Purely Decorative

by Angelina Cabo

  In the fading sunlight, with the shadows throwing his sculpted features into stark relief, he seemed to take on an altogether more noble air. It was almost as if he was a man designed only to function properly out of daylight. Zoë mused momentarily, and quite comically, on vampires; there were more than a few similarities. And even now, as he drew in breath, gaining strength from the closing hours of the day, there was something a little sinister about him; not frightening, not really evil, just suggestive of the far side, the underworld, the unknown.

  And as these thoughts crossed her mind, she found herself curiously aroused, as if the potential danger and strangeness of the man was in itself a sexual turn on. This reaction surprised her, and for a moment, as she became aware that he was gazing at her in that now familiar way, she wanted to run, to escape, to avoid any chance of getting caught up in whatever complications lay ahead.

  And in almost the same moment, she wanted nothing more than to be drawn into the very centre of it all, consumed by it, lost in it.

  He looked at her then, even more intently, and took a long, slow breath before speaking. When he did so, his voice took on that deep resonance that had been curiously absent during the day.

  'I think it is time to return to the hotel. It has been a rather long day, and we should rest before this evening. Are you ready?'

  Zoë stood up slowly and met Raoul's penetrating gaze head on. Oh yes, she thought, a cold, hesitant chill running from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine; I'm ready.

  Chapter 11

  By the time they arrived back at the Palace Hotel, Zoë's new clothes had been delivered.

  Zoë spent a happy half-hour unpacking them, trying them on again, and then hanging them up in the wardrobe. Away from the distraction of a thousand other items of clothing, the outfits she had chosen looked even more spectacular. Ironically, she wanted nothing more than to wear some of these new clothes that evening, but Raoul had said that tonight, being her first night in Barcelona, was "a night off". She should dress casually and comfortably, and rather than hitting the plush restaurants of the town - of which she would suffer a surfeit by the end of the trip - they would go to a few tapas bars in the area just beside Las Ramblas.

  They were not due to head out until eight, so Zoë had time for a drink, a shower, a joint and a light snooze. She had taken the opportunity to score some hash just before leaving London, and had stashed it in her washbag, wrapped in clingfilm and buried in a bar of soap. There was virtually no risk of it ever being found, and she had heard that Spain was pretty easy about marijuana; they had even decriminalised it at one point, so she felt sure it would cause no problems.

  Now, alone in her room for a few hours, with the evening spread out before her, she indulged in a little smoke, just enough to relax her and bring a smile to her lips.

  Zoë had never been much into drugs; hash was just a casual, recreational drug. She preferred it to all alcohol save champagne, and probably smoked less than a quarter of an ounce a month. As for other stimulants, the only thing she would touch was cocaine, but it was so expensive that she usually indulged only when treated. Once in a blue moon she might buy a gram or so, but that was it. Amphetamines made her feel sick, and she disliked opium, which she had tried once to disastrous effect, becoming almost comatose.

  Heroin, however, was poison and she would never touch it. She had seen two friends waste their lives away because of it, and was as staunch an opponent of heroin as she was a supporter of legalising marijuana.

  The joint relaxed her as expected, and the hour-long nap refreshed her, so that by the time she met Raoul in the lobby, she was raring to go.

  Dressed in jeans and a halter top, with a jacket slung over one shoulder, Zoë accompanied Raoul as they drifted into the night, heading in the general direction of Christopher Columbus. Raoul had warned her to be on her guard when walking around Barcelona at night. It was not, he said, a notably dangerous city, but the incidence of pick-pocketing and handbag snatching was particularly high, and it paid to remain a little circumspect.

  Zoë took this all in, but having walked around the darkened city for ten minutes, breathing in its heady atmosphere, she realised that remaining circumspect would be no easy task. The place cried out for loose-limbed, devilish behaviour, for drunkenness and playfulness, and all the things that would guarantee a measure of trouble.

  As they entered the district with its lively night-time pavement cafés and enticingly seedy bars, Zoë found herself almost lurching into the heart of that magnetic exoticism.

