The Pleasure Quartet

by Vina Jackson

  There were three cars waiting for us at the small private Rio airfield. The other passengers and Noah were all staying in high-end hotels by the beach and it was arranged for me to be dropped off last in Leblon where my apartment was situated. Again, we were unable to talk much beyond banalities on the drive into Copacabana through Rio’s teeming streets.

  When I had woken up in his hotel room in Recife, the sheet had partly slipped away from my body and I was sprawled indecently across my side of the bed, my breasts fully uncovered, to find Noah with eyes wide open gazing at me, observing me and my body.

  I could see the undisguised lust in his eyes and chose not to pull the sheet back to cover me, and allowed him a full view of my torso. It was too late to be shy, after all.

  But it was already mid-morning, it appeared, and there was little time for anything before we had to rush to catch the flight to Rio which had been arranged. When he had again suggested I join him on it, I quickly accepted. It would have been foolish not to. Ever since, so many things had hung unsaid in the air between us. Room service had sent up a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, some bagels with cream cheese spread and a few hardboiled eggs which we each feasted on separately while the other used the bathroom to clean up.

  As my key turned in the lock, I experienced a strong sense of deflation, pushed the door open and trod into the familiar surroundings of the small flat where I had now been living for several months and which I’d been hoping to vacate as soon as I could find a decent property in the area, thanks to the proceeds from the Bailly.

  Dust hung in the air, and the spartan furnishings of the room and my rare belongings scattered across it sang of loneliness.

  I quickly slipped out of my knickers and black dress. I had been living in it for almost two days and it felt repulsive and dirty. I kicked it across the floor in a quiet rage, wondering whether any conceivable form of dry cleaning could possibly erase the memories now imprinted along its material. I didn’t think I would ever wear it again. I needed a shower badly.

  The building’s water supply was patchy and the lukewarm stream from the showerhead was weak and halting. I scrubbed myself down as best I could.

  I heard my mobile phone ring. Ignored it. By the door when entering I’d noticed a small pile of mail and not even glanced at the envelopes. All I wanted right now was to be alone. Unreachable.

  The persistent ringtone of the phone was soon smothered by the sound of the water falling over my shoulders and hair. Eventually, whoever was calling me gave up.

  I washed my sins away, until my skin felt raw.

  By the time I left the comfort of the shower cubicle, the phone had rung several more times and I noticed a more recent envelope by the door, unstamped, handwritten.

  It was from Joao.

  He or one of his drivers had dropped me off here at the apartment block several times, but I’d never told him the actual number that I lived at. Obviously he had had me followed, right up to my door.

  I checked my phone. Every single call had been from Raoul. It then occurred to me that I had not given Noah my number, nor had he asked for it. As if he implicitly trusted me to make an appearance at tomorrow’s lunch date, or had no plans to chase me if I didn’t show.

  I neither opened Joao’s note nor picked up Raoul’s messages.

  I browsed through the rest of the mail. Mostly property information sent by estate agents.

  I was wandering naked through the small apartment and found myself facing the tall rectangular mirror by my dressing table, gazing at the reflected image of my own body.

  The prolonged sojourn under the shower had not only cleaned me but had also sharpened my perception. I could see every single imperfection. The minor blemishes and nigh-invisible scars, an inappropriately placed mole, a dimple that annoyed me, the unequal distribution of my curves, the sometimes sickly pallor of my skin now held at bay by a tenuous Brazilian tan. What did men see in me? What was the flaw that attracted them, the wrong ones more often than not? Was I a map that could be so easily deciphered?

  I badly needed to catch up on sleep. The time shared in the hotel bed with Noah in Recife had done anything but recharge my batteries.

  The steady whoosh of the ceiling fan lullabied me away until my eyes closed and darkness welcomed me into a late afternoon of dreams, inaccurate memories, mild nightmares that made no sense whatsoever, only to awaken around three in the morning, unable to find solace again and emerging from the bed to an empty breakfast fridge, as physically and emotionally void as I had been at the beginning. Time flew by.

  I felt I looked a fright as I walked through the lobby and followed the signs to the restaurant. Wearing anything that Joao had gifted me seemed wrong, and neither could I face the outfits that I had worn on dates with Raoul and which had inevitably ended up crumpled on the bedroom floor after we had quickly fallen into bed with each other. That had left me with few options, and in the end I’d opted for a pair of plain black stretch leggings that I usually kept for lazing around the house or for comfort when travelling, ballet flats and a short-sleeved blue silk top I’d forgotten I ever brought with me and which I hoped looked as if it was supposed to be crinkled and not as though it hadn’t been pressed.

  Noah, on the other hand, had taken the opportunity to shave and wore an immaculate white shirt with his jeans and appeared indecently refreshed when the hostess pointed me to his table.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, sliding down in the tall-backed black leather chair opposite him.

  The waitress handed us a large laminated menu.

  ‘Hi,’ he replied.

  The tension was palpable, as bread and a small plate of olives and sundry nibbles were delivered to our table.

  I studied the fancy menu. Hotel fare at hotel prices.

