He didn't, of course. But that was Maurice for you; intrinsically unlovable. Zoë couldn't help but feel sorry for him at times.
She saw Maurice look across to her, smile, lift a finger in greeting and, having shaken hands with the businessman, meander towards her. Without prompting, Zoë poured a glass of champagne for him. Maurice sat down on a stool, grabbed the glass, raised it and smiled.
'Cheers.' He took a sip. 'Aren't you having one?'
Zoë fluttered her eyelids, and then slipped into her best "innocent country-girl" accent. 'Oh, I never drink on duty, sir.'
Maurice laughed. 'Not when I'm watching, you mean. Go on, join me.' Zoë poured herself a glass.
'Actually Maurice, I need a favour.'
Maurice stopped drinking. He frowned. 'The answer is no....'
'But you don't know what I want yet!'
'Yes I do. And the answer is still no. You've already had next week's wages... and the week after...'
'I don't want an advance,' said Zoë, shutting Maurice up fast. Maurice frowned.
'You don't?'
'Nope.'
'Then what do you want?' he asked, instinctively backing away as if in readiness for fight or flight.
'I want two weeks off.'
'Do you.'
'Uh-huh. As of Tuesday.'
'Is that all?'
'Uh-huh. What do you say?'
'What do you think?'
'Oh come on Maurice...'
'No...'
'But I'm being treated to a trip abroad!'
'I said no.'
'Have a heart, Maurice. I haven't had a holiday in years... oh, and I'm also going to need a small advance.'
'What? Are you crazy? Absolutely not. Where can I find a replacement at this late date? Arrange it for next month and I'll consider it. As for an advance, forget it.'
She had known he was going to be tough, but she hadn't expected him to be completely unreasonable. His blank refusal to even listen to her plead her case infuriated her. In that moment, her intention to have two weeks off, come what may, suddenly took on a sort of life-or-death importance. She would not allow herself to be bullied like this.
'But Maurice...' she started, but got no further.
'I'm sorry Zoë,' interrupted Maurice, 'it's not convenient. Besides, you shouldn't be spending money you haven't got.'
The air between them became suddenly cold. Zoë could feel the anger suddenly start to percolate up from somewhere in the middle of her body. That was the last straw. He had gone too far. Zoë didn't mind Maurice making a song and dance about her taking time off; she had even expected it. But there were some things she was not prepared to put up with. Not under any circumstances.
She put the champagne flute down on the counter. 'Then I quit. As of right now. Bye Maurice, and thanks for being so understanding.'
She walked out from behind the bar, and headed for the cloakroom. She knew she was overreacting, but she didn't care. It wasn't that she was especially highly principled. It was simply that she could not abide having people try to educate her about how she lived. It was her life, and she wasn't going to sit in silence while some ageing buffoon divested himself of his irrelevant, unrealistic and wholly patronising beliefs.
Maurice sat there for a moment, completely nonplussed. Seeing that she was serious, that she was about to leave, he leapt off his stool and chased after her.
He caught up with her and grabbed her by the arm.
'Okay, okay... calm down. What's the big deal?'
'You should know me well enough by now Maurice. I don't like other people telling me what to do, how to behave or how to live my life. Now then, do I get the time off or what?'
Maurice, still suffering from the momentary shock of seeing his best member of staff walking out, pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and started to mop his brow. 'Sure, sure,' he said nervously. 'Just relax, will you? Jesus. You can have two weeks, okay? Now please, get back behind the bar like a good girl and serve some customers, huh?'
Zoë stood her ground. 'And I can't go on holiday without any money. So be a love and...'
'Yeah, yeah... we'll discuss it later. Now, please?' Maurice was holding his hand out in the direction of the bar. He was smiling, a little condescendingly, Zoë thought, or perhaps just trying to ingratiate himself with her. She nodded agreement and headed back to the bar. Poor Maurice, she thought; you're such a loser.