  Groups of smooth-skinned young men cruised or hung around on the corners of darkened alleyways. In the formal plazas, with their ornate arcades and huge fountains, groups of young women, dressed to the nines, sat around on the benches, waiting for excitement to come their way.

  All around, the bars spilled over with young Catalans, drinking cold beers and glasses of rough red sangria, laughing and yelling, while in quieter corners, young lovers held hands surreptitiously and whispered to each other.

  'This is fantastic!' exclaimed Zoë, on more than one occasion that night as Raoul steered her into the more picturesque alleys and plazas. They walked for half an hour or so, until Zoë insisted that she would die if she didn't get some food inside her.

  From then on, in true local style, they hopped from one tapas bar to another, trying a different dish or two in each.

  ***

  The first bar was decked out in 1930's decor – all tiled walls and fabulous Art Deco posters – and was crammed with people, mostly standing. Many of them tapped their feet to the music – Duke Ellington, Count Basie – that was playing in the background. And all of them smoked.

  Zoë and Raoul perched at a tiny table in one corner and ordered a plate of traditional tortilla and another of pisto manchego, a delicious garlic-laden courgette stew with onions, tomatoes and green peppers, which was washed down with a jug of the local sangria. It was far richer and more potent than anything Zoë had drunk at home and she swiftly developed a taste for it. Raoul was happy to keep her company. They hadn't eaten much that day, and the sangria sharpened their appetites.

  ***

  The next bar had a more contemporary, modern decor and a very cool vibe: neon lights, steel counters, and even a DJ in the corner playing the latest dance hits from the States: Chaka Khan's "I Feel For You", Alphaville's "Big In Japan" and Madonna's "Like A Virgin". It was even busier and smokier than the first bar, if that was possible.

  Zoë and Raoul leant against the steel counter and wolfed down generous helpings of fried potato cubes covered in a spicy tomato sauce, and Raoul ate some croquetas de jamon which Zoë politely declined. Zoë drank more sangria, while Raoul preferred a cold beer.

  'Have to hand it to you, Raoul...' said Zoë between mouthfuls. 'You chose a really cool place to do business.'

  'In truth, Barcelona chose me. But that is the nature of the business.' He was watching her for a reaction. 'You are not inquisitive?'

  Zoë hesitated; damn right she was inquisitive, but she was suddenly, inexplicably, reluctant to pursue the matter.

  So, feigning disinterest, she said, 'About what? Oh... no. It's your business, not mine. Besides, I figure I'll find out soon enough - I'll be at your "meetings", won't I? I mean, that's why I'm here, right?'

  'Indeed,' said Raoul.

  Zoë emptied her glass of sangria and waved it at the barman. 'Hey, barman! We need a refill here!'

  Raoul laughed.

  'What?' said Zoë.

  Raoul shook his head. 'You are enjoying yourself?'

  'You bet! This is great!'

  'Good,' said Raoul. 'I am pleased.'

  ***

  The third bar was a very different proposition to the first two. It was much bigger for starters; a huge, warm, barn-like enclosure, tall and narrow. Wooden staircases led to cosy mezzanines where tiny wooden tables, illuminated by candle-light, provided private, intimate spaces.

  In one corner a guitarist played liv
ely flamenco and the air was thick with smoke and spice.

  Raoul and Zoë sat at a table by themselves, high in the roof-space, and looked down on the other drinkers and diners. Zoë was feeling a little woozy from the drink - easy, comfortable - and Raoul was more relaxed than she had seen him.

  A waitress appeared with another jug of sangria and a plate of tapas which she placed on the table in front of Raoul. Zoë focused on the plate but was having difficulty identifying what was on it.

  'Did the waitress just bring you a plate of pebbles?' she asked.

  Raoul poured them both a glass of sangria then, using a small, two-pronged metal fork, plucked a snail - grey and rubbery - from its shell.

  Zoë winced. 'Not pebbles, then...'

  She watched in morbid fascination as Raoul popped the snail into his mouth, chewed, swallowed and then smiled.

  'That was truly disgusting.'

