Purely Decorative

by Angelina Cabo

  The wine waiter brought a Raimat Cabernet Sauvignon from the Lleida province, which evidently met with Raoul's expectations. Zoë thought it absolutely delicious, although she was also aware that anything would have tasted good in the mood she was in.

  The menu was peppered with delicious sounding Catalan dishes. Zoë chose an escalivada to start, a salad made from cooked peppers and aubergines, while Raoul had something black and disgusting which she later discovered was squid cooked in its own ink. While Raoul tucked into something fishy and spicy, Zoë played safe with a traditional Catalan dish of spinach cooked with pine nuts and raisins. The spinach was traditionally a starter, but there was nothing on the main course menu that could be considered vegetarian. Still, no one seemed to be bothered by her choice, and it was delicious.

  Another bottle of wine - a heavy red from Priorat Unio - accompanied the main course, and by the time they were halfway through it, Zoë was feeling in top form. The dope, the alcohol and the general atmosphere had all combined to make her feel open and garrulous. So much so that, while she was talking nineteen to the dozen, regaling Raoul with stories about her exploits at Sizzlers, she failed to notice that Raoul was getting more and more agitated.

  When Zoë got excited she tended to use her hands for emphasis. This was the case when she was eating too, so consequently, while she had been telling Raoul a story about Josh, she had been waving her knife and fork about in a most ungainly manner. But she had not noticed this. So she was shocked when, in the middle of a sentence, Raoul suddenly threw down his knife and fork and yelled at her.

  'Stop! What do you think you are doing?'

  Zoë did indeed stop, in midsentence, her mouth open, her cutlery poised in mid-air above her plate. She felt both confused and embarrassed, as a few couples on neighbouring tables had turned to look at them. Raoul looked furious, and she had no idea what was wrong. In that moment she suddenly felt her composure and sense of self slip away.

  'What... what is it?' she said quietly.

  Raoul, however, continued at his previous, unnecessarily high volume. 'What do you think you are doing with your hands? Where do you think you are? A working man's cafeteria? Waving your implements around like a knife-thrower in some cheap circus!'

  This sobered her up really swiftly. Zoë felt herself blushing beneath this assault. She felt both embarrassed and angry. How dare he talk to her like that; there was no reason, no excuse. If she had been behaving out of turn, then all it took was a few words to correct her. He did not have to shout at her as if she were a dog who had misbehaved.

  Trying to control the trembling in her hands, she placed her knife and fork on the plate and put her hands in her lap. She was still shocked by Raoul's outburst, and could not believe he had addressed her this way in front of so many people. He was still glaring at her; anyone would think she had committed a heinous crime.

  'There is no need to shout,' she said, softly but with as much authority as she could muster.

  But Raoul was not playing by the same rules as she; he continued to castigate her in an unnecessarily loud manner. 'Do not presume to tell me how to address you. Your behaviour is inappropriate; surely you are aware of this.'

  Zoë, now furious, looked away towards the exit. She could see the head waiter looking across to her and giving instructions to his waiters; it looked as if he were ordering them not to interfere. Zoë became aware that several people were now staring at them. There was a noticeable drop in background chatter. She wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. The fact that they probably did not understand what Raoul was saying made no difference. She had never felt so embarrassed in her life.

  'I am well aware of it now, and so is everybody else. Will you please lower your voice.'

  'It is not enough to know,' continued Raoul, making no concessions whatsoever. 'How can I expect to make the correct impression if you behave like an ignorant peasant...'

  That was it. Zoë got to her feet and threw her napkin on the table. 'Don't you dare talk to me like that.'

  'Sit down. You are making a scene.'

  'I'm making a scene!'

  'SIT DOWN!'

  The vehemence of his order caught Zoë completely off balance, and she found herself sitting down, against her will, against her better judgement. This is wrong, she said to herself; I should be walking out, I should be away from this madman. What right does he have to talk to me like this?