***
Later that evening, just before closing time, as the usual crowd sat around the bar, Zoë - having consumed the best part of a bottle of champagne - decided to tell them about Liz's offer. Despite her victory over Maurice in getting the two weeks leave, she was still undecided. However, as the day had progressed, she had become more and more excited at the prospect. The same, however, could not be said for the others.
'But just think boys, a Venezuelan millionaire. Who knows, I might never return.'
'I'd say there's a very good chance of that,' said Sean, 'what with the white slave trade so buoyant these days...'
'Shut-up Sean,' snapped Zoë, upset that Sean should be trying to dampen her spirits. 'What do you know about it? You're just envious.'
'I am that,' replied Sean. 'I can't think of anything I'd rather do than be locked up in some seedy dago B&B for a week, tied to a bed and repeatedly buggered by some South American pervert. That's my kind of holiday.'
Clive burst out laughing whilst Josh spluttered into his champagne. Zoë's eyes flashed with rage; she took a deep breath.
'You bastard. Why do you always have to be so negative? And what makes you think he's a pervert anyway?'
Sean rolled his eyes heavenwards then took a step back from Zoë as if he needed to focus on her more clearly.
'Oh for Godsake woman. Has anyone ever bandied the word "naive" about within your hearing? Why would anyone pay for a complete stranger to fly out to Spain, first-class no less, and pay your wages for a fortnight unless there was something dodgy involved?'
Zoë was just about to object when Clive chimed in.
'He's got a point. What do you know about this guy? I mean, what sort of deal is this? You've never laid eyes on him. I think it all sounds pretty suspicious.'
Zoë fumed. 'You're being paranoid, all of you. Liz wouldn't do wrong by me. Jesus, can't any of you see potential for excitement here?'
Clive shook his head gravely. 'I think you should reconsider.' Josh nodded sagely; Sean merely raised his eyebrows as if to say "told you so".
Zoë closed her eyes momentarily and shook her head. 'My God, what a bunch of kill-joys. Haven't you any adventure in you, any of you?'
The boys looked one to another, unsure how to respond. It was then – as she watched them all hesitating – that Zoë realised Josh might have been right the other night, that perhaps she was different, that maybe, just maybe, the majority of people weren't really interested in pushing life to its limits at all, in seeking adventure, in having excitement. Perhaps all they wanted was safety and security, and somewhere to bury their sorrows along with the remnants of any dreams they might once have had.
And in that moment her decision was made for her.
'Stupid question,' she murmured, then grabbed her champagne glass and downed the contents in one. 'Well boys, don't worry about me. I intend having a ball.'
She refilled all their glasses while they all looked on, a little baffled.
'Come on boys. We're going to drink a toast to something you've probably never heard of.'
'And what would that be exactly?' asked Sean, lifting his glass.
Zoë clinked her glass against his. 'Taking risks,' she said, and polished off the contents of that glass, too.
Chapter 6
The following days passed slowly. Zoë worked three evenings at Sizzlers, and spent the days trying to find ways to pay the bills; she did not want to go away on holiday and return to find the gas, electricity and phone cut off. Liz, who had been overjoyed by Zoë's decision, subbed her fifty pou
nds, which took care of the gas, and thirty pounds of Maurice's advance could go towards the telephone bill; it wasn't enough, but at least they'd leave the line on for another month.
She had baulked at asking Clive for money, but when Sean brought it up at the bar on Friday night, Josh overheard and insisted that she take fifty pounds, on the understanding that she could pay it back when she felt able.
At first Zoë refused - as gratefully as possible - but when Josh started to make a noise about it, she took the money to avoid further embarrassment. Good old Josh; he was such a kind old soul.
She also spent a very frustrating evening attempting to pack a bag with suitable clothes. She didn't own a suitcase; all she had was a large, zipped-top canvas bag that had definitely seen better days, but she knew it to be a good, strong bag that would not let her down.
Packing it, however, was a different matter.
