Marx Girl

But do I even want him home, knowing this about him? I’m so fucking confused.

I run my hand through my hair as my stomach churns.

What if it’s all a big hoax and they are just having some fun with me?

Who am I kidding? They didn’t know that my damn phone was going to record them. I don’t even know why it does it. I wonder how I could find out if the booking is real?

I think for a moment, and then I Google ‘Park Hyatt, Prague’ and the number comes up.

Hmm, I tap my foot double time as I think. Use your brain, Bridget, think of a plan.

I look up and glance over the crowd. I know! I click on the number. It rings and the receptionist answers.

“Good evening, Park Hyatt, Desiree speaking,” she answers in a heavy accent.

Shit.

My eyes widen. “Hello. I was wondering if you could tell me if my husband has checked in yet, please? Our flights have been on different schedules and I don’t want to wake him. He said he might check in early.” I screw up my face. What the hell am I doing? “Room 278… in the name of Taylor?” I add.

“Sure, just a minute.” I hear her keyboard clicking and she returns. “Yes, that’s right, the booking is here, but he doesn’t check in until later today. I’m sorry.”

My stomach drops and my eyes close. Damn it, Ben. I put my hand over my mouth as my heart hammers in my chest. I get a vision of him checking into the hotel, oblivious to what’s about to happen. What do I do? Quick, think!

“He forgot to get a second key. Can you leave one at reception for me or him to pick up, please?” I ask hopefully.

“Yes, of course.” I hear her typing.

“Next, please,” The airline check-in girl calls, and I glance up at the line in front of me that has somehow disappeared.

Shit.

“Thank you,” I reply to the girl on the phone and hang up, and then I move up to my place at the check in desk.

She’s blonde, cute, and I hope she’s feeling helpful. “How are you today?” She smiles.

“I’m good.” I smile back as I hand over my passport. “There’s been a change of plans, though.”

She glances up from her computer. “Why is that?”

“I need to change my flight,” I say hopefully.

“Of course. Where to?”

“Prague.”

Seven hours later…

“Can you drive faster, please?”

The cab driver frowns at me in the rearview mirror.

“Hurry,” I mouth as I point toward the road to symbolise going faster.

He nods and picks up his speed. It’s 7:00 on the night that Ben is supposed to be doing whatever it is he is doing. I’m not sure if I am even going to make it.

But I am very sure that there are three things that you never ever should do in your life.

One: change your flight at the last minute and fly from Sydney, Australia to Prague. Because there is no direct route. I have had two stopovers in Bangkok and Vienna. I have not been in a bed for thirty-two hours. Delirious doesn’t come close to how I feel, and my temper is next level high.

Two: be seated next to someone on said flight who has the intense body odour of a troll. And this is after you have not slept for twenty-four hours and have had to have three drinks to try and block out the smell, only to end up being rude and asking him to go and put some deodorant on. He now hates me and I’m okay with that.

My conscience is clear, you dirty, smelly man.

Three: have a phone that randomly records shit.

Shit that shouldn’t be heard by unsuspecting eavesdroppers.

I was just happily minding my own business.

I’ve overheard a conversation that I don’t even know is real, and if I have flown on this hell trip over here for nothing, Ben’s life is in real danger from me. Forget about faulty cars. I’m just going for a king hit straight to his skull.

We drive through the streets of Prague and my heart is beating fast. It’s dark and I can’t see anything, not that I can focus, anyway.

What if I get to the room and he’s not there? What if the two men are there waiting?

My eyes widen.

What if Ben’s already dead?

Nobody knows I’m here.

I’m a travel agent and I know not to do this. Any of this.

The car slows, and he pulls into the circular driveway. “Here you are, miss.” The driver smiles over his seat.

“Ah, thank you,” I whisper as the blood drains from my face. I peer out the window at the hotel in front of me. It looks safe enough. Too bad it isn’t.

What the hell am I doing? I nervously hand over my credit card and he swipes it and retrieves my bags from the trunk. The concierge greets me. “Can I take your bags, ma’am?”