Purely Decorative

by Angelina Cabo

  Raoul looked over his shoulder towards a grey-suited man who had been standing attentively behind him, and nodded. The chauffeur replaced his peaked hat and walked forwards, picking up her luggage and heading off towards the exit. Raoul proffered his arm. 'Shall we?'

  Zoë slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and allowed Raoul to set the pace as they walked towards the exit. She was immediately aware of his perfect poise, and in that moment, she became aware that a dozen pairs of eyes were following them as they strode across the floor.

  'Why is everyone looking at us?' she asked Raoul, the words catching nervously in her throat. 'Do we really look that different?'

  Raoul smiled discreetly. 'Oh yes my dear,' he replied, his voice warm with a deep, controlled resonance; 'I assure you, we do.'

  Chapter 7

  They were whisked away in the biggest, plushest stretch limousine that she'd ever seen. It was then that the penny dropped; Zoë had just stepped into a world that she'd previously only glimpsed, that mysterious world where the "other half" lived.

  The limousine purred as it sped along the roads from the airport into town. Through tinted windows, Zoë looked out on to the foreign landscape and wondered what lay ahead. She still had no real idea what her function was. "Purely decorative", as Liz had put it, seemed a terribly vague job-description, and not one that she felt would do full justice to her abilities. Sure, she was pretty, but there must be more to this than just looking glamorous. However, she could not ask; Raoul would no doubt inform her of her duties, whatever they might be, in due course.

  It was not long before the limousine pulled up outside the hotel, The Frankfurt-Savoy. They had not spoken much on the journey; Zoë had been itching to have a cigarette, but as Raoul did not seem to smoke, she thought it impolite to light up in the limousine. She had made some polite small talk, mainly about Liz, giving nothing away. Raoul had listened attentively, nodding now and then but contributing little to the conversation. Perhaps he was tired, thought Zoë; she had no idea when he had arrived in Frankfurt, and perhaps he was still recovering from jetlag. Again, she didn't ask any questions as she didn't want to appear nosy. There would be a right time; she would be patient.

  The lobby of the hotel was most impressive. She walked alongside Raoul, straight towards the elevator. The bellhop trailed behind them with the luggage, maintaining a discrete distance, so they would not necessarily be associated with him. Zoë was already beginning to feel thoroughly ashamed of her bags, and she was angry with Liz for not saying anything; it would have been easy enough to borrow a decent suitcase. And Liz must have known...

  They alighted on the sixth floor. Raoul led her along the plush corridors until they came to room 607. He fished in his pocket for a key, unlocked the door and pushed it open for her, ushering her in with a wave of his hand.

  'I think you will be comfortable here; you have your own facilities.'

  Zoë looked around the room; it was huge - bigger than her entire flat - and opulent, like something out of one of those glitzy American television shows... "Dallas" or "Dynasty". Just then the bellhop arrived and brought the luggage into the room. Zoë again saw the look of disdain on Raoul's face, and she cursed beneath her breath.

  'Now then,' said Raoul curtly. 'I have a few calls to make. You must make yourself comfortable. We shall be dressing for dinner; do you have suitable attire?'

  Zoë felt her hackles rise. No, of course not; she'd come to dinner wearing a sheer negligee and a pair of Wellies! Just because her bags were scruffy...

  'Suitable?' she said, a little sharply. His assumption that she had not come prepared aggravated her. She waited for a response, but none was coming. She could see Raoul looking at her expectantly, and realised that she was, perhaps, overreacting a little. She took a deep breath and tried to smile. 'Liz lent me some of her clothes. I presume they're... suitable.' She tried not to let the sarcasm cut through too obviously. Even if it had, it seemed not to bother Raoul in the least.

  'Very good. When we are in Barcelona, we can go shopping and pick out a few things if you wish. Now I must go. I will see you at eight. Please do not wear too much eye make-up. Your eyes are very lovely, they should not be hidden. At eight, then.'

  He turned abruptly and left the room, leaving Zoë dumbstruck. She shook her head in disbelief, and then slumped onto the bed.

