Wild Horses (3 page)

“Wild horses, couldn't drag me away.

Wild wild horses, we'll ride them
someday.

Wild horses, couldn't drag me away.

Wild wild horses, we'll ride them
someday.”

I knew I was going to do it!

I raised the subject, tentatively, in a
nonchalant voice, as though I didn't really give a toss at all.
Paula was sitting at the breakfast table, flicking through the
Saturday morning newspaper. Her hair, a very deep black, was tied
up into a rather severe looking bun, but she appeared calm
enough.

“I was thinking I might go somewhere, on my
leave,” I announced, slipping onto a chair opposite her. I stirred
my coffee, waiting for a reaction. There was none. I had almost
eight weeks owing, and the company were writing to me monthly now,
asking when I would be taking some of it, they didn't like it
accruing. And there was a handsome payout that would come with it,
thanks to a clause I had negotiated into my package some years
back. I had argued for it so that we could holiday together, but we
never did. I would be using it for myself this time. I wasn't sure
what Paula would say, and I had even less an idea about what I was
going to do if she hit the roof, if she shouted it down, or argued
vigorously against it.

“I thought I would go overseas for a while,
maybe two weeks, maybe three. I don't want to waste my leave, and I
get that payout. I don't want to sit around the house wishing I was
doing something.”

This time she glanced up at me, across the
table. Her reading glasses were on. It always made her look a bit
older.

“Sure Ryan,” she said crisply. “You should.
You work hard. Go for four weeks if you like.”

The thought that leapt into my mind
immediately was – she’s having an affair, she wants me gone. I
studied her carefully. Her expression was like granite.

“You don’t mind?” I asked eventually,
probing, waiting for the reaction.

“No honey,” she said cheerfully. “Mandy and I
can look after ourselves. Go. Enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks darling. I really appreciate it, you
letting me go on my own.”

“We were only there, in Paris, last year,”
she reminded me. “I don't think I could do that again this year. I
love Paris. But I loathe the travel. Twenty-four hours on a plane,
it makes me shudder.”

Her voice quivered as she said it.

“I’ll get online and see what I can book,” I
said brightly, trying to keep the rising excitement out of my
voice.

“Where will you go?” Paula asked. Her voice
was dispassionate.

“London of course.”

“Of course.”

She knew how much I loved London.

“And I thought I would go to Eastern Europe
this time. Prague maybe. Budapest.”

She nodded, and returned to her newspaper. I
went for the laptop, and navigated to the Qantas site.

The last time I saw her online was a Tuesday
evening. I replayed that moment, in my mind, as I reclined in the
dimmed fuselage, charging through the night at 30,000 feet, bound
for London. I had started my leave period. I had six weeks. And
several thousand dollars in my account. Barely two days had passed,
in the past few weeks, when I had not at least greeted her online.
One of the private chats had cost me just short of $100. I
considered it money very well spent. Some of the sessions included
sex – well, masturbation. I had needs, and it was hard to resist a
very attractive brunette, lying naked on the top of her bed, even
if she was thousands of miles away, and visible, and audible, only
via the internet and the laptop computer that was now folded shut
on the meals tray in front of me. We were in private. I had the
headphones on, and I was speaking very softly. It was late, near
1am. A day before I was due to fly out. We’d been talking for over
twenty minutes.

“I’m keeping you from your other clients,” I
said, when I glanced down at the clock. I was thinking of my long
suffering credit card balance as well.

“It’s okay.”

I knew she had other clients. Of course she
did. I had spent the whole of a single day sulking, body shaking,
carrying on like a schoolboy denied a treat, because she had been
“unavailable” every time I had tried to log on to her page – “this
model is currently performing live” the message read. For someone
else! I realized.

“Well. This will be last time for a while
Svetla,” I announced, my voice pensive. Svetla was what I called
her now. I had told her, some weeks ago, that I needed a name. “No
names,” she had said, finger waving in front of her lips. But I
hastened to add, “not your real name, just a name, I can't keep
calling you sweetgirl 34.” She had considered it, and then said,
“okay, you can call me Svetla, that is a nice name.”

