Purely Decorative

by Angelina Cabo

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Purely Decorative

  by

  Angelina Cabo

  Purely Decorative

  Written by Angelina Cabo

  Published by Mojito Press

  Copyright © 2011 Angelina Cabo

  Cover Art copyright © 2011 by Graphicz X Designs

  Author's Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or be any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  February 2011

  website: www.angelinacabo.com

  publisher: www.mojitopress.com

  for Lisa

  wherever she may be

  Chapter 1

  Zoë woke with a start. The alarm clock on the bedside table was singing its heart out with an irritatingly repetitive repertoire that was jangling her nerves. She leant over and gave it a good thump, realising in that same moment that something was wrong, that the clock-face was reading four-thirty, not three-thirty as it was supposed to, and that unless she was very much mistaken, she was, at that very moment, exactly one hour behind schedule.

  She leapt off the bed, grabbed her bag from beneath a huge pile of dirty clothes that threatened to avalanche at any moment, ran out of the bedroom and then bounded down the stairs two at a time, slipping on the fourth step from the bottom so that she had to leap the final flight to land gracelessly but firmly with a noisy thump. She recovered her balance, dashed to the front door, opened it, then made the fatal error of glancing at herself in the hall mirror.

  'Oh shit!' she said as she surveyed the wreckage that passed for Zoë Burns. She closed her eyes momentarily and took a deep breath; there was no way she could serve at the bar looking like that. She reached up and tugged at her hair. No one would believe that just two weeks previously she had spent three hours at The Cutting Edge having a precision cut by Daniel that had cost her thirty pounds... thirty pounds that she could ill afford.

  Her reflection showed no finesse now, for her hair was sticking out in small clumps at many and differing angles, leaving small, virtually bald patches between the spiky clusters, the legacy of her comatose afternoon in bed. But she had needed to sleep, had been desperate for a few hours nap, although this luxury had, she could now see, taken its own toll, and the heavy lines under her eyes would need more than casual disguise if she was to look presentable to the Sizzlers clientele.

  She remembered a time, not so long ago, when she could party all day and all night for weeks on end, and never show the signs of the abuse that she heaped on her body. Not for her the debilitating hangovers, the pale skin, the bloodshot eyes, the telltale yawns and loss of concentration. Oh no, she was a trooper, a party-soldier, marching into battle every night, never fearing the hardships that awaited the intrepid pleasure-seeker. People would remark on her amazing ability to keep going. Her friends made jokes about it, how, after a party, when everyone else would go home and collapse into bed, Zoë would simply plug herself into the mains for a few hours, and then when she was fully recharged, she'd be out on the town again. Zoë "Burns At Both Ends" was her nickname, but she didn't mind. She liked her reputation. In America they would have called her a party animal. Here in London they simply called her crazy.

  She looked again in the mirror; was it possible that at the grand old age of twenty-three she had burnt herself out? Barely out of teenage years and already over the hill? Zoë shuddered; no way, she thought as she rushed to the bathroom, grabbed her hairdryer, a bottle of shampoo and a towel, stuffed them into her brightly coloured shoulder bag and, avoiding her reflection this time, opened the front door and stepped swiftly out into the cool evening. She glanced quickly at her watch; if she was lucky, if a bus came along right now, if she wasn't held up in traffic, and if she made a dash for it at the other end, she might just reach Sizzlers in time. Mind you, it would take a few minutes to make herself presentable, but as long as she had shown her face, Maurice couldn't have a go at her. Well, he could... in fact, he probably would, but that was Maurice. It wasn't really important, but she just didn't want to go through the hassle of having to apologise for her lateness again.

  As Zoë rounded the corner she saw the bus, her bus, waiting at the stop, and immediately broke into a run, her arms flailing to attract the attention of the driver; he would surely see her in his mirror.

  She was only ten yards away when he started to pull off. She couldn't believe it! She chased after him, caught up for just a moment, just enough time to bang heavily on the glass doors, but to no avail. The bus accelerated away and left Zoë standing in the road, dripping with sweat, and cursing at the top of her voice.

  'Shithead!' she screamed, more for her sake than the bus driver's.

  She walked back to the bus stop, and only then noticed the two elderly women who must have been standing there all along. Zoë suddenly felt embarrassed. She lived in a quiet, rather respectable neighbourhood - not out of choice, she would add whenever anyone asked her - and this little outburst would have looked decidedly out of place. She didn't like to offend people, even strangers; it was something to do with her upbringing. Shocking her friends, her contemporaries, her peers was one thing. But to upset elderly folk and young children... well, that would never do.

  Zoë smiled meekly at the two women. She knew they had been watching her. They could have been sisters; both were wearing sensible shoes, thick tights, heavy tweed overcoats and woollen hats. They wore identical, standard issue Health Service spectacles, heavily applied foundation, and too much rouge. They looked like the grandmothers that Zoë had never known. Zoë felt sure she must have offended them; she shrugged her shoulders apologetically.

