'It's open.'
The door opened and Raoul stepped into the room.
'Oh... hi,' said Zoë, and then saw the flash of anger in Raoul's eyes. 'What's the matter?'
The anger disappeared then, his face taking on its usual, softer, controlled expression. He walked across to her, took her gently by the hand. 'Not a thing,' he said. 'But I explained to you... you do not have to do this; the maid will unpack for you.'
Zoë could see that he was still angry, or perhaps upset, and trying hard not to show it. 'I was just hanging up a couple of dresses...'
'Please, I would rather...' He hesitated, a little flustered. 'We have no time for such mundane activities. We have more important things on our agenda.'
'We do?' Zoë was a bit baffled, but Raoul did not waste time explaining further.
'You are wearing comfortable shoes? Good. Come along.' And he led her from the room, as if she were a child, leaving her clothes in disarray on the bed.
***
Half an hour later they were wandering along Las Ramblas, a bustling boulevard where, Zoë noted, people outnumbered cars. The chauffeur had dropped them near a huge column that, stretching skywards, supported a statue of Christopher Columbus. Zoë had stared for several moments at the famous adventurer, and a sudden but definite frisson of excitement had caught hold of her. Columbus had returned to that very harbour five centuries previously having completed a journey to the New World. Zoë couldn't help but feel that perhaps - just perhaps - she had already set sail for a new world of her own.
Raoul and Zoë walked alongside the harbour for a while, past the moored replica of Columbus's ship, the Santa Maria, Zoë dancing along in the brilliant afternoon sunshine. There were few tourists around, as it was still very early in the season, but the warmth, the sea air, the promise of the exotic made it feel like the middle of summer. It was such a contrast to the dour coldness of Frankfurt. Here, Zoë could feel like she was on holiday.
They walked up the Ramblas along its wide, central reservation, Zoë running from one side to the other like an excited child. Hundreds of stalls lined the boulevard, and she couldn't help but flit from one to another, examining the wares for sale.
It was one huge, open air market. Anything from caged birds to slices of Spanish omelette could be had for a price. Many of the traders tried to sell her things, but Zoë wasn't interested in buying anything; she just wanted to look, to handle, to feel. She had Raoul translate for her on occasion, just for fun, and although at one point she found herself literally dragging him along from one stall to another, he seemed to take it all in good spirit.
Zoë could happily have spent a week just camped out on the street, watching the street performers and pavement artists creating their songs, dances, tableaux and pictures. The place was buzzing with activity, excitement and colour, which all but overwhelmed her.
They bought ice creams and walked along hand in hand like a honeymoon couple. Zoë talked excitedly all the while, pointing out anything that caught her attention; a man walking his lapdog, a woman buying roses, a curlicued balcony set high up on the side of a building, a small child playing with a pile of twigs. Everything was new and different for her, and she wanted to absorb it all.
She noticed how Raoul remained calm throughout this, indulging her in her excitement, but not participating. It seemed to Zoë that, for all his fond words about Barcelona, he was uninterested in it, or at the very least, took its particular pleasures very much for granted. Until, that is, she caught him gazing off into the middle distance.
At first she thought he might be daydreaming. He had searched out some shade beneath one of the avenue's finer trees, and was leaning against the trunk, staring down the street. She stood beside him, not wishing to intrude on his reveries.
After a minute or so she looked up at him and could see that, far from gazing into nothingness, his eyes were very much focused. She had seen that look before; yesterday evening, during dinner, and then, later when they had made love. She followed his gaze, and discovered that, on this occasion, the object of his singular intent was a Spanish woman in her twenties, a Catalan beauty with deep brown eyes and long black hair. Zoë had never before seen a woman so exactly shaped like an hourglass, and it was this combination of curves that had captured Raoul's attention.
For a fleeting moment she felt something like jealousy pass through her, but knew this was ridiculous. The feeling quickly faded to be replaced by one of slight amusement. She wanted to say something to Raoul, but at the same time, thought it unkind to shake him from what was evidently a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Instead, she allowed her own gaze to wander along the street, alighting now and then on objects of interest or scenes of intrigue.