  She could not bear to look around her at the other diners' reaction, so she simply returned Raoul's glare, and said nothing. She did not pick up her knife and fork again, she did not drink from the glass, she ordered no more food. She refused coffee, and merely waited in silence. She paid no attention to anything Raoul said, although he said little after having shouted at her.

  They did not speak in the car on the way home, and when they arrived at the hotel, she walked swiftly to the desk, requested her key and rushed into the lift as the doors were closing, leaving Raoul still waiting for his key.

  ***

  'What are you doing?' Having knocked twice on Zoë's door and had no response, Raoul had opened the connecting door between their suites and found Zoë packing her old zipped-top canvas bag.

  'Get out of here.'

  'I said, what are you doing?' There was not a trace of remorse or apology in his voice.

  'What's it look like?'

  'You are leaving?'

  'Bingo. If you think I'm putting up with that kind of crap, you can forget it. Nobody talks to me like that. Nobody.'

  'Please, come down to the bar for a drink so that we can finish the evening properly.'

  'The evening is long finished pal, as is this little excursion.'

  'Zoë, do not make me angry like this. Now come downstairs; I would not like the staff at this hotel to think there was something wrong.'

  Zoë stopped packing and turned to Raoul, her eyes aflame. 'You don't seem to understand, do you? You cannot talk to me this way. I am not some pet or slave to be ordered around.'

  'You are ungrateful.'

  'The hell I am.'

  'I have spent money on you; I have bought you fine clothes, and this is your thanks.'

  'Oh fuck off Raoul. You can buy clothes and jewellery, but you cannot buy me. It just doesn't work like that. I'm not for sale, I was never for sale. And as of now, I am no longer for hire.' Zoë returned her attention to the packing, but could not really make any headway with it. She felt uncomfortable with him standing there like that; it was an invasion of what little privacy she had. He had no right to open the connecting door.

  'I do not understand you.'

  'Evidently.'

  'You are overreacting.'

  'And you're a total prick.'

  'Zoë, please. I was merely pointing out what I saw as inappropriate behaviour... you did not have to take offence.'

  Zoë could not believe what she was hearing. 'What? Don't you understand? You humiliated me in front of the entire restaurant!'

  'You are upset.'

  'Damn right I'm upset! What's wrong with you, don't you understand anything?'

  'Please, come downstairs for a drink; we can talk about this afterwards.'

  'No! This is not negotiable Raoul. Either you start treating people like human beings, which at the very least entails civility and respect, or you lose. I can't believe you treat Liz like this.'

  'Elizabeth is not as aggressive as you are.'

  'What, she rolls over when you say so? Well I'm sorry, but I'm not house-trained like Liz, and I'm very sorry if you feel you've been misled. The clothes are yours.' Zoë pulled off the gold earrings and threw them on the bed. 'And those. I'll reimburse you for the flights as soon as I can, although I don't suppose it'll affect your cash flow situation too severely...'

  'Zoë, please, enough.' Raoul held out his hands in supplication and began to walk towards her. Zoë saw this move and stepped back swiftly; it was more a reflex action than a premeditated move. She didn't believe he would do her harm; sh
e didn't know Raoul well enough to base her judgement on anything other than instinct, but she couldn't imagine him raising a hand to her. She saw the look on his face then. He had stopped in his tracks, and his expression was a pathetic mix of sadness and confusion.

  'I will not hurt you.'

  'You already have done. You don't have to strike someone for it to hurt.'

  'Then I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you. It is just my manner. Please Zoë.' He walked towards her slowly; Zoë remained motionless, unsure what to do. His expression had changed again, to one of sadness and, she thought, regret. Damn those eyes with their soulful stare, thought Zoë, as Raoul came closer to her. Eventually he was standing right before her. Very, very slowly, he enfolded her in his arms.

  'No Raoul,' said Zoë softly. 'It won't work.' She did not respond, made no move, her thoughts teetering between retreat and surrender. She didn't really want to leave Barcelona; it was a fun, vibrant place, and she had been having a great time. And Raoul, when he wasn't being a total arsehole, was great company. She was confused, and didn't know which way to turn.