  Raoul grinned. 'A local speciality. Delicious.' He took a mouthful of sangria, then picked up a particularly large snail and, with a precision bordering on artistry, plucked it from its shell.

  He held it out to Zoë on the end of the fork, like an offering. Zoë backed away.

  'Would you like to try one?' he teased. The beer and sangria had already started to have an effect, and his words merged into each other, free from the precise diction that usually characterised his speech. Zoë noticed this and smiled. He waved the snail in the air in small, circular motions, as if it were a glass of brandy.

  Zoë turned her nose up. 'Oh God no,' she said, the distaste evident in her every syllable. 'It's an animal.'

  Raoul smiled broadly. 'It was an animal, now it is a delicacy. You should try everything once.'

  Zoë shook her head, but could not take her eyes off the snail which, in motion, had a peculiarly hypnotic effect on her.

  Raoul coaxed her further. 'Come on,' he whispered, 'it is a very small amount of flesh.' He brought it close to Zoë's lips where, glistening in the low light, it wobbled lubriciously. Zoë looked into Raoul's eyes, which too were glistening with an enticing amalgam of mischief and what she could only define as sauciness.

  As the naked mollusc, still quivering suggestively on the fork was brought closer to her lips, Zoë found herself inextricably drawn to it. She parted her lips slowly and, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Raoul's, allowed him to feed her the morsel, which she swallowed swiftly, much to her amazement and Raoul's evident delight.

  'And what do you think? Delicious, no?'

  Zoë smiled. 'I can't believe I let you do that to me.'

  Now it was Raoul's turn to smile. 'Oh... I think you can,' he said. 'Another drink?'

  Here, with their feet shuffling in sawdust, and the sound of the flamenco playing in the background, Zoë tried to get Raoul to talk more about himself. But she wasn't able to elicit more than a few tired anecdotes about his exploits travelling in Venezuela, that she knew he had repeated a hundred times or more. Perhaps he was just weary, or maybe too drunk to bother. Either way, after an hour or so of unrevealing chatter, Zoë decided to leave the interrogation to another evening.

  It was about this time that she glanced at her watch and noted that it was getting on for midnight. They had been out longer than she had realised, and as she was beginning to fade a little herself, she figured they would soon be heading back to the hotel. And if so, what was the agenda for the rest of the night? Was she expected to sleep with him again? Did she want to? What if she did, and he didn't? Would she feel offended? What if he insisted and...

  She soon abandoned this line of thought; she was obviously too drunk to make any sense of it. Whatever happened, happened, and no amount of planning or consideration would make a blind bit of difference.

  She noticed that Raoul had shifted in his seat, and now had his body angled away from her. He was clutching his glass of sangria and staring away into the distance again, and it took Zoë a while to figure out what he was staring at.

  Not surprisingly, she narrowed it down to one of two women, both rather voluptuous. There seemed to be an endless succession of curvaceous, dark-eyed wenches in the city, and she could already count on Raoul to track them down.

  After watching him for a minute, she realised he had fixed on the taller of the two women, and seemed to be following her every move. He looked strangely serene, transfixed in that obsessive manner that had already become his trademark. Zoë continued to watch him for another minute or two, until she could no longer resist intruding on his precious reverie.

  'Do you know her?'

  Raoul blinked slowly, and maintaining his focus on the woman, turned his head just slightly to acknowledge that someone had spoken to him. 'I beg your pardon?' He was still in a light trance, or so it seemed. Zoë persisted; she knew this interference was unfair, and that she was perhaps overstepping the mark a little, but she also knew that she could always blame the sangria in the morning if need be.

  'I just assumed you must know her; the way you were undressing her like that.' She said this in a teasing way, without even a hint of disapproval or censure. Raoul, now partially returned to this world, smiled, almost longingly. Still he kept his eyes on the woman. When he spoke, his voice was soft, the tone mellifluous.

  'She is beautiful, no? The curve of her breast, the roundness of her... derriere, the way she carries herself, so assured, so provocative. This is the wonderful thing about Mediterranean women; they wear their sexuality like a shawl, draped around them for all to see. They are not afraid.'