It was Raoul who finally made the move. Coming out of his meditative state, he again took Zoë by the hand, and together they strolled the rest of the avenue until they came to the bustle of Plaza de Catalunya, a huge square, surrounded by shops, with traffic roaring around its central green plaza. Before she knew it, Raoul had hustled her across the busy road and into El Corte Inglés, a department store that reminded Zoë of the grandiose Selfridges on Oxford Street.
'What do you need?' asked Zoë as Raoul read the directory on the wall, narrowing his eyes in concentration.
'Nothing. For me at least... ah, here we are, moda, third floor.' He shoved her towards the escalators.
The third floor was devoted entirely to womens' fashion. Raoul searched around until he found a chair, sat down, and then waved his hand at the huge selection of clothes on display.
'Now,' he said, leaning back in the chair. 'Entertain me. I wish to see a fashion show.'
Zoë looked around her, feeling a bit bemused. 'What?'
'A fashion show. You must try on any clothes that take your fancy, and let me look at you. Anything that we both agree suits you, you shall have. I should tell you that we will have at least four dinner dates this week, two of which will be rather formal. So, please.'
'But...'
'Please Zoë. You must be both comfortable and presentable while we are here. Do not be concerned about the money; whatever you choose, it will not - what is the expression - break the bank.'
'But I don't know where to start?'
'Start with clothes that display your body to best effect.'
Zoë stared at him in disbelief; had he really said what she thought he said? 'I'm sorry?'
Raoul raised his eyebrows. 'Why do you act as if I have just made an improper suggestion? You know very well what I am talking about. The outfit you were wearing when I first met you in Frankfurt. The dress you wore yesterday evening to dinner. We are both aware that these are costumes that show off your figure in a most appealing way. The men with whom I shall be doing business - that you will meet - also have an eye for beauty, and they will be much impressed if you are suitably presented. Do not forget, that is why you are here. Now please, do not procrastinate further. Try on some clothes.'
'Now wait a minute...'
'Zoë, we do not have that much time. The store will be closing in an hour or so. Surely it is not too much of a trial to choose some beautiful clothes? I would imagine most women would be only too delighted to be indulged so.'
Even though he had managed to offend her sensibilities, Zoë had to concede that he was quite right. Choosing beautiful clothes and having them bought for you was not a trial. And, as he had so bluntly pointed out, looking beautiful was what this was all about. And he obviously thought she was beautiful, so...
Seething only slightly, Zoë went off in search of outfits, and to her secret pleasure, was drawn time and again to the most expensive articles in the shop.
The first thing she tried on was a short cocktail dress in clinging black lurex, slightly shiny, with pencil thin shoulder straps. The neck dipped dramatically, revealing a decent amount of cleavage without being pornographic. It was simple, but quite sensual. She also tried on some very long black gloves that covered her up to her upper arm. She thought it looked a
little theatrical, but stunning. She showed herself for approval to Raoul, who simply smiled and nodded. She didn't ask any further questions; one down, three to go.
Next, she found a bright, chrome yellow dress, fashioned like a long jacket, with a high neck, tightly fitted to below the bust, before falling out voluminously, almost like a tent to the upper thigh. Underneath she wore matching yellow tights. It was all rather sixties, and again, quite provocative. Raoul was less keen on this, but by the time Zoë had been wearing it for five minutes, she had grown rather attached to it. It was duly packed up with the black dress.
Her third choice was a long, pleated, black chiffon skirt, almost see-through, which she wore with a heavily brocaded and richly embroidered tailored jacket in various shades of red and gold. It was very ornate, with thousands of sequins and yards of golden thread; it was, perhaps, the most obviously "Spanish" of all the articles of clothing that Zoë chose. The combination conspired to be both simple and exotic, and pleased Raoul greatly.
