Short Story Sunday: Svetlana

It had started as a joke, an idea for a prank to send Horace into married life with a funny, yet embarrassing story to tell. The website had promised Svetlana, a dark Russian beauty whose lineage could be traced to the Tsars. Only, Reginald hadn't actually expected to fall in love with her and her surprisingly good English over email. He adjusted his collar, which seem to stiffen against his neck with each passing minute. She had promised to be there, in a red dress like the Chris de Burgh song. She had promised.

The other diners seemed oblivious to his presence; he was relieved. He hardly felt like explaining himself to some nosy acquaintance, which is why this place, La Traviata, seemed perfect. A waiter hovered at the kitchen door. Three old timers grunted around a table, the ice tinkling against the tumblers as they slurped on whiskey. A playboy leant against the bar and smirked his way through a conversation with Imelda, the barmaid. Some kind of symphony rose in a crescendo of violins in the background. Behind him, the
Maître d' swooped on all the new arrivals. No sign of her yet. He toyed with a breadstick while he waited. The concept of fashionable lateness had never quite appealed to him and he couldn't fathom why on earth women took so long to preen and fluff and paint in front of mirrors. The Maître d' moved to the door again. Still not her. 

The past few weeks had been the happiest in his life. Ever since he'd decided to give Horace a fright by setting him up with a mail order bride two weeks before his actual wedding, Reginald had been secretly planning the grand reveal. Obviously he couldn't just invite some random woman into their lives. He'd needed to do research, to find out what all this entailed. After trawling a variety of sites, some of which promised things he'd never actually heard of, he firstly decided he would never again do that kind of research at work and secondly that he would go for the more discreet, more professional sites. A few charges to the credit card later and he was in. The money didn't bother him so much. Edmund and Stewie had promised to reimburse him the full cost of the prank. Well, a third each, anyway. So it hadn't seemed all that exorbitant when his bill swelled into thousands. He'd only be paying a third.

Besides, she was beautiful. And classy. She'd asked him about opera, fine wines and even recommended a Dostoyevsky he hadn't known existed. Despite the horror stories he'd read in the The Morning Post, she was eloquent and erudite -- a far cry from those Eastern European scallywags who preyed on men of a certain age. She was too perfect. He found himself dreaming of her, imagining her warm body next to his. Except he'd have to banish the image because he wasn't doing it for himself. It was for Horace. For Horace. How they would laugh when the story came out. The Maître d' approached his table. He looked up at the businesslike smile and felt a shadow fall over his evening.

"Signor Thistlethwaite? I deeply apologise, sir. These men here wish to speak with you." He stood back and two trench coats stepped forward. 
"I will leave you to it, signore." The Maître d' retreated.
Reginald swallowed. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"
"You are Reginald Thistlethwaite?"
"Yes."
"Mr Thistlethwaite, we have reason to believe that you have been conducting business of a clandestine nature. We should like you to accompany us to the police station."
"Business? What business? There must be some mistake." Reginald's collar threatened to choke him.
"Sir, we would prefer not to discuss this here," said the second trench coat.
"Now see here," he steeled himself, "I have no idea who you are and I have a right to know what I am being accused of. I am a decent tax-paying citizen and I'm not going with you."
The trench coats exchanged looks. The first spoke again. "Might we sit down, sir?"
Reginald gestured at the seats opposite him. 
"We understand you are meeting a young woman here tonight, Mr Thistlethwaite."
Reginald paled.
"Svetlana Aranov. Is that correct?"
He nodded.
"Are you aware, Mr Thistlethwaite, that she is a sixteen year old student at Crawley High School?"
He slumped in his chair. The world was a blur.
"We believe, Mr Thistlethwaite, that you have fallen prey to an organised crime syndicate. Did you provide any details, such as your credit card, to her?"
His head lolled.
"Can you explain to us, please, why you were interacting with an underaged girl on the internet?"
His mouth tasted of parchment. "It was a joke. All a joke."
The second trench coat snickered. "A joke, sir?"
"My friend Horace is getting married. We were going to set him up with her as a joke."
"Now there's one I haven't heard."
The first trench coat glared at him. "So, why the contact and the meeting here, sir? This is quite a drive from where you live." 
"Neutral territory. I wanted to make sure she was who she said she was."
"In a restaurant like La Traviata? Good god, man! You could have met her at a post office or a parking lot."
"Sounds to me like he likes her, Bill."
"I think you may be right, Fred."
"So do you think he planned on wooing her tonight?"
"Most definitely. I'm sure he ordered the meal in advance. Oysters and such. For wooing."
Reginald felt himself burning up. "It wasn't like that."
"With all due respect, sir, that's what they all say."
"Come on, Reggie. The game is up. Svetlana isn't coming. But you're coming with us. How does ten to fifteen sound to you? Mind you, Bill, I don't think orange suits his pallor."
"Lord no! We'll put in a request to get him the white and grey stripes."

He felt disjointed as they shuffled him out of the restaurant, the glares of the other diners and the Maître d' trailing him, Bill and Fred. There was no Svetlana, only shame.