“You’re leaving me?” she cried, when she had
heard me saying it would be the last time online for a while. “I
will be so sad.”

“Not leaving you baby. Couldn't leave you,
baby. I’ve got to go on a long trip, overseas.”

“Well, they will still have internet. Unless
you are in somewhere wild,” she protested.

“I’m going to be in Europe.”

“I’m in Europe,” she said needlessly. “Is it
for business or pleasure, your trip?”

“Pleasure. I’m on leave.”

“Good for you Ryan.” (I'd told her my name. I
had been pretty hammered that night. But once she had given me a
name, she of course wanted one for me. And I had, stupidly I guess,
given her my real name).

“Well. I will be going soon,” I said softly,
my voice hushed. Partly because I was in the marital home, even
though the study door was shut tightly, and partly because I knew
what I was going to say next was high risk. It was unwise. It was
completely bonkers. “I’m going to be in Prague.”

“It's a beautiful city,” she assured me.

“Maybe you can show me around?’

“No, no, no,” she said briskly. “We can never
even talk about it. You know that. No names. No meetings. If you
ask to meet me, I have to block you, that is the rules. Not for me
only, but for everyone here.”

I knew it. I'd scrolled through them,
wondering if I could be barred from the entire site. Banned. For
trying to meet one of the models. For even the hint of harassment,
of stalking. I had guessed the answer would be “absolutely, yes”
and I was right. “Any model who feels intimated, pressured, or
receives unreasonable requests, including requests for real names,
identities, phone numbers, to meet in person, or any other personal
details, will report that client to the administrator. Clients
behaving in such a manner will be banned permanently from the
site.”

“Oh well,” I said with resignation. “Just
dreaming I suppose. You're just so amazing.”

I leaned toward the camera, and planted kiss
on it. On her.

“Thank you Ryan. You can see me online, any
time.”

It wasn’t enough.

“Just one meeting, no pressure, no…”

That was as far as I got. A message flashed
up on the screen – “this model has blocked you.”

That was how the last conversation had ended.
I preferred to remember the one before that. Maybe it was two
before that. It had filled me with real hope, and I had even
started to dare, and to wonder, and to think it may be
possible.

“What are you thinking?” she had asked,
seeing that I was reclining in my chair, arms behind my head.

“Just admiring you.”

“You are so nice. You want me naked now?”

“No?” I'd said flippantly.

“You don't want to see me naked?”

“Of course I do baby. You are amazing with no
clothes on, you drive me crazy with no clothes on. Your body is
awesome.” I was speaking passionately, looking down the camera with
purpose. It was something I had thought about saying, for weeks.
Now I was saying it. “But you are amazing with clothes on as
well.”

Her face filled the screen. I could really
see the flaws in her skin now, as her lips loomed large in my
vision and she kissed her camera. When she reappeared in the
screen, she looked as though she were about to cry.

“You are too nice. I really like to talk with
you, because you are not like the other men here.”

“Svetla,” I had said plainly. “It's because
I’m in love with you.”

She had kissed the camera again after this.
She said nothing in response. And I changed the subject. I
remembered that exchange, because it was then that I had resolved
that I needed to at least float the idea, and canvas the
possibility. Even so, I had known all along that it was crazy,
going to Prague, and that final session, when she blocked me (as
she should have, I had told myself, on reflection) had confirmed
it. What was I expecting to happen now? That I would bump into her
on the subway? It was bonkers. But I was still going anyway.