Finally, Zoë picked out a white silk, three-piece dinner suit, with a white shirt and bow tie. It was all rather masculine, and would perhaps make anyone less girlish look rather butch. As it was, Zoë was simply too pretty, too curved, to be taken for anything other than a woman, and somehow the suit, rather than detract from her femininity, only enhanced it.
Zoë had rarely had as much fun in a clothes store. To have carte blanche, to have someone else picking up the bill... she was like a little kid in a toy store.
It was while she was trying on shoes that she again noticed Raoul showing more than casual interest in two young Spanish women who were also choosing dresses, no doubt for a special occasion. They were shapely, pretty girls, and Raoul seemed again to shift into a state of rapt attention. He was staring, in the same manner as when they had been walking along Las Ramblas, and was making no attempt to hide it.
Zoë could not help but feel there was something not strictly correct, not quite acceptable about this undisguised staring. In this setting - a clothes store - it had a sense of the voyeuristic about it. That said, she had to admit that Raoul was deriving whatever sort of pleasure it was, not from watching naked or scantily clad women, but those that were fully and properly dressed.
Something did not quite add up, and she made a mental note to ask him about it, once they had become better acquainted.
***
Rather than struggle with bags and boxes, Raoul arranged to have them delivered to the hotel. Thus unencumbered, they returned to the Plaza, where Raoul, still greatly pleased by Zoë's choice of outfits, led her to a small but rather exclusive jewellers. As they stood outside, looking at the fabulous displays in the window, with Raoul pointing out one or two especially attractive pieces, Zoë suddenly felt a twinge of discomfort. When he took her by the hand and began to lead her into the shop, she suddenly baulked at the idea.
'Wait a minute Raoul; what's this about?'
'You are still undressed my dear; you cannot accompany me to these dinners without the correct accoutrement.'
'Oh no. Clothes are one thing, but I can't accept jewellery. I'm sorry.'
'Why ever not? Do you suppose you are selling your soul for gold by accepting a pair of earrings?'
'You think I'm being ridiculous.'
'No. I merely wish to understand why it is acceptable to let me dress you, but not to adorn you.'
Zoë fell silent for a moment. She tried to find words to explain, but, in truth, could not find any. It wasn't a rational thing; there was no logic to it, nothing she could say that would truly explain it, satisfy his need to know. It was just a feeling, something emotional, not grounded in common sense at all.
She struggled to find a way to make him understand, and Raoul, seeing the distress that his simple generosity was causing, took a different tack.
'Very well. What do you say to this idea. We shall go in and choose some earrings for you to wear, just three pairs, say. They will remain on loan to you for the duration of your stay in Barcelona, and I will take possession of them when you return to England. Is that acceptable?'
Zoë nodded. 'I know you think I'm behaving stupidly...'
Raoul held up his hand. 'Not at all. Now, please, let us see what these fine people have to offer, and whether they have anything that pleases you.'
They did, of course. Raoul had not chosen the jewellers at random. Inside they had a series of modern designs that Zoë fell in love with, simple lines and settings, all of which were beautiful. She chose two sets of silver earrings and one set in gold, which she knew would look particularly spectacular with the embroidered top she had just bought. Knowing that they were just on loan made it easier for her to choose the best pieces in the store, which was just as well, as that is what Raoul would have favoured.
On the way back down the Ramblas, they stopped at a pavement café near the harbour end of the boulevard. The afternoon's shopping expedition had tired Zoë, and she was much in need of a rest, a cigarette and a caffeine fix.
They found an empty table beneath a tree, where Zoë could look out on the wonderful statue of Columbus atop his column. The late afternoon sun had washed everything in a warm, bronze tint. As Zoë sipped the strong Spanish coffee with its hint of chicory, and inhaled deeply on her precious cigarette, she couldn't help but feel very fortunate and privileged to be sitting in such wonderful surroundings with such interesting company.
She had not yet decided how she felt about Raoul. Everything had happened at such a whirlwind pace that she had barely had a chance to catch her breath.
