Purely Decorative

by Angelina Cabo

  Maurice spluttered for a couple of moments and then gently pushed Zoë away from him. 'Stop that,' he said, the embarrassment now superseding the anger. 'And get in there and do some work. And stop drinking up my profits; Jesus, it's a wonder I make any money at all.'

  Zoë laughed and sauntered off towards the bar, knowing full well that Maurice would still be looking at her legs. She wiggled her bottom deliberately as she wandered away, thinking that she was really quite mean to tease him like that, but knowing, at some level, that Maurice enjoyed it as much as she did.

  ***

  'Is the old man giving you a hard time?'

  It was Sean. He was pouring two glasses of champagne for the only customers in the bar.

  'Not really; you know Maurice.'

  'Sure. I know he's an arse-hole of the first order... oops, begging your pardon, sir, madam. No offence. I was only talking about the boss.' Sean gave the surprised couple one of his broad Irish smiles, and they laughed politely.

  Zoë smiled and shook her head; she liked Sean, liked his carefree manner, his lovely, lilting accent, and the ease with which he dealt with customers. She also loved his vulnerability. Someone had once told her that the reason the Irish get on so well with people is because they need people to like them, that they carry a sadness, a sort of hereditary melancholy, that makes them cry out for company, for love. Despite what the song says, if you look into an Irish person's eyes they won't really be smiling at all; they will be heavy with the suffering that the people as a whole have had to endure down the ages.

  Zoë knew Sean was like that, that behind the jovial facade there was a deep sadness. He was a poet or an artist or some such, although he didn't talk about it. Sean carried a great burden in his soul, and she saw it every time she looked into those beautiful blue eyes of his.

  'You mustn't let him treat you like that,' said Sean, pouring another two glasses of champagne and passing one of them to Zoë. 'You're too good for that. Cheers.' He lifted his glass and drank. 'Jesus, when's that cheap bastard going to get some decent house wines in this crap hole? 'Tis an embarrassment to serve this horse piss.'

  Zoë laughed again. 'He doesn't mean any of it. I feel sorry for him; he always looks as if he's suffering. Poor Maurice doesn't know how to relax.'

  Sean nodded. 'The man is trying his best to develop an ulcer, and he won't be happy until he has it and can blame us for it. One day he'll walk in here clutching his stomach and spewing blood shouting "I told you so, I told you so, this is all your fault for being late!"'

  Zoë shrugged and drank some more of the champagne. 'The stupid thing is, I'll probably take the blame.'

  Sean looked at her askance, then smiled. 'That's what I like to see,' he said. 'Someone else feeling guilty for a change.'

  ***

  It turned out to be a busy evening. The six o'clock office mob came and went, with a few hangers-on as ever, including Josh, Sizzlers' most regular "regular" and probably the bar's best patron, who proceeded to get well and truly sozzled.

  By his fifth glass of Bollinger, Josh was beginning to slur his words; it was always then that he tried on his "let me take you away from all this" routine. Zoë didn't mind; she liked Josh. He reminded her of her own father, although of course she never told him this, as it would have upset him terribly. He was a lonely old soul; his wife had died a few years back and all he had now was his work (the exact nature of which remained a mystery), a good deal of money and a propensity for drowning his many sorrows in the most expensive way possible.

  'I'm serious,' said Josh as Zoë poured him yet another glass. 'I'll take you anywhere you want to go.'

  'Oh not again, Josh. Haven't we been through this before?'

  'I mean it. You name it, I'll take you there.'

  'But I'm happy here,' laughed Zoë; she knew what was coming.

  'Nonsense. You're wasted here. You should be in Hollywood, or the catwalks of Paris...'

  'Or the backstreets of Amsterdam,' interrupted Zoë. 'Yeah, I've heard it all before. That'll be twenty pounds.'

  'By God you're a hard woman. D'ya know that?'

  'Am I?' said Zoë, taken aback momentarily. The smile fell from her face. He had said it as a joke - she knew that - but at that moment it didn't seem so funny to Zoë.

