Page 1 of For Love or Money
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Lesley knew the singles dinner party was a write-off when she found herself turning it into an anecdote halfway through her deconstructed prawn cocktail. She was already trying out character sketches of her fellow guests, mentally rehearsing how she’d describe them to her friend Romy to make her laugh. By the time the perfectly done beef Wellington was served, she had composed a couple of witty tweets and was mulling over a Facebook post – something pithy and poignant about her relationship status remaining unchanged. Maybe she’d try to find a GIF to go with it.
She was more relieved than anything. Dinner Dates was legendary for its high success rate, and Helen O’Neill’s talent for matchmaking meant that there was a lengthy waiting list for a place at one of her weekly dinner parties. But the truth was, Lesley was in no hurry to get into another serious relationship after her break-up with Rob. In fact, she was excited about being single again, and was only here tonight because her sister Katrina had kept on at her about it, and she’d eventually relented to get her off her back. At the time, the first available slot had seemed impossibly far away, and, after signing up, she’d promptly forgotten about it.
But her turn had finally rolled around on this cold Friday night in April, so here she was. She could see how Dinner Dates had earned its reputation as the golden ticket among Dublin’s singles. Everyone was very nice, the wine was flowing, the food was sublime, and Helen, presiding at the top of the table, was the perfect hostess. But Lesley had known there was no one here she wanted to shag as soon as the ten assembled singletons had introduced themselves to each other over pre-dinner drinks in the conservatory.
‘So that was that,’ the man beside her said, breaking into her thoughts. She turned to him: Matthew, thirtyish, graphic designer; quite cute if you could overlook the hipster goatee, which Lesley couldn’t.
He was looking at her expectantly, and she realised she had no idea what he’d been saying. She nodded and gave a vague smile that she hoped would cover all bases, hovering somewhere between sympathy, regret and wry amusement. Luckily, she seemed to have got away with it as Matthew smiled back at her. She should pay attention: be present in the moment. The trouble was she was crap at being ‘in the now’. She knew that because she had done a Buddhist meditation course, and she had totally flunked it. She had paid a hundred euro to sit cross-legged on the floor of a damp basement in Rathmines every night for six weeks while she thought about what to have for dinner and wondered if the very fit young monk who taught them would be really kind and non-judgmental in bed, or whether he was even allowed to have sex. She wondered where Jampa was now ...
‘So, what about you?’ Matthew asked her. ‘Haveyouever ...?’ He left the sentence hanging.
Fuck! She’d zoned out again. Ever what? Ever been married? Done a bungee jump? Hosted an orgy?What?
‘Um ... just the once,’ she said falteringly.
‘Oh.’ Matthew reared back, eyebrows raised. Lesley hoped she hadn’t admitted to hosting an orgy.
She was relieved when Helen gave the signal for the men to move places as a couple of teenage girls acting as waitresses for the evening started to clear the plates.
‘Finally! I’ve been waiting to sit here all evening.’ Al, a thirty-something architect, was giving her a twinkly smile as he took a seat beside her. He was tall and ramrod-straight; handsome in an old-fashioned matinee idol kind of way. She could picture him in an old black and white movie, all stiff upper lip and quiet dignity as he led his adoring troops off to their death, while he doled out encouragement in his clipped, officer-class English accent.
Al was good-looking and friendly, but she’d already ruled him out when they’d chatted briefly in the conservatory. She liked her men more rough and ready. Besides, everyone here was looking for a serious relationship, and she was in no hurry to get coupled up again.
‘I’ve never met a real-life private detective before,’ Al said. ‘That must be interesting.’
‘It is. Although there’s a fair amount of grunt work involved. It’s not all eating doughnuts out of a paper bag and watching people bonking through binoculars.’
‘It’s not?’ Al looked disappointed.
‘Well … it mostly is,’ Lesley said, feeling bad for shattering his illusions. ‘I just said that because I don’t like to boast.’
The fact wasshe’dnever met a real-life private detective either, but she’d decided it would be fun to pass herself off as one tonight. She’d always fancied herself as an amateur sleuth, and since she’d already decided she wouldn’t be seeing any of these people again, she figured there was no harm in it. Besides, it would be a lot more interesting for everyone else than struggling to make small talk about her freelance IT business.
‘What sort of work do you do?’ Al asked.
‘It’s mostly cheaters,’ she said.
‘Hence the bonking through binoculars. And is there a lot of demand for your services?’
‘Oh yeah, I’m kept pretty busy. There are a lot of love rats out there. You’d be surprised.’
‘Sorry for interrupting—’ Orla, sitting opposite her, leaned across the table ‘—but I know someone who could really use your services. Do you do honey traps, by any chance?’
‘Yes!’ Lesley said. ‘That’s my favourite kind of work.’
‘Honey traps?’ Ronan, beside her, asked, fingering his collar. ‘Is that a real thing?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And um ... how does it work exactly?’
‘Well, I get chatting to men on social media, play along if they get flirty with me, and see how far they go. Let them send me snaps of their tackle and whatnot. When they suggest meeting up in real life, bingo! I bring them down.’
‘Gosh,’ Ronan gulped. ‘Isn’t that—’
‘Brilliant!’ Orla said.