It was just a little over twenty-four hours since they had met, and while they were still strangers on so many levels, they had also been unusually intimate. Even though Zoë had been pretty merry on the champagne the previous night, she had known exactly what she was doing, what was happening. And even though she had been mortified by the way in which Raoul had made his abrupt departure, the time they had spent together in bed had been wonderful.
Zoë often thought about sex; it was something that, for all its pleasures, could still confuse her on occasion. She was no expert on the subject, and if it ever came up in conversation with friends, her standard response was always the same: "I know what I like".
Still, she was clear on one thing: good sex, however it was defined, had nothing to do with technique and even less to do with love. It was, she had always felt, to do with communication. Not words, necessarily (although she had never been embarrassed about letting her partners know exactly what she liked), but it was important to - how could she put it - to connect.
For Zoë, that was exactly what had happened last night with Raoul. They had, she thought, a natural, mutual understanding, and in physical terms had responded to each other accordingly. She had felt unusually free and liberated with him, bereft of inhibitions. While Zoë didn't think of herself as inhibited, she was rarely that carefree when going to bed with someone for the first time. Raoul had somehow made her feel very much at ease. If only he hadn't disappeared so swiftly; it would have been the perfect night.
'What are you thinking about?'
Raoul's voice brought her back to her immediate environment. She wasn't sure what to say; she did not want him to know that she had been thinking about making love with him. All men, in her experience, were egotists to some degree, and Raoul was certainly no exception. She didn't feel it particularly helpful to add to his potential vanity.
'Just soaking up the atmosphere,' she said casually. 'I know we've only just arrived, but I can tell I'm going to like Barcelona very much.'
'Good. I am pleased. You certainly look relaxed here. Perhaps there is some Spanish blood in you.'
'I doubt it; rather traditional Anglo-Saxon stock on both sides I'm afraid.'
'Then in another life perhaps.'
Zoë smiled. Was he serious? 'Perhaps,' she said, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice. 'I certainly feel comfortable here... but who wouldn't? It's a very immediate sort of city.'
&nbs
p; 'Not everyone would agree with you,' said Raoul. 'In my experience, the world is divided into those who are passionate about the Mediterranean, and those who are unmoved by it. If there is passion for Spain, Italy, Greece, then there is physical passion too. Alpine countries and the northern low countries... these are for people of a more cerebral disposition.'
'And what about England?'
Raoul sighed. 'For masochists only, I fear. Certainly not for hedonists like you.'
Zoë laughed. 'Aren't masochists supposed to be pleasure-driven too?'
'I am afraid my knowledge of such matters is rather limited. Masochism has always struck me as a peculiarly British vice. But then, the British believe that all Latin peoples are bestial, have quick tempers and too many of the wrong sort of hormones in their blood. You see, we all have our prejudices.' He leant across and took her hand. 'What do you think?'
Zoë shrugged 'I have to confess that my experience of Latin lovers is limited to just one case. I once had an Italian boyfriend, and admittedly he was terribly vain. He also had a foul temper, but I've always considered that a characteristic of the sex rather than the race.'
Raoul laughed. 'Perhaps you are right. Men do not have the levels of self-control afforded the fairer sex... I see you do not like this expression.'
Zoë had bristled visibly on hearing this, and had wanted to leap into a tirade on sexist language. But then she remembered her promise to herself to remain calm. 'I've never really known what it meant,' she said tactfully. 'It just sounds patronising; like saying "the weaker sex". I've never thought of women that way.'
Raoul nodded, not, thought Zoë, in agreement, but merely acknowledgement. 'I see you have considered opinions about many things. I like that.'
Zoë seethed; again she felt she was being patronised. She withdrew her hand from Raoul's. 'I suspect you have opinions about everything,' she said coolly, perhaps hoping to put Raoul in his place. If this was the desired effect then it did not work. Raoul merely smiled, reached into his wallet, withdrew a couple of large denomination notes - clearly more money than was necessary for two cups of coffee - slipped them beneath the ashtray and then rose to his feet.
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