  Raoul hugged her warmly. 'Please, no more. There is no need for this. I am truly sorry. I have much respect for you, and I did not mean to hurt you in this way. I ask you, please, accept my apology; it will not happen again.'

  His voice had taken on that deep, sultry resonance; Zoë could almost feel it vibrate through her. His body was warm and supple against hers, yet strong and muscular, and the scent of musk and spice once again lingered in the air around him. He nuzzled against her neck, and Zoë felt her resistance beginning to crumble. Why did he have this effect on her? It didn't make sense. He had embarrassed her in the restaurant, treated her with contempt; surely that was beyond forgiveness? And yet, here he was, soft and tender, and full of remorse and...

  'Please Zoë,' he whispered. She felt his breath, warm and scented against her neck. 'Please don't leave. I am so sorry. Please forgive me.' He kissed her neck, her ear, her cheek. His lips found hers, and Zoë, still teetering on the edge of indecision, found herself slipping inexorably under his spell once again, and before she could do anything about it, they had fallen on to the bed in a wild embrace.

  Chapter 14

  The sun was just rising in a clear blue sky the following morning as they sped down the motorway towards Sitges. Raoul had hired a red open-top sports car for a few days. Zoë - who knew nothing about cars - called it the “Little Red Corvette” much to Raoul's bemusement.

  With the top down and the rush of the wind in her hair, Zoë was in her element. She loved to drive - or be driven - at high speed. It was, for her, the original rush. Before drugs, before sex, she had had her first real high at speed on the back of a huge Suzuki, tearing through the mean streets of North London on a lazy Sunday afternoon, the summer she left high school. That thrill, the rising G forces, the noise, the sensation of solid air, buffeting her face, her arms... she would never forget that.

  Now, as Raoul stepped on the gas, Zoë slipped a cassette into the player, cranked up the volume and as the first "gunning" sounds of Billy Idol's "Blue Highway" shuddered out of the loudspeakers, she could feel the adrenaline start to course through her system. Her muscles tensed in expectation as the singer let out that blood-curdling scream and the drums - surely the heaviest, noisiest drums ever committed to recording tape - crashed aggressively into the mix.

  Zoë slapped her hand against the side of the car in time, the relentless beat of the song having commandeered her natural body rhythms so that her heart and pulse were now linked directly to the track. When the verse gave way to the chorus, Zoë belted the lyrics out with all her heart.

  The moment so startled Raoul that he inadvertently touched the brakes for just a moment, causing the car to hiccup and then lurch forwards with a momentum every bit as relentless as that of the song.

  There was little traffic about; they seemed to have the highway all to themselves. They didn't speak much, each absorbed in their own worlds. Once past Castelldefels the highway gave way to narrower, winding roads that twisted in among the hills. Olive and lemon trees wavered in the soft winds, casting their long gnarled shadows against the dry, crusty earth.

  Within an hour they were at the coast. Driving along the main street of Sitges, among the cute white-washed houses with their flower-festooned balconies, Zoë felt herself a world away from the raunchy, cosmopolitan city buzz of Barcelona.

  Raoul parked the car beside a pretty, white-washed church, then took Zoë by the hand and led her towards the Platja d'Or beach. It was still early, and the town seemed half asleep. Raoul guided Zoë into a canopied bar near the beach, and signalled that they should sit at a small white, wrought iron table near the pavement in the shade. Zoë liked the look of this place, which was rather seedy; as much as she enjoyed pretty white-washed houses with flowers, there was nothing like a dark, dank, dusty pit to arouse her interest. Zoë thought the bar looked like it might be the local hang-out for all the drunks, druggies and whores come night time, and rather wished they had come here in the evening rather than the daytime.

  Playing quietly in the background, Zoë could make out the now familiar strains of flamenco music, which seemed to follow her everywhere she went. With gentle breaths of ozone and pine needles sweeping in off the sea and down from the mountains, and the sun rising lazily above the water, the ringing harmonies of the Spanish guitars could not be more appropriate

  Zoë fished around in her bag for her cigarettes, and by the time she had found them, the waiter, a rather nice-looking man in his early twenties, was lethargically handing Raoul a couple of breakfast menus.

