favourite game of the moment, ‘traffic jams’. I swear, he lines up his cars one behind the other and shouts,
‘Beep, beep,’ and, ‘Get a move on,’ stuff like that. Of course, it all ends in an awful crash. Next up, bath time, with a scrub-a-dub here, a rub-a-dub there, and an unholy
mess in the bathroom. This is followed by a video, one I’ve seen a billion times before. I now know large portions of script from several Disney classics. And finally, finally, a story . . .
oops, almost forgot to brush Max’s teeth.
    ‘OK, one more story. No, you can’t have any more milk. It’s time for bed now. Go to sleep, Maxy.’ More cuddles, kisses, kisses, ‘I love you,’ and eventually
he goes to sleep.
    Time to tidy the flat. Time to collapse.
    I really should ring some people, I thought, old friends who by now are mere acquaintances, just to tell them I’m still alive; but as I haven’t kept in touch, it always seems like
too much of an effort. Besides I was whacked. Indeed, since Max arrived, I exist on the precipice of exhaustion. It’s a drip, drip factor of continuous tiredness from which there is no
escape, no respite, and a good night’s sleep becomes a luxury. Christ, but how I look forward to putting my head on the pillow of an evening and escaping into the vast dreamland that has
become my social world.
    But, just as I closed my eyes, a zillion thoughts rushed at me. All the stuff I forgot to do, should have done, things to remember. Bob! It was fun, it offloaded many months of frustration, and
yes, I was aching for it. But you know what? There was really no point guilting myself out about it, wagging the finger at