Purely Decorative

by Angelina Cabo

  Jesus, weren't people allowed to be spontaneous any more?

  She passed the joint back to Clive and reached for the phone, pulling it down onto the carpet.

  'Oh come on Zoë; have a heart.'

  Zoë dialled the number of her local mini-cab firm. She could hear the phone ringing on the other end. She looked at the clock; it was three in the morning.

  'I got rid of my heart a long time ago Clive; it was just more trouble than it was worth... hello? Yes, could I have a cab please...'

  Chapter 4

  It was dark, very dark. Somewhere in the distance Zoë could hear a ringing sound which repeated over and over. But it was far away, not important. She shifted into another, cooler part of the bed, buried her cheek into the soft, comforting pillow. It felt so good, and she was so tired. She didn't have to get up; it was early. She would just... drift... off...

  The telephone rang again, and this time it was persistent enough to drag her out of the soft, dark daze of sleep and into the harsh, metallic light of morning. She reached out from under the covers, her hand fumbling for the phone. She grasped the handset and snatched it back under the covers, and into the warmth of her bed.

  'Whoever this is, I hope you know what time it is.'

  'It's me. Sorry, did I wake you?'

  'Liz! Jesus, it's the middle of the night.'

  'Don't be ridiculous. Anyway, I'm pleased you're home. Listen, I have to see you...'

  'No! I'm still asleep...'

  'I'll be there in half an hour.'

  'No way. I'm going back to sleep. I won't open the door to you...'

  'Put the kettle on you old cow. I'll see you soon. Bye!'

  'Liz!...'

  But Liz was no longer there, wherever that might have been.

  ***

  'This better be good.'

  'I'm fine thanks Zoë; how are you?'

  Liz's sarcasm had no effect on Zoë. 'I'm tired Liz; you know I don't get home until the early hours after a night at Sizzlers. And unlike you, I need my beauty sleep.' Zoë poured hot water into the cafetière and brought it across to the table. She hunted around for a couple of clean cups, settled for two chipped mugs, and salvaged a teaspoon from the bottom of the sink. There was, thankfully, still some milk in the fridge. She opened the carton and sniffed; it was dubious, but Liz probably wouldn't notice. Finally, having collected all these things together, she sat down at the table with Liz and her two-month-old baby boy who was, mercifully, sound asleep and not bawling his head off as he had done, to shattering effect, the last time.

  Zoë slumped in the seat and put her head in her hands; it was still thumping away, as it had done since Liz's phone call. These hangovers were occurring a little too often for comfort these days; she wondered if there was something she could do to prevent them... other than not drinking. She seemed to recall someone telling her that vitamin B complex was good for hangovers. Or was that period pains? And did you take it before or after... drinking, that is, not the period. Oh shit, thought Zoë; life is so confusing when people wake you up too early.

  She took hold of the cafetière and pressed the plunger down gently. She was always very careful with cafetières, since one had shattered while she had been depressing the plunger, showering her with boiling coffee and glass shards. Once bitten, twice shy. She poured the coffee and the milk, and passed one of the mugs, now filled to the brim with a murky, rather sickly looking brew, across to Liz.

  Liz was looking as beautiful and as radiant as ever. It was a dreadful cliché, she knew, but motherhood really did suit her, brought out the best in her. She had never imagined Liz as a mother; but then again, neither had Liz.

  It had all been something of an accident - fortuitous, as it turned out, even though Zoë had had severe doubts of the wisdom of having a baby so young; Liz was only twenty-one. Still, she seemed happy; probably happier than she had ever seen her. And baby Daniel was a healthy, happy child, as far as Zoë could tell; she was, afterall, no expert on kids.

  And as for Paul, the father, he was a genuinely nice guy. Down to earth and reliable, in direct contrast to every other man with whom Liz had ever been involved. He had seemed such a strange choice, but again, in retrospect, it all seemed to be working out for the best.

  Zoë had never heard Liz say that she loved Paul, and she had only seen them together on one or two occasions, but they seemed a good, if unlikely, match. Even now, even with that tiny baby in her arms, Zoë could still only see Liz as the beautiful teenage tearaway that she had grown up with.

