for jewellery?’
‘What girl doesn’t.’
Felt an oncoming Ally McBeal moment and suddenly wondered if I was under suspicion. It was the way he was peering at me, whilst nibbling at his nails. Shaggy’s song came to mind: ‘It
Wasn’t Me’. Max’s all-time favourite, beating ‘Bob the Builder’ by miles. Imagination hurtled into the surreal as Bambuss crooned accusations and I defended myself,
circling about the interview table.
(Picture this, I was caught red-handed murdering the oul’ one next door! . . . Did you hack her into pieces? It wasn’t me! Chop her up with a
bread knife? It wasn’t me!)
REALITY CHECK
The detective stared at me strangely.
‘Miss Brodsky?’
‘Sorry.’
I snapped back to reality.
‘As I was saying, if you recall any suspicious activities, or anything that would be of use in our investigations, please get in touch.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you don’t mind if we have a look around your garden?’
‘Not at all. I’m working later, but I’ll let Maria know.’
‘And your work – what exactly do you do?’
‘Well, since you ask, I’m actually a special agent, of sorts.’
MISSION ONE
My maiden voyage into the world of the near adulterous and I, nerve-racked, practised chat-up lines on Max.
‘You come here often?’
‘I wanna watch a video.’
‘Hi.’
‘
Thomas
video.’
‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’
‘Now!’
Failed abysmally. What chance would I have with an adult male? Nadia’s top tips had been to establish eye contact, mirror their body language, and if stuck for something to say, repeat
word for word what they had just said, adding an upward inflection.
My first mission. I remember it well.
With knees knocking, I espied my suspect alone at the bar and approached with caution. A free stool beckoned, and I wedged myself up on to it. Just got to be friendly, smile, order a drink and
if all else fails, talk about the weather.
Five minutes later.
‘It’s bitter cold, hey?’
‘Huh?’
‘It’s cold outside.’
‘Mmm,’
très, très
unresponsive.
Then out of nowhere came a gem of a chat-up line.
‘I just split with my boyfriend.’
‘Oh.’
The suspect’s interest is awakened. Everyone loves a sob story – always makes them feel so much better about themselves.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t usually come to bars on my own but . . . do you mind if I, well . . . talk with you for a minute?’
So I told him my story, actually told him the truth. Maybe I went on a bit – it was near on an hour later when I finally finished.
‘I know how you feel,’ he sympathised.
‘Do you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you stuck in a stale marriage?’
‘What?’
‘I saw your ring.’
‘No, I have a healthy marriage, thanks.’
‘Guess I jumped to the wrong conclusion. On the rebound . . .’
I blushed, giving him the come-on.
‘That’s OK, nice talking to you.’
He jumped up and left.
‘You too.’
OK, it hadn’t exactly gone to plan. I’d expected sleazy, not a kind and generous listener. As far as I was concerned, my suspect was impeccable marriage material. A decent male, so
rare a species. But hey, I’m cynical and I downed a quick one for the road and bid the landlord
adieu
, setting off in spirits high and my faith redeemed in mankind.
Tipsy and reporting slurred messages down the mobile to the office, I tripped on the pavement and fell to my knees. My new tights were laddered, and as I rose up from that humbled position, I
shifted quickly. Basically to make out I was tying my shoe strap, so as not to be further embarrassed, but also because who should I spot emerging from the opposite doorway? My suspect. I
didn’t bother to holler after him. For we were in Soho and the sign on the door said ‘Live Model’.
CATEGORIES OF DICK
As in any business, we at the Honey Trap have our own classification code.
Clever Dick – See above, the type who uses the services of professionals. They are astute liars and very
‘What girl doesn’t.’
Felt an oncoming Ally McBeal moment and suddenly wondered if I was under suspicion. It was the way he was peering at me, whilst nibbling at his nails. Shaggy’s song came to mind: ‘It
Wasn’t Me’. Max’s all-time favourite, beating ‘Bob the Builder’ by miles. Imagination hurtled into the surreal as Bambuss crooned accusations and I defended myself,
circling about the interview table.
(Picture this, I was caught red-handed murdering the oul’ one next door! . . . Did you hack her into pieces? It wasn’t me! Chop her up with a
bread knife? It wasn’t me!)
REALITY CHECK
The detective stared at me strangely.
‘Miss Brodsky?’
‘Sorry.’
I snapped back to reality.
‘As I was saying, if you recall any suspicious activities, or anything that would be of use in our investigations, please get in touch.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you don’t mind if we have a look around your garden?’
‘Not at all. I’m working later, but I’ll let Maria know.’
‘And your work – what exactly do you do?’
‘Well, since you ask, I’m actually a special agent, of sorts.’
MISSION ONE
My maiden voyage into the world of the near adulterous and I, nerve-racked, practised chat-up lines on Max.
‘You come here often?’
‘I wanna watch a video.’
‘Hi.’
‘
Thomas
video.’
‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’
‘Now!’
Failed abysmally. What chance would I have with an adult male? Nadia’s top tips had been to establish eye contact, mirror their body language, and if stuck for something to say, repeat
word for word what they had just said, adding an upward inflection.
My first mission. I remember it well.
With knees knocking, I espied my suspect alone at the bar and approached with caution. A free stool beckoned, and I wedged myself up on to it. Just got to be friendly, smile, order a drink and
if all else fails, talk about the weather.
Five minutes later.
‘It’s bitter cold, hey?’
‘Huh?’
‘It’s cold outside.’
‘Mmm,’
très, très
unresponsive.
Then out of nowhere came a gem of a chat-up line.
‘I just split with my boyfriend.’
‘Oh.’
The suspect’s interest is awakened. Everyone loves a sob story – always makes them feel so much better about themselves.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t usually come to bars on my own but . . . do you mind if I, well . . . talk with you for a minute?’
So I told him my story, actually told him the truth. Maybe I went on a bit – it was near on an hour later when I finally finished.
‘I know how you feel,’ he sympathised.
‘Do you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you stuck in a stale marriage?’
‘What?’
‘I saw your ring.’
‘No, I have a healthy marriage, thanks.’
‘Guess I jumped to the wrong conclusion. On the rebound . . .’
I blushed, giving him the come-on.
‘That’s OK, nice talking to you.’
He jumped up and left.
‘You too.’
OK, it hadn’t exactly gone to plan. I’d expected sleazy, not a kind and generous listener. As far as I was concerned, my suspect was impeccable marriage material. A decent male, so
rare a species. But hey, I’m cynical and I downed a quick one for the road and bid the landlord
adieu
, setting off in spirits high and my faith redeemed in mankind.
Tipsy and reporting slurred messages down the mobile to the office, I tripped on the pavement and fell to my knees. My new tights were laddered, and as I rose up from that humbled position, I
shifted quickly. Basically to make out I was tying my shoe strap, so as not to be further embarrassed, but also because who should I spot emerging from the opposite doorway? My suspect. I
didn’t bother to holler after him. For we were in Soho and the sign on the door said ‘Live Model’.
CATEGORIES OF DICK
As in any business, we at the Honey Trap have our own classification code.
Clever Dick – See above, the type who uses the services of professionals. They are astute liars and very
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