I love travel, but hate airports, something to do with the crowds I think. Nevertheless, I decided to be patient despite the interminable comings and goings of gape-mouthed, gormless passengers and their loved ones. That's another minus point for airports; no one seems to know where they're going, I hate indecision. The bovine mass irked me, and my present domestic situation only exacerbated my discomfort.
Ivana's plane had landed and she would be here at any moment. I'd calculated about forty minutes from landing through baggage reclaim and out into the chaos of the arrivals hall, she was due at any time.
Then I saw her striking figure striding through the sliding doors. She spotted me and smiled in the same instant, patently ignoring the appreciative glances of the men she passed.
"Katy, darling." Her lips brushed my skin as she barely kissed me on both cheeks in the European style. "So good to see you again."
"You too, Vana." I took a moment to look her up and down, "You're as gorgeous as ever."
I didn't exaggerate, there she was in all her voluptuous beauty - tall, blonde, striking green eyes and that husky voice with the Eastern European intonation - No wonder she held such fascination for men, they were like moths to the flame.
Ivana was used to men; she knew their ways, which is hardly surprising when you consider her... occupation. A courtesan, a whore, a hooker, call it what you will, Ivana went with men for money. She's expensive though, her physical presence demands a high fee, and judging by the ever-present, hungry stares of the men in the arrivals hall, she was in great demand and was worth every penny.
During the times we've been out socially, I've seen her flick potential suitors away with a casual brush of her hand. A withering look from those icy-green eyes is usually enough, but I've seen more than one persistent individual left flared to a crisp, shrivelled husk in the heat of her aloof disdain and verbal belittling -- Ah, the poor moths.
We found the car and after negotiating the Heathrow spur, were soon speeding out of London heading West on the M4, heading to my cottage in the rolling Wiltshire countryside.
"So, tell me, how is Jared?" Ivana swivelled in the seat and I felt her eyes on me.
I flushed, "Gone." I felt uncomfortable,
Ivana had cut straight through the bullshit and she'd gotten right to the heart of my issues. "Gone? And how are you?"
I glanced across the divide between the seats and met Ivana's inquisitive, pale stare. I sighed and felt the fight drain out of me. It was as though someone had pulled the plug out of the bath and my emotions just sluiced down the drain. Hot tears welled and prickled.
"Not so okay?" Ivana's voice was soft and understanding. "I'm sorry, baby." Her hand touched my knee, "Shall we talk later?"
I nodded, grateful for her not pressing, I'd agonised over Jared's truculence enough. I'd picked at the scab of our degenerating marriage repeatedly, unable to resist, the way a child can't help but probe with its tongue at the space once occupied by a tooth. You know it's going to feel icky, but the draw is just too much.
"Thanks," I mumbled, trying to concentrate on the traffic.
How did I come to be associated with a very expensive escort, me, Katrina Jeffries, Barrister? It was very simple; we'd met as children long before Ivana drifted into the life she now led, long before I married an absolute pig.
Ivana's story really is one of ugly duckling turns into beautiful swan. The first time I ever set eyes on her, and I can recall the moment with clarity, she was a skinny, knock-kneed girl wearing the rattiest sweater I'd ever seen.
A Polish immigrant who'd managed to wriggle from behind the Iron Curtain, her father had packed her off to school in whatever he could find, expecting his seven-year-old daughter to cope as best she could. He wasn't managing too well himself at that time, a widower in a strange country, and with a seven year old in tow, hardly the best of starts.
Ivana wasn't faring well when I saw her in the playground, surrounded by a group of kids of both sexes, kids who were amusing their spiteful selves by taunting, calling her names, and making fun of her clothes. Even with her limited English, Ivana knew that what they were saying was nasty and she just stood, immobile, staring down at the ground down by her worn and scuffed shoes.
My childish heart ached for her, she looked so lonely, so sad, but I was powerless to stop them, there were too many, I was too young, and besides I was afraid. The only way I could help was to go to her when the crowd ran off collectively, suddenly bored with the sullen tramp. She looked at me with mistrust when I approached, and who could blame her, but I smiled at her and held out my hand. Ivana looked from my hand to my face.
I nodded and smiled: "I'm Katy," I said simply. "What's your name?"
She must have seen something in my smile that gave her confidence. I can only assume that she recognised some kindness, for she reached out slowly, ever so slowly, and touched the tips of my fingers. She was like a shy, tiny animal that wants to trust, but is reticent by nature. Our fingers touched and Ivana smiled at last.
"Ivana." I heard her speak for the first time. We clasped hands, friends, and walked away to a quiet corner away from the madding crowd.
Twenty years had passed and now we were no longer the innocents we were, doubly so in Ivana's case. Her father had returned to Poland a couple of years after the breaching of the Berlin Wall, Ivana followed him, fell upon hard times in Krakow... It's an old story; you can figure it out for yourself.
I continued my pampered existence, pre-destined, all mapped out for me anyway, exams, university, the legal profession, marriage to Jared, a bright star in the City... Another old story, I won't bore you with details.
Ivana and I managed to stay in contact, despite the miles, the years, and the gulf of cultural divide. We'd met more and more often as Ivana grew more affluent and she acquired the means to travel as she wished. Now, here she was again, just in time to witness my marriage crumble.
"He's a pig." She pronounced it 'pick', never seeming to shake her accent in spite of the years she'd spent in England - Or perhaps she cultivated the enunciation? I would imagine it would be a hit with some of her clients. "He doesn't deserve you." This came out as 'deh-serf'.
We sat on the comfortable sofas, on opposite sides of the room but facing each other. It was already dark outside, a consequence of autumnal England, but Ivana and I were securely ensconced in the cottage. We had locked doors, music, and red wine enough to sink a small boat.
I laughed, genuinely laughed, at Ivana's candid summation of my husband's qualities. "Don't hold back, Ivana," I grinned, "Don't sit on the fence."
Ivana flashed a wicked grin in return and swirled the dark red liquid around her glass. She looked pleased, as though she'd scored a point in some game.
"What about you?" I asked, "Why no man in your life?" I rolled my eyes at the gaffe, "Well, I mean no significant man."