  Who was this guy, asking her if she knew how to dress herself, telling her how to put on her make-up? She stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the frustration already starting to well up inside her; she could see that whatever else it might be, this would not be an easy trip.

  ***

  Zoë unpacked her bags and hung up the slinky black dress that Liz had told her would be a good bet for the first evening. At it was only five o'clock, she lay down for a short nap, but even though she was quite tired after the previous night's excesses, she couldn't sleep. Her mind was too full of questions, questions that she knew would not be answered for a while yet. What sort of man was Raoul? Was he being deliberately provocative by speaking to her in that clipped, demanding fashion? Or was that just his way? She recalled something Liz had once said about him, how he was very much a product of his background, but that the Latin machismo thing was all show, that it wasn't really a part of his psyche. Zoë decided to reserve judgement on that one. As for his "business" dealings, she had a pretty good idea what they might be too, but she didn't want to jump to conclusions. No doubt she'd find out the truth in due course.

  At seven she got up and showered. She hadn't slept at all, but she felt a good deal more relaxed. She tried to make a little pact with herself, not to get aggravated or uptight by Raoul's manner. He was probably an absolutely charming man, and his slightly abrupt manner was doubtless a way of covering for his insecurities. There was every likelihood that he too was a bit nervous; he was, after all, taking a much bigger risk than she. After all, for her it was just a game, a laugh. But she was there for a purpose, and she had to remember that. She must not allow herself to get upset by minor irritations. She was there to enjoy herself, as a guest, and that was what she intended to do.

  ***

  'Most impressive.' Raoul was offering his arm to her.

  'Thank you.' Zoë realised that in this strange world, this elevated world where appearances were everything, compliments, no matter what form they arrived in, were a form of currency. Perhaps, she thought, one could even get rich on them. It was, therefore, equally important that she learn to accept compliments in the right way, that is, as if she fully expected them. Raoul wanted a beautiful woman to be seen with, so that is what she would be. And only people who were comfortable with their appearances could truly be said to be beautiful.

  He had been waiting for her in the lobby; he too looked very splendid in a rather snazzy silvery grey suit; not overly formal, but beautifully cut. He looked the sort of man who had never known anything but bespoke tailoring. She wondered if he had his socks and underpants made especially for him; after all, if you have the money, why not?

  She took his arm and together they strode across the lobby. They had no sooner reached the entrance to the hotel's main restaurant when the head waiter, a pompous looking fellow with slicked back dark hair and a slightly antiseptic smell to him, materialised and with a small nod of his head led them to their table. Before they had arrived, two more waiters were at the table, ready to seat them. The VIP treatment, thought Zoë, wondering, perhaps a little ungenerously, how much Raoul had slipped the head waiter for this treatment. It was all highly efficient, and, in its way, rather impressive. For all her supposedly egalitarian sensibilities, if the truth were told, Zoë was rather enjoying the attention. She was not elitist; she thought everyone should be allowed to experience such things, and she saw nothing wrong in her being able, now and then, to participate in this other world. Perhaps the next two weeks would be fun after all.

  As they took their seats Zoë noticed once again there were several people looking, albeit discree
tly, in their direction. A frisson of excitement had swept through the restaurant as the entourage of waiters had preceded them to the table. Perhaps they really were VIP's? Zoë smiled to herself, and tried to open herself up to the elegance, the flamboyance of it all.

  The wine waiter was standing there in readiness, and he flipped the wine list open and laid it before Raoul.

  Before studying the list, Raoul looked across at Zoë. 'You have a preference?'

  'Champagne,' replied Zoë without a moment's hesitation. 'I love champagne.' In her excitement, the words had come bubbling out of her like water from a spring, and realising that such overt enthusiasm was probably inappropriate for the setting, she quickly brought her fingertips to her lips and feigned embarrassment. She could see Raoul trying to control a grin, and knew that she was on safe ground. He looked at her then, his eyes smiling in friendship, acceptance. She hadn't blundered at all; she was just being herself, and he had realised this. Scruffy bags may have been a trifle outré, but showing a genuine excitement was, apparently, perfectly acceptable.