  It was something people - especially men - had said to her before. It was the flip side of the coin, the one that bore the words "independent" and "free-spirited" on one side. Was she hard? Hard-hearted, as some men had said, just because she liked to maintain her sense of self?

  It was true that she had avoided "serious" relationships for some time. She was not the sort of woman who liked to throw herself into the sea of love, to drown or flounder. She didn't like "losing herself" in another, in the way that she'd heard friends describe. She didn't even like the sound of it, to cease being oneself, to sublimate that sense of identity to some sort of corporate whole, "the couple".

  No, that wasn't for her. She wanted a relationship with a man, something other than the sort of casual, no-strings-attached compromises that circumscribed her present life, but she didn't want to disappear completely. And if that meant being hard, then she would simply have to accept that, admit it, and not shy away from the fact when it was presented so bluntly.

  'Hey, Zoë... I was just kidding.'

  'What? Oh, I know Josh, it's just that... well, it's not like that at all.'

  'No? Well, you seem pretty self-contained to me. I've been watching you. Every night I come in here, I sense the same thing. I have my own theory about it, actually.'

  Oh no, thought Zoë. Here we go again; confessions of a sorrowful drunk. 'Really, Josh? Well, let's hear your theory then.'

  'Well, I think it's something to do with "love-gone-bad". Some bounder has treated you rough, and you've decided that, because you couldn't go through all that again, couldn't face the hurt and the pain, that you'll seal yourself off. I have to tell you Zoë, it doesn't work. It just doesn't. You can only do it for so long, and then, when the loneliness starts to really eat at you, you find yourself letting your defences down. You think you're coming out of your shell, being open, being defenceless, and you can't understand why people are avoiding you, still treating you in the same, distanced way. You let your guard down a little further, and still nothing happens. You start to feel a bit desperate, and before you know it, when you're at your most vulnerable, some cad comes along, charms you with hearts and flowers, lets you go completely gaga for him, then craps all over you.'

  Zoë listened attentively to Josh's drunken ramblings; she knew that most of it was nonsense, that it didn't really apply to her at all. However, there was something of the truth caught up in those convoluted spirals, and she shuddered at the thought that, in a way, he might just be right.

  But she wasn't about to admit it.

  'You're wrong Josh. I mean, it's a very interesting theory, but no one's ever hurt me that badly.'

  'That's because you've never let anyone get that close in the first place,' said Josh, just a hint of bitterness in his accusation.

  'Probably,' said Zoë, wanting to drop the subject.

  'And that's because you're scared.'

  Zoë sighed. She'd had enough of the cheap psychoanalysis. 'It's the Eighties, Josh. Haven't you heard? "Girls just wanna have fun..."' She sang the refrain from the Cyndi Lauper hit, hoping to placate him. Another customer caught her attention, and, grateful for the diversion, she went over to serve him.

  As she poured the champagne, she caught sight of Maurice. He was standing at the back of the room beside a very well dressed older man, evidently a businessman of some sort. She could tell by the way they were smiling and nodding in her direction that they were talking about her. Feeling devilish, and aware that they were watching her for a response, she ostentatiously blew them both a big kiss, a move which, much to her delight, embarrassed Maurice but delighted the other man.

  When she had finished serving the customer, she returned to where Josh was sitting
. She knew he had been watching her, watching her little flirtation, but could not understand why he was looking so much more mournful that when she had left him.

  'What is it? Josh? What's wrong?'

  'Don't tell me you're the same as everyone else Zoë Burns, because that's a lie, and you know it.' It wasn't said in anger or reproach. If anything, there was a wistful note to it, almost as if the very fact of her being different (if in fact it were true) somehow distanced her further from Josh, rather than bringing her closer, the thing he so evidently wanted.

  Zoë sighed as Josh peeled himself off the stool, left the twenty pounds for the champagne and a fiver for her on the counter, and slowly dragged himself towards the exit.

  'See you tomorrow?' she called after him.

  Josh turned. 'Ah, let me see,' he said, putting a finger to his head and making a play of the whole thing. 'Tomorrow would be... um... Wednesday? Yes, yes... I might be able to fit in a bottle or two before dinner.' He smiled and waved.