  Zoë was a little taken aback by the almost poetic nature of Raoul's response. She had expected him to wave her away, to express his disdain at her interference, or, if not that, a denial that he had been staring in the first place. The last thing she had expected was this... invitation to join him in his meditation on women. And what did he mean by singling out Mediterranean women in that way?

  'Only Mediterranean women?' she asked, with a fake ingenuousness that anyone could have seen through. Raoul paused a moment before answering.

  'Yes. Englishwomen are timid, and American women are virtually sexless.'

  Zoë frowned. Was he deliberately winding her up? She affected a rather kittenish tone, completely out of character, fishing for a compliment, or at least, an exclusion clause. 'Not all Englishwomen, surely?'

  He turned towards her, and fixed her with a gentle smile. He reached across the table and took her hand in his. It was warm, soft and supple.

  'Yes,' he said. 'All.'

  If Zoë had previously been feeling a little mischievous, then this comment, and in particular, its delivery, knocked the playfulness out of her. She had been tipped off balance, slighted. She had misjudged, and now she felt vaguely foolish. Without wanting to seem petty, she withdrew her hand and reached for the jug of sangria and poured herself another glass. She took a sip, trying to keep her voice steady, even though she was upset.

  'I wonder what Liz would think of that,' she said, rather more coldly than intended. Not that it seemed to affect Raoul.

  'When you next see her, you must ask her,' he replied, then returned his attention to the voluptuous Spanish woman across the room, seemingly oblivious to the effect this was having on Zoë.

  ***

  Back at the hotel, Raoul walked Zoë to her door. They had spoken little on the return journey. Zoë was still feeling a trifle peeved, partly at Raoul for his behaviour, but mostly at herself for responding so immaturely.

  What was it about this man that brought out the jealousy in her? She was not a jealous woman, was adamantly, defiantly opposed to jealousy in any form. She hated the whole idea of "ownership" and exclusivity, although with safe sex now a firm part of the social agenda, she was a good deal more careful than she used to be. But even allowing for that, what was all that "possessing" crap about anyway? It had rarely touched her, and certainly never before with someone who was virtually a stranger.

  As they walked the corridor towards her suite she put it down to the sangria and the dope, knowing full w
ell that, by morning time, she would be wondering what had possessed her.

  As they reached her door, she decided to let Raoul make whatever play was necessary; if he wanted to come in, fine. If not, also fine. She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door ajar.

  'I had a great evening... just great.'

  'I am very pleased. Tomorrow is also a relaxing day. We can do some more sightseeing if you wish.'

  'I'd love to. When do the business meetings start?'

  He smiled at that, leant towards her and kissed her on the cheek.

  'Not yet. I shall give you plenty of warning. Firstly, you must acclimatise, I think. As for me, I need some rest. So, thank you for accompanying me this evening; I also had a most pleasant time.' He gave his rather formal little bow, turned, and walked off down the corridor.

  It was only then that Zoë realised how drunk he was, for although he walked without lurching, he was certainly swaying from side to side. She watched, amused, as he fumbled outside his own door with the key for at least a minute before the door gave way, and he stumbled inelegantly through the doorway and out of sight.

  Chapter 12

  Zoë slept soundly that night, and awoke fuzzy headed. It was a few seconds before she realised where she was. Her mouth was very dry, and she recognised the familiar strains of the opening bars of the Hangover Concerto for Strings and Percussion playing away in the background.

  She reached across to the bedside table where a glass of stale water replaced one stagnant taste with another, and then fumbled for her watch. It was past eleven o'clock, which meant she must have been asleep for almost ten hours. That explained why she felt like shit. She wondered why no one had woken her, and then recalled Raoul saying something about it being a relaxing day.

  As she replaced the water, she noticed a little card beside the telephone which informed her that Room Service was available twenty-four hours a day. With little resistance she ordered a pot of coffee and a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and then, slowly, and carefully, she crawled out of bed and into the rejuvenating shower, where the hot water went some way to reviving her.