  Raoul looked up at the waiter, and very discreetly pointed to an item on the list. The wine waiter acknowledged the selection with a nod and strode off swiftly, allowing the head waiter to slide neatly into the vacant gap. Zoë looked on, amazed at such efficiency. But then, the Germans were renowned for that.

  She was handed a menu, and noticed immediately there was no indication of what the dishes cost. She wondered whether Raoul would notice this, and then in one of those rare moments when one acknowledges one's own ingenuousness, realised that his menu would certainly have the prices marked on it. No sooner had she taken this on board than a sense of panic swept through her. She hadn't said anything, she had forgotten to remind Liz to mention...

  'There is a problem?' Raoul was gazing at her, his expression concerned.

  'I, uh... did Liz tell you?'

  Raoul cocked his head slightly to one side; he evidently didn't have a clue what she was talking about.

  'I'm vegetarian... I don't eat meat.'

  'I am aware what a vegetarian is.'

  'Or fish... I mean, I can manage a bit if I have to but...' Zoë felt flustered. It hadn't occurred to her, but now, in this setting, she realised that if appearances were all important, perhaps being vegetarian would be a problem. There was no way she would eat meat; she just couldn't. She didn't mind others doing it; watching people eating red, bloody steaks didn't worry her at all. But she hadn't eaten any herself in six years. She didn't eat fish either, but knew that, if push came to shove, she could manage the occasional mouthful... Oh shit, she thought. What will he think?

  Raoul said nothing, but merely looked up at the head waiter who, right on cue and in impeccable English cut with a crisp, Teutonic accent said:

  'Might I suggest the palm hearts... and perhaps the artichokes to start?'

  Raoul glanced across at Zoë, who smiled and nodded gratefully. Thank God for that. She wanted to leap up and kiss the head waiter, but knew that such behaviour really would be inappropriate, enthusiasm notwithstanding.

  Raoul closed the menu. 'I shall also have the artichokes, followed by the fillet, very rare.'

  The waiter gave the now familiar nodding gesture, retrieved the menus and walked smartly away. Raoul relaxed back into his seat and gazed appreciatively at Zoë. Zoë wasn't sure how to respond to so blatant a move; he was staring, and she wondered if perhaps there was something wrong with her appearance; her hair awry or make-up smudged.

  'Is there something wrong?'

  'On the contrary; everything is as one would wish. I must apologise for having been so abrupt this afternoon, only I wanted to attend to some business matters - dispose of them, so to speak - so that I might be able to relax this evening and give more of my attention to you. So, you are rested after your journey?'

  'I suppose so... it was only a short flight. How about you? Have you been here long? In Frankfurt?'

  'Not long. I arrived yesterday from Caracas.'

  'You must still be jet-lagged.'

  'No, not really. I am used to it. I travel so frequently, I cannot afford to allow something as trivial as jetlag to affect me. You may smoke if you wish, it does not bother me.'

  This last sentence - a complete non sequitur - took her aback. She had not smoked in his presence, had not displayed her cigarettes, which, at that moment, were in her handbag.

  'How do you know I smoke?'

  'Because you are fidgeting. Your fingers have not stopped their busy movements since you sat down. You do not strike me as a naturally nervous person, despite the... unusual circumstances under which we meet, so I assume you are being deprived of something that would steady your nerves.' He said this all in a very matter-of-fact way, as if it had required no great deductive powers at all, just a common attention to detail. 'Besides,' he added, 'I could smell it on you when you came from the flight... your clothes, not your breath. So, please, if it will put you at your ease...' He pushed the cut glass ashtray towards her. If she had previously been managing to keep her nicotine addiction under control, after this little demonstration of deductive logic, this Sherlock Holmes vignette, she was, alas, no longer able.

  She reached into her handbag, found her cigarettes, lit up, and gratefully inhaled. She began counting. Someone had once told her that it takes only seven seconds for nicotine to take effect. She reckoned that, when you were anxious, it was even less time, perhaps just five seconds, as the heart was beating faster, pumping the blood to the brain that much more swiftly.