  Zoë lit her cigarette and breathed the fumes in deeply. She gazed at the waiter, who appeared on the verge of sleep, and offered him a cigarette, believing the man was suffering from some serious withdrawal symptoms. The waiter smiled and shook his head, simultaneously pounding his fist into his chest and making an unpleasant coughing and spluttering noise. Zoë found this charade rather amusing. She was unaware that Raoul was watching her, hawk-like. He thrust the menu in front of her and pointed to the contents.

  'Zoë, please; the man is waiting to take your order.'

  'Huh? Oh, sorry. Umm... gin and tonic please.'

  The waiter looked at Zoë uncomprehendingly for a moment, then looked at Raoul, who was looking at Zoë in an equally uncomprehending manner.

  'Zoë, it's not even nine o'clock.'

  Zoë, not sure what that had to do with anything, looked askance at Raoul and then nodded.

  'You're right,' she said, squinting at the menu for a moment or two before looking up at the waiter again. 'Make that a Tequila Sunrise.' She smiled brightly and handed the menus back to the waiter. 'What was I thinking?'

  She saw Raoul raise his eyebrows, and then his face broke into a broad smile.

  'Make that two,' he said, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

  ***

  The sea was glorious. Zoë and Raoul splashed around in the warm, salty water like a couple of children. There were so few people about that they had the sea and the beautiful, palm-fringed beach almost entirely to themselves.

  It wasn't until they had finished swimming and playing, and were drying off in the sun, that the beach began to fill up. Not that Zoë noticed. The combined effects of sun, sea and tequila sent her into a lovely, gentle snooze, full of strange but pleasant half-dreams, featuring people and places that Zoë felt certain she had never known, and which disappeared forever on waking.

  When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see so many people around. It was also a good deal noisier than when she had drifted off. Raoul was beside her, propped up on one elbow, gazing out to sea. What an amazing life he leads, she thought, watching him. His gaze was transfixed on the waves as they broke against the shoreline. That this should be just another working day for him! Zoë smiled; what a way to make a living.

  She was just about to return to her semi-comatose state when she suddenly realised that Raoul was no
t watching the waves at all, but was in fact eyeing up a couple of long-legged, nymph-like beauties bathing topless near the water's edge. She watched, in a mesmerised fascination, the way in which Raoul seemed to be removing what little remained of their clothing with his eyes - making no attempt to hide or disguise his actions - until she could stand it no longer.

  'Jesus Christ!' she said, sufficiently loudly to shake Raoul from his reveries. Raoul, seemingly unperturbed, turned his head towards Zoë and raised his eyebrows. This casual way he had of enquiring infuriated her, especially this morning. It was as if, regardless of the situation, he had to maintain his cool appearance, his untroubled manner. Someone could scream "Murder!" in the streets, and she felt certain that Raoul would merely turn towards the direction of the scream and raise his eyebrows. 'Jesus Christ!' she said again, hoping the repetition might let Raoul know she was genuinely pissed off. 'You make a big fucking deal about etiquette and table manners, but when it comes down to it, you're just about the rudest and most thoughtless man I've ever met.'

  Raoul absorbed this outburst calmly, then returned his gaze towards the shoreline, where one of the girls was now rubbing suntan oil on to the other's breasts and stomach.

  'Whatever do you mean?' he said, his face now in profile.

  'The way you sit and ogle the women all the time, even when you're with me.'

  'You are jealous?'

  Zoë sat up and moved forward so that she knew he could see her perfectly clearly. 'No!' she blurted out, a little too vehemently. 'I mean... it's just inconsiderate. And I hardly think it's "appropriate" behaviour.'

  'And how do you come to such a conclusion?'

  'It's rude to stare.'

  'In your country perhaps.'

  'Oh for Godsake Raoul; how do you think those women feel, being eyed up like so much meat on a rack?'