Her problems were threefold. First, she wasn't sure what sort of clothes to take with her. Second, even if she could work that out, it was highly unlikely that she would have anything like the right gear in her own wardrobe. Zoë's dress sense was more often admired for its daring and originality than for any sense of style. Besides, most of her clothes were picked up at local charity shops; she hardly thought they'd be suitable for the sort of places Raoul would be frequenting. Third, if, as she suspected, she didn't have the appropriate wear, then there was no way she could afford to kit herself out with a new wardrobe.
It was Liz who came to the rescue. She came over the following day, helped Zoë choose a few sets of clothes from her wardrobe, and brought a selection of her own dresses, skirts and tops that she knew would be acceptable. Thankfully, Zoë and Liz were much the same size, and so she wouldn't have to make any major alterations.
On Monday morning the tickets arrived. They had been couriered to Liz, who had forwarded them, and added her own note which simply read: "You lucky bitch! Have a ball, love Liz." It really was all beginning to come together.
On Monday night Zoë went along to Sizzlers; not to work, but just to have a drink with Sean and the regular crowd, and to thank Maurice once again for his generosity. He had agreed to lend her two hundred pounds, which, as he said rather pointedly in a baffling mixed metaphor, was against her wages and his better judgement. Still, it was important. Zoë trusted Liz, but she knew nothing about Raoul or what sort of man he was, or even what might happen, and she didn't want to find herself alone and penniless in a foreign country. The money would be her insurance. People might consider her impulsive, even reckless, but they also knew that she wasn't a fool.
She arrived at the bar at about ten o'clock, and had time for a drink with both Josh and Maurice before the theatre crowd descended. It was an unusually busy night for a Monday, and she ended up helping out behind the bar for half an hour, more as a gesture of thanks to Maurice than from any particular desire to do so. Not that she minded; as she told everyone she served that evening, she was heading to the continent for a liaison with a mysterious Venezuelan millionaire the following day.
As usual, even though she had to get up at eight the following morning in order to get to Heathrow by ten for the midday flight to Frankfurt, she still managed to get well and truly sloshed at the bar. It was not until two-thirty, having been sent home in a taxi (courtesy of Josh) that she finally got to bed.
***
The morning was a bit of a mad dash. She had had the foresight to pack before heading out to Sizzlers the night before. However, in the meantime she had somehow managed to misplace both her passport and the tickets. It was a not unfamiliar scenario for Zoë, who could be scatterbrained at times. In fact, that was probably her natural state. Being organised required a great (and almost continuous) effort which she could never be bothered to apply when she had been either drinking, or smoking dope (or both).
Having panicked, showered, panicked, dressed and panicked for a third time, she finally located the essential documents in the very place that she had put them for safe keeping: the fridge.
She made a final round of the flat, closing and locking windows, pulling out plugs, emptying the fridge of perishables, and, having made a final check that she had her money, passport and tickets, grabbed her bags and made her way down the stairs.
She took one last look at herself in the mirror, and then set off for the airport, having double-locked the front door, unlocked it to make sure she had double-locked it, and then double-locked it again.
Bloody hangovers, she cursed as she traipsed along the street towards the Underground.
***
The seat was very comfortable. Liz had told her that travelling first-class was a different experience, but she hadn't realised just how pleasant it would be. Even though London to Frankfurt was just a couple of hours, it was a real treat to be sitting up at the front in such a spacious and luxurious environment.
The flight attendant seemed more pleasant than any she had previously met, and Zoë made the most of the short trip. The flight attendant had realised within a few minutes that Zoë was not averse to the champagne that had been offered shortly before take-off, and had come by to refill her glass regularly.
The food was exceptional too. When it cost so much to fly, even in economy, why couldn't they offer food this good to everyone? she wondered, a touch naively. But rather than preoccupy herself with such trivia, she decided to indulge herself as much as possible for two hours, and enjoy every moment of it.
About halfway through the flight, just after they had finished serving the meal, the flight attendant came around with the brandy and liqueurs. When Zoë asked for more champagne, the attendant could not suppress a huge grin.