  In Zoë's eyes, Liz would never be "respectable". She was too much of a flirt for starters, too wild. Motherhood would curb her excesses perhaps, but it would never tame her. Even Paul knew that, which is why he had given her such a lot of slack. Zoë had never met a less possessive man in her life, which is probably why she liked him.

  'Okay, so what's so all-fired important that you're prepared to drag me from the depths of glorious slumber. If you've come to take me away from all this then I'm afraid the answer is no, I couldn't possibly leave this paradise. If, however, you are going to force money or good drugs on me free, gratis and for nothing, then I may be open to persuasion.'

  Liz laughed, and rocked Daniel back and forth gently.

  'Well, it's funny you should mention that...'

  'Used notes only... oh, okay, I'll take a cheque... just this once.'

  'Shut up a minute and listen, will you. How would you like a two-week, all expenses paid luxury holiday in Europe, starting next Tuesday?'

  Zoë screwed up her eyes. 'This isn't funny Liz. If you came here just to torment me...'

  'I'm serious.'

  'What's it going to cost me?'

  'Absolutely nothing. Raoul's coming to Europe next week...'

  Zoë raised her hand swiftly. 'Right, I get it. You want me to traipse around the continent with you, babysitting young Bruiser here why you go paint the town red every night with your sugar daddy...'

  'He is not my sugar daddy... God, I hate that expression. Now shut up and let me finish, will you?'

  'Okay, okay... what's the deal?'

  Zoë took a mouthful of coffee and tried to concentrate on what Liz was saying. It wasn't easy. The percussion section of The Moët & Chandon Big Band had set up temporary residency in her head and were busy rehearsing their specially selected uptempo repertoire, the one that employed plenty of loud percussion. She grabbed a packet of cigarettes off the table, fumbled to get one out of the packet and into her mouth without dropping it, lit up and breathed in. It tasted disgusting - the first one of the day always did - but the dastardly nicotine soon started to work its wicked magic. She blew out smoke and tried to tune in to her friend.

  'Raoul phoned last night,' said Liz. 'He has to be in Germany and Spain, on business, for about two weeks. He was, of course, expecting me to accompany him, but of course, I can't; not with Daniel.'

  'Why not? I mean, I wouldn't do it, but I'm sure you could find a temporary nanny or something.'

  'No, it's not that simple. I mean, Raoul doesn't even know about Daniel.'

  Zoë shook her head in disbelief. 'You haven't told him? Does he know about Paul?'

  'Of course not; Raoul would probably shoot him if he found out.'

  'You're insane. How long do you hope to keep it a secret from him?'

  Liz shrugged. 'I don't know... there just didn't seem any point in telling him until I had to. Besides, Raoul hasn't contacted me for over a year, so... I mean, it's not as if I owe him, or anything.'

  'Yeah, sure...'

  'Oh Zoë, don't do that. Raoul and I have an understanding.'

  'So why didn't you tell him when he called?'

  'Chickened out, I guess; you know what Latin men are like. They're so proud and possessive... I just didn't want a scene. So I told him I was sick, that I couldn't make it. He sounded so upset that... it was kind of on the spur of the moment... anyway, I told him not to worry, that I'd send a replacement, someone suitable who would...'<
br />
  'Whoa! Hold on just a minute.' Zoë held her hand up, a little dramatically perhaps, but she wanted to make sure she understood everything that Liz was saying. At present, it wasn't the least bit clear. 'What do you mean, "someone suitable"?'

  'Someone to accompany him around Europe like I usually do.'

  'And you suggested me? Jesus Christ Liz; what do you think I am?'

  'It's not what you think. When Raoul's on business he needs someone to be seen with. It's all to do with appearances...'

  'And unrestrained humping from what I recall you telling me on previous occasions.'

  'No, I promise you; I mean, that's to do... or rather, that was to do with what went on between him and me. He's not expecting anything like that. It'll be separate rooms all the way. And he'll treat you like a princess. We're talking luxury holiday with a charming millionaire.'