  'Thanks,' said Zoë, smiling and picking the five pound note off the counter. She waved back, folded the note, and tucked it carefully into the waistband of her skirt.

  ***

  By ten-thirty the office crowd had disappeared, replaced by the theatre crowd and the young trendies, who for some reason thought the rather upmarket and flashy decor of Sizzlers conferred some sense of importance upon them. Not that she minded them, these proto-yuppies and ex-Sloanes; some of them were quite fun. But she had nothing in common with them, except, perhaps, a taste for the glamorous and expensive things in life, the things they could afford, but that she could not.

  Clive was there again, of course; the third night running, all alone, busily pouring his heart out about Antonia. Zoë had decided to take the weight off her feet for a few minutes; she had dragged one of the stools around to her side of the bar and was joining Clive in a glass of champagne. It was her fourth or fifth that evening - she couldn't remember - and so she was feeling pretty good, pretty high. She loved champagne; it was one reason she was prepared to put up with the lousy wages that Maurice paid her; there was no way she could afford to drink the stuff otherwise. It just about made Sizzlers bearable.

  Clive had been wittering on for about ten minutes; she had only been half-listening to him. She wasn't sure about Clive. She liked him, even fancied him a bit; they had had a very brief fling a few months back, but it had been very casual. After all, Clive wasn't really... right. She could never quite put her finger on it.

  And he was married.

  '...and then she told me to get out of her life and never come back. Can you understand that?'

  Zoë nodded sympathetically while simultaneously breaking out into a broad grin.

  'Uh-huh.'

  Clive looked offended. 'Whaddya mean, "uh-huh"?'

  'I can understand her, because, although I've never met her, like Antonia I happen to know you're a liar, a drunk and a flirt, and if you were living with me, I'd kick you out too. Now why don't you finish that drink, buy a big bunch of flowers, jump in a cab and go home. And when you get there, get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness.'

  'Beg? Are you kidding?' Clive registered Zoë's unblinking stare, and shuffled uncomfortably on his seat. 'You're not kidding.' He took another sip from his glass. 'I'd rather go home with you.'

  'That isn't an option. Now drink up, and I'll call you a cab.'

  'I don't get it. Are you seeing somebody at the moment?'

  'Nope.'

  'Then why can't I go back with you?'

  Zoë shook her head. 'I'm off men... until at least the end of the year. And besides, you're not my type.'

  'How come? I'm rich, charming, good-looking...'

  'Exactly,' sighed Zoë, and drained the last of the champagne from her glass.

  Clive looked forlorn. 'I don't understand you Zoë, I really don't.'

  'I know,' said Zoë. 'And that's another reason you're not coming home with me. Oh cheer up Clive. Like you said... you're rich, charming and good-looking. I'm sure there are plenty of women who'd be only too happy to overlook your narcissism and conceitedness and spend the night with you.'

  'But not you.'

  'No Clive,' said Zoë. 'Not me.'

  Chapter 3

  Zoë crumbled the last of the hash on to the tobacco and rolled a second joint. She lit it and drew in the sweet smoke. She was sorry that all the dope was used up; she would have to get some more. Perhaps Liz would lend her thirty quid or, better still, stand her a quarter until next week. Zoë hated not having enough money for her extravagant indulgences.

  She watched the candle-flame flicker gently in the cross breezes, sending the shadows dancing across the walls and ceiling. She loved looking at flames, staring into their flickering hearts. It didn't have to be candles either. She could sit and stare into the heart of a bonfire for hours; it was one of the few times when she genuinely lost all sense of self... and didn't mind. The light, the movement, the energy; it was mesmerising.

  Fire fascinated her; it could warm you and bring comfort to your world when you were cold. Yet, in excess, or out of control, it could burn and cause pain, even death. Nothing was ever wholly good or bad, she thought as she let the grey wisps spiral out of her half-open mouth. Or black or white, hot or cold, right or wrong; the world wasn't that simple, wasn't that clear cut. It was all a matter of perception. A single match flame, no more than half an inch high, could start a forest fire that could engulf a nation. Or it could light a joint; this joint, here.