Zoë noticed this and blushed. 'It's my first time,' she said. 'In first-class, I mean.'
The flight attendant studied Zoë for a moment or two. 'It suits you,' she said, and went off to get the champagne. Zoë couldn't help but laugh; she felt on top of the world, which was, of course, precisely where she was.
***
Zoë lifted her bag off the carousel and placed it on the trolley. In the Ladies room she had had a last minute check to make sure that she was looking presentable. She was all in black: black silk blouse, black leather trousers, black patent heels. She had draped a brilliant, multi-coloured printed shawl around her shoulders. Her hair was behaving itself, and she had taken more than her usual casual efforts with her make-up. She reckoned she was looking pretty good, an opinion that had been verified by the looks she had received from the men at Passport Control. Even so, she couldn't help but be a bit nervous. In the mad rush before leaving she had forgotten to ask Liz what Raoul looked like; she just hoped that Liz had given him a description of her, otherwise they might never find each other.
***
At Customs, Zoë was waved straight through, and within minutes she was pushing her trolley into the Arrivals Hall. There were hundreds of people waiting behind the barrier to meet the incoming passengers, and she scanned their faces back and forth, hoping that there would be some way of recognising the mysterious stranger who had summoned her to this unlikely rendezvous. Perhaps he wouldn't be there yet? Perhaps he would send someone to pick her up. Should she be looking for a sign with her name on it?
As she neared the end of the barrier she saw him: a man, mid-forties, dressed impeccably if a little ostentatiously in a light-coloured suit, a beige trench coat and a Panama. He was holding an ebony cane, and was standing away from the crowd. It had to be him, she thought, checking the rest of the crowd swiftly. She didn't want to embarrass herself with a complete stranger, especially if the real Raoul were watching nearby.
She looked back at the distinguished stranger, who, much to her surprise, had started to walk directly towards her. He was decidedly handsome; dark, swarthy complexion, deep brown eyes, a neat moustache. He was so perfectly turned out, he could have been a film star from a bygone age, thought Zoë. But it was the details that told the whole story; gold monogrammed cuff-links, the slimmest of Cartier wa
tches, a gold signet ring. If indeed this were Raoul, his appearance did not scream "money" like some vulgar nouveau riche entrepreneur; it purred it.
He was almost upon her now. She brought the cart to a halt and smiled, extended her hand. He took her hand gently in his own, and in the most perfectly rehearsed gesture, removed his Panama with his left hand whilst bringing her hand to his lips. He kissed it; the moustache was surprisingly soft, and it tickled.
'It is a pleasure to meet you,' he said. His accent was heavy, unmistakably Latin American, but not impenetrable.
'How did you know?'
He paused, admiring her for a moment. 'There was absolutely no competition. And I know Elizabeth well; she would not disappoint me.'
Zoë wasn't sure whether to be flattered or slightly offended, as if she had just been judged like some prize pet. She decided not to dwell on it; he had obviously meant to be polite, so she nodded in acknowledgement of the slightly skewed compliment.
She realised that she was feeling a little shell-shocked; Liz hadn't told her just how good-looking Raoul was, how formal his behaviour. It was also a little strange to be standing there with this complete stranger, a man with whom she would spend the next two weeks, a man she would accompany as if she were his consort.
A momentary, uncomfortable silence fell between them, as Zoë wondered what the next move would be. It was Raoul who broke the impasse. He gazed down at the trolley and at her bags and winced. As he did so, Zoë suddenly knew that she had committed her first sin.
'These are yours?' There was a tone of disbelief in his voice, and a wave of embarrassment swept through her. She looked down at the bags; they really were terribly scruffy, both the battered canvas bag and her ever-present cloth shoulder bag that she had taken on the plane with her. She said nothing; the answer was obvious. 'They are inappropriate,' he said calmly. 'No matter, we shall get you some suitable luggage.' He had a rather clipped, abrupt way of speaking; his English was fluent, but his manner and accent betrayed the fact that the language was not his native tongue.
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