  ‘I’ll have what you have,’ I said, unwilling to peruse the menu in any detail. As he ordered, I observed him. I loved his dark hair, was even instinctively tempted to thread my fingers through it. His nose was not straight; had probably been broken once and clumsily reset. The heavily air-conditioned setting of the hotel’s dining area carried no hint of deodorant or fragrance fading in from his direction, not even a faint whiff of soap, as if his personal scent was strictly neutral.

  It was a particularly hot and sultry day and there were few diners in the restaurant. Most people had headed for the beaches.

  Noah was nervous.

  He was a fan of my violin playing and was hoping he could convince me to return to Europe and begin recording again. He was offering me an open-ended contract and happy to discuss terms with Susan if I proved willing. When I did not respond immediately, he added that although it would not be ideal – a shadow passed across his eyes as if this would be a thing of personal regret – it could even be set up so I could record here in Brazil if unwilling to travel back to London. Having completed his proposal, he looked away as if caught in a lie, or at any rate an important omission.

  ‘I’m flattered, but couldn’t you have made the offer directly to Susan? Coming all the way here was a bit much, no?’

  ‘I happened to be accompanying The Handsomes on tour,’ he said. ‘They are also on my label.’ There was no mention of the circumstances that had brought us both together in Recife.

  Or the chemistry that undeniably flowed between the two of us.

  He wanted to say more, I could sense it.

  I wanted to say more.

  But fear got the better of us.

  As if we both knew that if we pursued that indefinable attraction, connection or however you wished to describe it, it could lead us down dangerous paths that we were at this stage reluctant to journey through. I was in no doubt that I was not the only one of us who carried personal baggage.

  He quizzed me about the reasons I had given up music, both performing and recording, after I’d mentioned in passing that I didn’t even have an instrument available to me here in Rio.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  The look he gave me was fu
ll of understanding, but it was also knowing, as if he was aware of some of the true reasons, or after seeing me in the clutches of the American sailors in Recife he could properly put one and one together. But he did not pursue the matter.

  ‘There is no urgency,’ he stated. ‘Think about it. Take your time.’

  He had to return to London very soon but he made me promise I would carefully consider his proposal. We exchanged addresses and numbers this time, although I was unsure how long I might remain in Leblon in view of my plans to acquire my own place.

  ‘Is there something or someone holding you back here?’ he enquired, almost reluctantly.

  I took my time to answer.

  ‘No.’

  I could sense the relief rush through his veins as I uttered the word, an incomparable weight visibly being lifted from his shoulders, betraying the undisguised attraction he nurtured towards me.

  Part of me was ready, right there and then, to say Yes Yes Yes and damn the sweets selection and the coffee and scream out to the waitress to just put the bill on his room and run towards the block of elevators and go fuck him as if the world was coming to an end, tearing his clothes off on the ascent before we even reached his room, even if we were not alone in the lift.

  But I knew I had unfinished business in Rio.

  I had to be certain I was doing the right thing.

  We parted at the end of the meal. He shook my hand and I was stung by his body heat. I pecked him on both cheeks.

  Promises were made.

  The last time I had seen Raoul was when I had stormed out of his cousin’s room in Recife, the possessive gaze of the party of men looming over me. It felt as if centuries had passed since. He’d left countless messages. Initially expressing worry about my whereabouts, then being angry at my disappearance, then lacing his words with threats and later more conciliatory, informing me he was back in Rio and had my rucksack and the few clothes I had travelled with, asking when would I come and retrieve them.

  I was unsure whether I was in a fit state to confront him again.

  Then there was that note from Joao enquiring about my whereabouts and absence, ostensibly sweet, but pushed under the door of the apartment that I’d never given him the exact address of. I called him, and also spoke to Astrid first. He’d guessed that our brief fling had come to a natural end. Blamed it on himself, he stated, and the difference in our ages and cultural backgrounds. For politeness’ sake and unwilling to get into a pointless argument I tried to reassure him partly that it wasn’t his fault without truly knowing how sincere I sounded. We quickly ran out of conversation.

  Astrid and I met up on the beach, at the exact same spot we had first come across each other. She knew from her father that I would no longer be coming to their home to help her out and was sad about it, but she was also excited to let me know that while I had been away she had found herself a boyfriend, it appeared. He played the guitar and his name was Edison. She had also succeeded in try-outs for her school’s beach volleyball team. Sports were more of a natural talent and passion for her than playing music had ever been. I was happy for her, in the knowledge that she would soon forget me, as quickly as we had become friends. ‘You will always be in my heart,’ she informed me sweetly. She didn’t even ask me what my own plans were. The insouciance of youth. Had I ever been that flighty, I wondered? Or had I been born wanton and darkly serious?

  It had been ages since I had even given any thought to my own childhood in New Zealand. A world away, in distance and time.

  When I returned to my small apartment, there was a bouquet of flowers and an accompanying gigantic box of chocolates waiting for me on the doorstep, with a note from Noah. He was flying back to London in two days’ time. All the card pinned to the delivery said was ‘Please’. How would florists survive without the lust of men? At least I knew he had my address because I had legitimately provided him with it.