I knew “Svetla” was here somewhere. That's
why I had come here, to Prague. That's why I had acted out this
insanely stupid plan, to fly around the world, at considerable
expense, starting in London, and then travelling by train, through
Brussels (a place I loved anyway!), on to Frankfurt, Munich, then
Vienna (another of my favorite cities!), and then, finally, to the
domed, art deco interior of Praha Hlvani Nadrazi – the main railway
station in Prague. The first, brisk walk, out of the hotel, once I
had alighted from the taxi, checked in, and arranged my luggage,
through the cobblestoned courtyard that dominated Kampa Island,
surrounded on each side by restaurants, by hotels (including mine),
and dotted with stalls selling gifts, local produce, and wine, and
by sausages turning on barbecues, and by women wearing white
aprons, pouring lager from wooden kegs - the moment I saw it, and
felt the vibrancy, and took in the centuries old buildings, I knew
I loved Prague – desperately. The ascent, up a stone staircase,
that took me onto the Charles Bridge, only confirmed it. The
statues I passed, every few feet, were like an honor guard,
watching silently as they had done down through the centuries, over
those who passed this way. And many did! The bridge thronged with
human traffic, all jostling for room at the stone railings, for a
photo of the river flowing meekly beneath, and of the Medieval
gates at either end. The flow of people across the bridge was in
the direction of a narrow street that opened out into the most
wonderfully ornate town square I had ever seen. I found a place at
an outdoor restaurant, facing the Jan Hus monument, and admired the
centuries old buildings that closed in the cobblestones on each
side. This place was like a fairytale kingdom I thought – it was
like stepping back in time. Svetla or not, it was more than worth
the time, and the expense, and the trouble, it had taken to get
here. A waiter appeared, with the plate of local sausages I had
ordered - bratwurst it looked like, topped with onion and chili –
and the Czech beer that would accompany it. I thanked him, and as I
did, my spirits soared. I knew what I was going to do now!

When I reached my hotel, the very first
thing I did was to organize an internet connection, dialing
reception for a password. I logged onto the livegirls site
immediately. I could still access it, she had not complained to the
site operator and had me banished permanently. But I was still
blocked from entering her chat room. Never mind, I could still see
her biography, and the photos, and I knew there was a button there
called “send me a message.” I clicked on it, and it opened a form,
into which I could type a message, that would be sent to her
directly, by email. I thought carefully about what I would write.
The words flowed easily, and quickly. It was still bonkers, but it
was worth one, final, pleading note. Now that I was here. After
that, and after she had stood me up for the final time, and blocked
me, and probably had my membership of the site revoked altogether –
then maybe I could move on, enjoy the rest of my time in Europe, go
back home, and get over it, and put her, and Prague, behind me! My
fingers danced over the keyboard. I read it through once, corrected
two typos, and then moved the cursor over the “send” button. My
finger lingered over it, but a voice within was telling me that if
I thought about it for too long I would hesitate, and lose my
nerve, and spend the rest of my two days here walking about,
wishing I had sent it, before my time here came to an end, as it
must. A text box flashed up on the screen – “your message to
sweetgirl34 has been delivered.” Now all there was to do was to
wait, and to eat lunch in the old square, at the restaurant I had
visited that day.

It was on the second day, my last day in
Prague, that she came. I was half way through the bratwurst and
onion – I was addicted to it now – with tomato sauce and chili
smeared over my lips, when I became aware that she was standing
there, right in front of me, just inches away. I knew it was her,
before I saw her. I was sitting at the very end of the rows of cane
chairs and linen topped tables, just in case. So I could look for
her, across the square. But I hadn't noticed her approaching. The
food was just too good, and the beer was cold. But there she was.
Standing erect, brown hair lifting gently in the breeze, with Jan
Hus rising over her in a reddish bronze.

“Ryan,” she said simply.

“Svetla. You came. Sit down.”

She did. Her smile was just as radiant, and
just as exhilarating, as it was online, only more so of course, in
real life, not just real time. And she was every bit as angelic as
I had pictured her, and as I knew she would be, in the flesh. It
was a thin smile though, and her expression was one of some
discomfort, as though she were not sure she ought to be here. As
she looked, expectantly, across the little table between us, I knew
two things immediately – One, it was over now, I could go home, and
live out the rest of my life, just grateful for this moment. Two, I
had been a jerk.