  One of the women, the older one, smiled back kindly, then reached out and patted Zoë's right hand.

  'Men are bastards,' said the woman, almost conspiratorially. Her friend narrowed her eyes and nodded vigorously, then looked at Zoë sympathetically. Zoë smiled, and gave a nod of agreement, before bursting into a moment's joyous laughter, much to her new companions' confusion. If she had not been in such a hurry, she would have liked to talk to these two strangers, to tell them about herself, to hear about them, their lives. Zoë knew so few people in the area, and suspected that she had little in common with her neighbours, but that didn't stop her from being inquisitive. Who were these women, who had probably lived in the same suburban North London street for most of their lives? Were they married? Widowed? Did they have grown-up children of whom they were proud? Or did they, like so many of the old timers at Sizzlers, complain endlessly about having raised a bunch of good-for-nothings who never came to visit?

  She would have loved to have known. But there was no time for idle chit-chat. She was now going to be very late, and Maurice would tear a strip off her for sure. Consequently, it was with some relief that, when she next looked along the street, she saw another bus heading towards her.

  ***

  Zoë sat upstairs at the front on the
right and gazed out of the window. It was now getting dark, and she sensed it would be a cold night. March was her least favourite month, having neither the crisp certitude of a wintry February, nor the brighter promise of a springtime April. March was just cold and damp, a colourless, dull time: the year's limbo.

  She reached into her huge bag and fished around for her cigarettes and lighter. After lighting up she went on another foray into the wilderness of canvas and cloth and eventually found her book. She opened it and read chapter six. Again. It was the chapter entitled "Resistance to Change", and she knew that, more than anything she had read so far, the words within applied to her.

  She started to read again the words of wisdom carefully, trying to absorb them on not just an intellectual level, but emotionally too. But it was tough. She really didn't go for these self-help books, but her friend Justine had raved about it, and she didn't like to dismiss things without giving them a chance. Besides, the changes in Justine had been remarkable, and she'd claimed they were all down to the book.

  However, there was, to Zoë's mind, something a bit dubious about "self-help" books in general, and she didn't much like the idea that there were people in the world who claimed to understand all about the emotional well-being of the individual, or how to increase one's own happiness and contentedness. Everyone's journey was unique, thought Zoë, and what applied to one person wasn't necessarily relevant to others.

  Besides, Zoë didn't care to admit that she needed a book like this. She liked to think of herself as well-balanced and in charge. After all, when people were in trouble, especially with relationships, they always turned to her for help. And she was good when it came to advising them; she could see things clearly, could separate the important matters from the trivial, could help put things in perspective. It was one of her strengths.

  Which made her own failure at relationships all the more galling.

  She must have been halfway through the chapter when, out of the corner of her eye she saw someone sit down in the seat across the aisle from her. She gazed up momentarily, curiosity masquerading as reflex, and saw a young, attractive man shift into a relaxed position on the seat. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a brightly coloured batik shirt open at the neck, well-cut jeans and clean, almost brand-new trainers. He had short, well-groomed hair and was clean-shaven.

  Beautiful bone-structure, thought Zoë, admiring his chiselled features. She guessed he'd be about six feet tall; she liked tall, slim men, and this guy was built just about right.

  She could only have been looking at him for a second or two when he looked across at her and, in one sweeping look, casually appraised her. Zoë was used to this sort of thing; it came with the territory. She knew she was what people called “strikingly attractive” and even when her hair was a mess and she had bags under her eyes, she was no hag. And this guy had been quite subtle about it. She liked that. It was just a little bit of ego boosting, but there was no harm in that.

  She smiled back then returned her attention to the book, and suddenly felt a wave of embarrassment pulse through her. Shit. He would have seen the book, registered its title, and made an assessment, wholly misguided, about what sort of woman she was. She knew what she would think if she saw someone reading a book called "You Can Heal Your Life".

  She closed the book swiftly, stuffed it back in her bag, quickly lit another cigarette and then set her gaze very deliberately out the window. She puffed away a little manically, knowing all the while that she was behaving stupidly, irrationally. Firstly, what did it matter what this guy thought of her? He was a total stranger, she would never see him again, he was irrelevant to her life. Secondly, for all she knew, he could be a big fan of the book; perhaps he had read it and it had already changed his life. Thirdly, he may not even have noticed it. Fourthly... oh hell, what did it matter anyway?

  Zoë castigated herself for such foolish behaviour, for overreacting. She knew that she should have more pride in herself. More self-confidence; wasn't that what the book was about, loving yourself, not allowing other people's opinions to wound or damage? It just showed her how far she still had to go. For no matter how independent she claimed to be, or how self-assured and self-sufficient she appeared, deep down, like everyone else, she was just a scared little child, desperate for love, affection and approval. Especially approval.