  The following day, I resolved to conclude matters with Raoul.

  ‘How did you get back to Rio?’ he asked me. ‘I waited and waited for you, but you never returned or picked up your phone. I was hoping I’d see you at the airport, but you didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Someone gave me a lift in a car,’ I lied.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Raoul stated. ‘Nobody in their right mind would do that. It’s an almost forty-hour drive at best . . .’

  I nodded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No one you know.’

  ‘Who?’ he asked again, anger rising.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you.’ I had determined to stand my ground.

  ‘You talked someone into it, didn’t you? So how did you repay him, because I’m sure it was a man. With your body, no doubt. You’re just a foreign whore, Summer. That’s all you are.’

  ‘And you’re an arsehole,’ I replied.

  He huffed and puffed. But I had arranged for us to meet in a public place, in the food court of a large mall, where his temptation for violence would be tempered by reality and the buzz of the swarming crowds.

  ‘You love being treated badly. Used. It’s the way you are, the way your body responds, you know. You wear it like a sign over your head.’ His expression was insufferably smug.

  I knew it and he knew it but I refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

  ‘Have you got my things?’ I asked.

  He threw the blue rucksack at me and stormed off. I waited a while to ensure that he was definitely not lurking around in wait for me and then made my way home.

  He had shredded every single piece of underwear and the couple of skirts and tops I had left behind in the bag.

  The next day it rained heavily, the beaches concealed from sight behind an impenetrable curtain of greyness. It reminded me of London somehow, despite its tropical aspects and sullen weight of humid heat.

  I woke uncharacteristically early, went online and booked a one-way ticket on the first available flight to London with a vacant seat. Restless, I began already packing the few things I wished to take with me and made the necessary arrangements to transfer my few remaining funds to my UK bank account, where I had prudently left the proceeds of the Bailly. I would not be acquiring a property in Brazil after all. Neither would I be staying in town much longer. There was nothing in Rio for me anymore. My flight departed in just a few days from now.

  By the time I had filled my suitcase and set aside a bag of things to discard or give to a charity shop – not that I knew where to find one here – it was barely 10 a.m. Packing had not been an arduous task. The bikinis I had worn almost daily for the past months were worn out, and I had little need for flimsy beach dresses in London, even on the hottest summer days in the capital. All of the things that Joao had given me that I had stored here – the handful of pairs of earrings, a silver chain with a single tear-shaped pearl pendant, a pair of strappy gold Manolo Blahnik heeled sandals that I detested – I set aside to have couriered back to him.

  My eyes kept straying across to the flowers that Noah had sent to me, and then to my phone. I refreshed the display as I had every few minutes for the last hour, checking the time. Again. The minutes were passing interminably slowly. I had not yet had a bite to eat for breakfast. Wasn’t hungry; my stomach a churning mess of butterflies.

  Noah was flying out today, but I wasn’t sure when. The early afternoon, I thought he had mentioned.

  Was I hoping that he would ring, or that he wouldn’t?

  Somehow I knew that the bouquet had been his last move. The ball was now in my court and he was waiting to see what I would do with it.

  I slipped on a pair of sandals and grabbed my purse from where it hung on my bedroom doorknob. Rain was pelting down, thundering against the apartment block and visible in great grey sheets through the kitchen window. There was a brolly hanging in the laundry room that I had never used; I took it. I didn’t own any kind of rain jacket here. Not even a cardigan.

  The umbrella sheltered my top half from the rain but could not prevent the hor
izontal spray from soaking my bare legs, feet and the bottom few inches of the red cotton T-shirt dress that I was wearing.

  Cabs circled the streets at all hours in Leblon and they seemed to double in number at the first sight of bad weather, to whisk tourists who weren’t prepared for a tropical storm back to the dry comfort of their hotel lobbies. I flagged one almost immediately and hopped in.

  ‘The Windsor Atlantica, please. Hurry, if you can.’

  The cab driver nodded and spun the vehicle sharply, taking a series of side streets that I hoped constituted a short cut. He kept glancing at me curiously in the rear view mirror. Probably wondering what I was doing heading to a hotel before noon, without any baggage. I knew the average Brazilian woman wouldn’t be seen dead walking into five-star accommodation in what I was wearing, with hair unkempt and only the barest trace of make-up. All the women in Rio looked as though they fell out of bed dressed up to the nines. In fact, nearly all of the men were equally pristine, sometimes more so.

  Along the Copacabana boardwalk, water pelted and swirled over the black and white tiles, giving a melancholy cast to the typically sanguine surrounds of the famous beach, today bereft of all but the hardiest locals insistent on taking their daily exercise, jogging along the roadside in soggy shorts with expressions of grim determination spread over their damp faces. The clouds overhead teemed with life and movement, slashes of black and grey battling against stark white streaks in a murky purple sky, a perfect witch’s cauldron of bubbling vapour that made me feel as though the world was closing in, the heavens shutting down over the earth leaving me trapped in the middle and about to be swept away on the storm and wake up in Kansas.