  Zoë could believe this last bit. She didn't know much about Raoul, but she knew he was a very wealthy Venezuelan businessman, and that whenever Liz went off to meet him, she always returned with the most beautiful new clothes and expensive jewellery.

  It was an odd relationship. Liz had met Raoul one summer in the Canary Islands at a nightclub. He had seemingly fallen for her (which wasn't surprising; men were always falling in love with Liz) had taken her out to dinner and then commandeered her for the rest of the vacation. After that, whenever he came to Europe - about twice, maybe three times a year - he would phone Liz, tell her the dates, and send her a ticket - first-class, naturally - and Liz would drop everything and head off for two weeks of glamorous wining, dining and horizontal dancing.

  And that seemed to be it. They had no claims on each other. From what Liz had said, Raoul was something of a ladies' man. He had never married, and had no intention of doing so any time soon.

  Liz sipped some more of her coffee. 'Come on Zoë, you'll be helping me out, and you'll have a blast. I guarantee it.'

  Zoë stubbed the cigarette out. There was one question that she had long wanted to ask, but until that moment had never felt she had a right to the answer. However, if she were - and it was a big "if" - but if she were to join this South American playboy for a jaunt in the sun, then perhaps she had a right to know.

  'Just exactly what sort of business is Raoul in?' Zoë examined Liz carefully; it was not unknown for her to lie, blatantly and without conscience, even to her closest friends. And she was good at it, too. This time, however, Liz responded with a shrug.

  'He's something in films... producer I think... I can never work it out. Put it this way; he's used to moving in glamorous circles.'

  Which told Zoë precisely nothing. Films my arse, she thought; whatever Raoul did, she thought it unlikely it would be anything legitimate. Liz just didn't meet people like that. Even Paul, who was the nicest, cleanest, most honest of the men Liz had hooked up with was a small-time crook and embezzler. Still, if Liz wasn't saying, Zoë wouldn't pry. Besides, what real difference did it make? Liz hadn't suffered from her association with the mysterious Raoul, and it wasn't as if her own life was without indiscretions.

  Zoë nodded, wholly unconvinced, and sighed. 'Yeah, sure Liz,' she said, in a way which she knew would infuriate Liz. She tried to weigh up the pros and cons of making such a trip, but her powers of concentration were still severely impaired from the previous evening's excesses.

  As far as she could tell, Liz was offering her a chance to get away for a while, let her hair down, and she knew there was really nothing to lose. Raoul sounded like an interesting man at the very least, and Spain could be counted on for some decent weather if nothing else. It would be daft to turn it down.

  But at the same time, she knew absolutely nothing about Raoul or his business. What if they didn't get on? What if he didn't like her? What if, despite Liz's protestations to the contrary, he started coming on a bit strong? It was a pretty strange set-up.

  'So, if I decide to go,' she said at last, 'what exactly would I have to do? I mean, what would my function be?'

  'Purely decorative,' said Liz. 'Raoul's a lover of beautiful things; clothes, cars, works of art... and people. He has various business deals to conduct, mostly in Barcelona, and for reasons of respectability and confidence he has to be seen with a beautiful woman on his arm. You'll be wined and dined in all the best restaurants; he'll buy you whatever you want while you're out there - believe me, money is no object. And most of the time, all you have to do is look gorgeous.'

  Zoë pulled a face, pushed her nose to one side and grabbed at a clump of her spiky hair. 'Like this you mean?'

  Liz laughed. 'Oh come off it, you scrub up pretty good. Please Zoë; I've promised Raoul that a stunning and companionable young woman will meet him at Frankfurt airport next Tuesday. It'll be fun.'

  Zoë hesitated again. She looked at the pile of unpaid bills on the counter beside the sink. It was absurd that something as mundane as cash flow should stop her from going, but the truth was, she was not only skint, she was in debt.

  It was not an unfamiliar story; there had rarely been a week in her life when she had not been hovering on the edge of penury, but somehow she managed to pull through, usually with a little help from her friends. She could never get on top of the situation though. Her lousy work record (her jobs were always part-time and on the fringe of the respectable work arena) meant that she had never managed to build up any creditworthiness. As long as she remained overdrawn at the bank (with her overdraft stretched well past its breaking strain) there was no way she'd ever be able to borrow money.