  Everyone's so scared, she mused; so worried about what other people thought. She stubbed out her cigarette with her heel; she was nearing her stop. As she grabbed her bag to get up, she looked across the aisle. He was still sitting there, only now he was reading a magazine. He didn't look up; he was wholly engrossed in the pages. Zoë glanced at the magazine. Was that what she thought it was? She peered a little more intently: a colour photograph of a naked woman bent over a table, her legs splayed, her ankles tied to the table legs. A naked man wearing just a black mask, holding a whip in his right hand...

  Zoë felt sick. The guy looked up from the pages and smiled at her, only it was not a teasing or pleasant look; it was lascivious and coarse, a smile that invited her to take part in the sort of cruel, demeaning fantasies portrayed in the pages of the magazine with which he was so engrossed. Even as she was standing, the guy was turning the pages, opening them wider so she could see the pictures more clearly. And to think, she had felt embarrassed because she had been reading a book that would, supposedly, make her a better, more sensitive human being. She wanted to rip the disgusting magazine out of his hands, tear it to shreds. She wanted to wipe the smirk off his face.

  She wanted to kick him in the balls.

  He was still smiling at her. She slung the bag over her shoulder. 'Pervert', she muttered under her breath as she marched away and leapt down the stairs.

  She jumped off the bus as it approached the stop, her face red with anger and shame. Men are bastards, she thought, as she ran towards the wine bar and the evening's work that awaited her.

  Chapter 2

  Zoë was washing her hair in the sink in the Ladies when she heard her name being yelled out over the music that was now pulsing in the wine bar. It was Maurice. She had managed to sneak into Sizzlers without seeing him, and had hoped to make herself respectable before the confrontation, so avoiding any charges he might make about her appearance as well as her lateness. "You're late again," he would say, then, taking one look at her, sigh and say "And what a mess. I can't have you walking around here looking like that..." at which point Zoë would have to start apologising or calming him down or whatever it took. Maurice didn't mean anything by it; he was a rather sweet, ineffectual man who unfortunately couldn't relax. He had high blood pressure and was always worrying. But he liked her; she knew that, and she often used it to her advantage.

  'Zoë!'

  'What!' she yelled back. She grabbed the towel from her bag and started to rub her hair vigorously. If she could just snatch another ten minutes without interruption; three minutes to blow-dry her hair (it was short and forgiving under hot air) another three minutes to change her clothes and four minutes to throw some paint on her face. Then Maurice would forgive her everything; especially if she wore her short black leather skirt; he was hopeless when she wore short skirts.

  She lit a cigarette, plugged the hairdryer in and started wafting it about her head. The music – Madonna's "Into The Groove" - was still thumping away. She glanced at her watch; the bar had been open for just ten minutes, and there wouldn't be more than two or three customers at the most. She knew that Sean was already in the bar, so there really was no reason to panic. Although Maurice wouldn't see it that way; he would be in a state, and she would have to be tough with him. Poor old Maurice.

  She unplugged the dryer, chucked it in the bag then ran her fingers through her hair several times. Great. She slipped out of her jeans and t-shirt and into the black leather skirt and a black silk top. Blusher, eye shadow and lipstick took care of the rest. She stood up, straightened her clothes, took one last look in the mirror and smiled. She was a transformed woman; by her
own admission, she looked gorgeous. She felt great.

  She stepped out into the corridor, and there was Maurice bearing down on her, his face a contortion of anxiety and misplaced anger.

  'Where've you been... you're late.'

  Zoë smiled her cutest smile. 'Sorry Maurice, only, you know how it is.' She had miscalculated. This flippancy, intended to placate him and lighten his mood, seemed only to enrage him still further.

  'No I don't know how it is. I don't pay you to turn up half an hour late...'

  'Stop hassling me... I missed the bus, okay?'

  Maurice snorted. 'Then next time take a taxi.'

  'Fuck off Maurice... what makes you think I can afford to travel in taxis on what you pay me?'

  'If you were more careful with your money and didn't throw it around like it was going out of style... don't give me that look Zoë; you're irresponsible, and I can't afford to have my staff behave like this. What if there'd been a rush?'

  Zoë raised her eyes heavenward. 'Maurice, you have never had a rush in Sizzlers. If you were giving away free booze you wouldn't have a rush. Not at five-thirty on a weekday. Now just calm down. See, I'm all ready. And I look adorable, don't you think?' Zoë did a twirl right there. Maurice looked on appreciatively.

  'I don't know why I keep you on.'

  'Because you like looking at my legs. And so do most of your customers.' She knew that would do the trick. Maurice started to redden, and Zoë reached out and ran her fingers through his thinning hair, leant forward and kissed him on the forehead. 'You're so cute when you're angry.'