  It worked. She felt an immediate sense of calm, of reassurance, flood through her. How awful, she thought, that it took a drug, a dangerous drug at that, to restore a sense of balance in her life. One day she would have to do something about it; she would have to conquer it. But not yet. Not now.

  'Will we be staying here long?'

  'No. My business here is complete. Tomorrow we shall fly to Barcelona.'

  'Tomorrow?'

  'You have other plans?'

  Zoë smiled. 'Of course not. I just assumed we would be spending a few days here.'

  Raoul shook his head. 'Have you visited Barcelona? I assure you it is an altogether more... desirable city than Frankfurt. The Germans are so prosaic, and their cities reflect that lack of grace and mystique. The Spanish however are an altogether different breed. And Barcelona is their pleasure capital. You are interested in pleasure?'

  'Who isn't?'

  'You would be surprised. In my line of business...'

  Raoul was cut short by the arrival of the champagne, an event which occasioned mixed feelings for Zoë. She was, naturally, delighted to see the chilled bucket arrive, but distressed that its arrival should interrupt her discovery of the information that she sought most of all. She thought it would be impertinent to come right out and ask "And what line is that, exactly?", so she settled instead for the enjoyment of expectation as the wine waiter lifted the bottle out of the bucket. The label sang out loud and clear "Dom Perignon", and Zoë delighted in the familiar pop of the cork, and the gentle trickling sound as the champagne was poured into the two glasses.

  The waiter replaced the bottle and, as he left, Raoul lifted his glass. He looked deeply into Zoë's eyes, rather more provocatively than she would have expected from a man who had known her for only a few hours.

  'To your beauty,' he said.

  Zoë blushed. There was nothing she could do about it; blushing was an involuntary reaction, a reflex, speaking more loudly than any words could. Raoul must have noted this with pleasure, but as a courtesy, rather than linger on the moment and so as not to embarrass her further, he added:

  '... and a pleasurable liaison. I'm sure we will get along ... admirably.'

  They clinked glasses, and Zoë brought the glass to her lips and sipped appreciatively. It tasted delicious. Even though her job at the wine bar allowed her to drink champagne regularly, she never really tired of its own special blend of qualities. She was never blasé about champagne; it
was always special, and this particular glass was somehow a little more special than others. It heralded something unique; she could not help but sense, in that moment, that something new, exciting and altogether different was about to happen to her. She had no idea what form it would take, but she had that prescient sense that she was about to embark on an adventure.

  ***

  The food was exquisite. Zoë had been living on a diet of canned food and whatever garbage was served up at the wine bar for too long. She hadn't had a good meal, a decent meal, in ages. Neither had she seen such beautiful presentation. She ate with enthusiasm, but interestingly, by the time she had finished her starter, her appetite had all but deserted her. While Raoul tucked in to his steak with gusto, Zoë could only nibble at the palm hearts. If Raoul noticed this he said nothing. He preferred, instead, to keep her champagne glass topped up at all times. This task was maintained with clockwork regularity by either himself or the ever-present head waiter, who took personal interest in serving them. So, Zoë drank. The second bottle was easily as good as the first, and she could feel herself beginning to loosen up considerably under its potent influence.

  And Raoul was charming, utterly charming. He mesmerised her with stories of his pitiful youth in Venezuela, abandoned by his poverty stricken parents, growing up in Caracas, a street-urchin, having to steal and beg just to keep himself and his younger brother alive. He enchanted her with tales of travelling around South America when he was in his late teens, of his adventures in Amazonia, how he had met tribal peoples and lived with them for a year, learning all about the rainforest and its extraordinary profusion of flora and fauna. It was then that he had learnt all about the curative properties of certain plants, which had in turn led him to study medicine for a while. There was no doubt about it, Raoul was a real magician when it came to telling stories. With just a few well-chosen words he could paint the most vivid pictures, conjure up the most colourful images, and weave them all into a magnificent tapestry, a delight for the ears and imagination. His warm, resonant voice lulled her into a calm, almost meditative state. He never took his attention off her, not for a moment. Even while he was eating or drinking, he directed his attention towards her and her alone, until she felt she was the only person in the restaurant, in the hotel, in the whole of Frankfurt.