  Clive had manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, with his back against the wall. He had pulled the cotton dhurrie across him. His eyes were barely open. Zoë passed the joint to him then drew the blanket up around her.

  'Thanks,' said Clive, a little dozily. 'You know something?'

  'What?'

  'You've got great legs.'

  Zoë nodded. 'I know. So have you.'

  'Yeah? You really think so?'

  Zoë laughed, but it was a hollow laugh. Men! They were so insecure, worse than women when it came to their looks. Not that they'd ever admit it.

  The music was playing softly in the background; she leant over and turned it up a little. Zoë liked listening to slow jazz when making love; it was sensual music, and it always relaxed her. She particularly loved the warm resonance of the tenor saxophone; it made her spine tingle, brought a warm rush to her insides. If she ever met a saxophone player who was a good lover too, she felt sure that would be it. And if he could massage backs, well, she'd lock him up and never let him go.

  Clive didn't play the saxophone or massage backs. But he was enthusiastic and, for a married man, relatively thoughtful in bed. Not that Zoë really thought very deeply about such things. Sex was fun; not something you'd base a life around, but definitely one of life's pleasures. It certainly wasn't worth getting hung up about. She hated all the petty jealousy that seemed to surround sex, all that proprietorial stuff. She couldn't understand why men let it obsess them, and she felt sorry for them.

  Boys had all that macho crap to deal with, all that conquering hero garbage, penetrating into the unknown, the dick as weapon... ridiculous. She liked men who were gentle, caring, soft with their caresses. She hated men who tried to put on a show, who tried to be "good", who spent more time loving themselves than their partner.

  She had once spent a month with such a man, a male model called Gino. True, he was a gorgeous looking hunk of an Italian, but he thought he was God's gift to womankind. He was so vain, so much of an exhibitionist, that he used to undress like a stripper; slowly, teasingly. He would get terribly upset if she didn't watch him, and go into ecstasies when they made love.

  But being "technical" and "getting it right" were more important to him than showing a little care and tenderness, the very things that really turned her on. Gino used to think that making her come entitled him to a medal or an award of some kind. And he would get terribly upset if she didn't make the appropriate noises, both during and after the e
vent. In truth, it got to the stage where, if anyone deserved an award, it should have been her: an Oscar for such convincing performances. She was relieved when he called one day to say he was going back to Verona.

  She looked across at Clive, who was reaching out, passing the joint back to her. Clive was quite sweet, even if he did cheat on Antonia. Zoë never asked about Clive's wife, but had told him that should she ever meet Antonia, even by accident, she would never, ever sleep with him again. Not that they slept together often. Even so, Zoë knew she wouldn't be able to look Antonia in the face; she hoped she would never be put in such a position.

  She leaned back and took a few puffs of the joint. Clive appeared to be smirking, and she wondered what was going through his mind.

  'What's with you?'

  'Huh?'

  'You're grinning like a Cheshire cat.'

  'Am I? Oh, no... it was nothing. I was just thinking how... sexy you are.'

  'I wish I hadn't asked.'

  'It was a compliment.'

  'Yeah, thanks.' Men... why were they all so bloody prosaic?

  Clive frowned. 'You really are unfathomable.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'You know... you put on that "hard-to-get" act, and then for no apparent reason, you suddenly... switch. What changed your mind?'

  Zoë paused before answering. 'I didn't.'

  Clive looked baffled. 'You didn't?'

  'Nope.' Her voice was harsh now, abrupt. 'I said I wouldn't spend the night with you, and I shan't. As soon as this joint is finished, you're getting a cab and going home.'

  Clive suddenly went rather pale. 'What's the matter? What did I say?'

  Zoë shook her head. 'Nothing. I'm just keeping to my word.'

  'You can't send me home stoned.'

  'Watch me.'

  Zoë had listened to what Clive had said with a mounting sense of anger. What act? She hadn't put on an act. She hadn't led him on. She'd had no intention of having sex with him, and she had said as much during the evening. If he hadn't hung around until the bar had closed, by which time she was well and truly pissed, then there was no way she'd have invited him back. As it was, she was drunk, he was persistent, and in the absence of anything better to do...