  Zoë hated to be prosaic at times like this, to be sensible, but she knew that if she wasn't careful occasionally, she could land herself in trouble. At the moment, she was a free agent - poor, but free. However, should she travel past the point of no return, she could compromise - or perhaps even jeopardise - that freedom, and there was no way she'd allow herself to do that.

  Liz was still waiting patiently for an answer. Zoë could see the hope in her eyes.

  'Look Liz, I'd like to, but I can't. I just can't afford to stop working at the moment. I'm skint, and I owe for the bills and... well, I'm just very broke right now.'

  'So what else is new?'

  'I'm serious.'

  'I know; you think I hadn't already considered that? Raoul has already promised to cover your wages.'

  'What do you mean, "has already promised"? You told him I'd go before you even asked me?'

  'Oh stop pretending to be so outraged,' said Liz. 'You're dying to go! Christ, it's a freebie, isn't it? And you don't have to feel funny about the money. You're hiring out your services as companion; it's a business arrangement, nothing more, nothing less. Look Zoë, I'll be indebted to you if you help me out here. So, what do you say?'

  'And no funny business?'

  'I swear; he'll be the perfect gentleman.'

  Zoë looked at her friend, at those beautiful imploring eyes. It wasn't as if Liz was asking her to make some great sacrifice. But she also knew that in her current state she'd be a fool to make a snap decision.

  'Let me think about it,' she said hesitantly, somehow aware, even as the words left her lips, that she had just stepped over the point of no return.

  Chapter 5

  Sizzlers was virtually empty. Zoë had suspected it would be a quiet evening when she left the house; rain always kept the fair-weather crowd away. There was also some new soap on television – Eastenders – which everyone was talking about. Not that Zoë knew much about it; she didn't own a television. Through choice, she would explain to anyone who cared to ask. There was far too much going on in her life, far too many exciting things to allow something as mundane as television to interfere. She wasn't a snob about it; she was sure there were plenty of interesting programmes, but it was a matter of priorities; she simply didn't have time to sit and watch a box. If she did have time alone in the house, then she much preferred to listen to the radio or read a good book; there was never enough time for that, for reading.

  Maurice was doing his M
ine Host bit again; poor business always brought out the servile side of his nature. Zoë objected to this, but she rarely said anything. She knew Maurice enjoyed wandering among the tables talking to the customers.

  Zoë looked on in quiet amusement; there wasn't much else to do. In the previous half-hour she had served four people, and two of those had ordered coffee. It was not to be a bumper night.

  Her chat with Liz had been playing on her mind all day; she really needed a break, more than anything. Her life had become strangely stagnant of late, and the idea of a fortnight in the sun had become more and more appealing as the day wore on.

  She still had all sorts of concerns about Raoul, but oddly, they seemed less important than the sheer practicalities involved in getting away. There were problems, and the biggest of those problems was Maurice. The fact was, she needed time off from the bar, and she knew Maurice would not be responsive to the idea. Even though she had not yet committed herself to going away, unless she could persuade Maurice to give her two weeks leave, she'd have no choice in the matter. She had to ask him.

  She wondered whether she should wait until the following night to make her request; Maurice might be in a better mood tomorrow, more open to persuasion. However, unless she told him soon, he'd not have time to get a replacement. Maurice could be funny about things like that, and she didn't want to lose the job completely. Not that she thought Maurice would fire her, just for asking for some time off, but she didn't want to get into any sort of confrontation. It wasn't worth the hassle.

  There he was, shaking hands with that businessman from last night. This businessman was definitely a new face; until last night, Zoë hadn't noticed him. He must have money, she thought, as she watched Maurice grovel like Dickens' Uriah Heep.

  Maurice loved to cultivate regulars. It wasn't just for financial reasons; it was an emotional thing. He liked the idea that people would come back to his establishment time and again. It made him think he had friends.