The Pleasure Quartet (24 page)

Raoul shrugged. ‘She’s foreign,’ he replied. ‘We Brazilians are friendlier than she’s used to.’ They met each other’s eyes, sharing a personal joke.

‘Hi,’ I said awkwardly, unsure of how to include myself in the conversation that they were having around me as though I were Raoul’s pet.

‘Come in, come in,’ Lucas said. ‘You two can have the big room. While you’re here, I’ll take the spare.’

He lived alone in a high-rise apartment block in Boa Viagem, a stone’s throw from the sea. The place was not much larger than mine, and minimally kitted out with a long black leather sofa, mammoth-sized flat-screen TV, a fridge with a glass door packed with beer, and not a lot else. A surfboard leaned up against one wall. There were no pictures hanging on the cream-coloured walls, and I couldn’t see any books or photographs either. Not even a dedicated sound system, or any magazines. Nothing that left me any clues to the type of person he was, besides that he liked to surf, and play computer games, judging by the console and stack of cases piled on the floor, all of them emblazoned with gangster types carrying machine guns and accompanied by large-breasted caricatural women wearing khaki-hot pants and crop-tops that would never feature in any real army. A world away from the cartoon car races that Astrid preferred.

We carried our cases into the master bedroom while Lucas pulled cold drinks from the bar fridge and searched for a bottle opener. I didn’t usually drink beer in the middle of the afternoon, but today I decided to make an exception. I felt extraordinarily uptight.

A plain grey cotton cover was spread over the bed, with two pillows propped up at one end. There was a small set of matching drawers on either side, both made from cheap black wood veneer. A reading lamp with a cream shade was balanced on one set of drawers, alongside a digital alarm clock. There were no windows.

I had asked about Lucas on the flight. Where in Recife he was situated and what was his job, and whether or not he had a partner, children or housemates whom I would also be meeting, but Raoul had diverted all of my questions. Boa Viagem, like anywhere near the seaside, was an expensive part of town. Maybe it was better that I didn’t know what Lucas did for a living.

‘Why don’t you have a shower, babe? Start getting ready.’

Tonight they had planned to check out the nightlife. Raoul had, to my dismay, overseen my packing, ‘Just to make sure you have the right sort of things’, he told me, and had insisted I bring along my short formal black dress. He seemed disappointed that I had few other options hanging in my closet as far as party wear went. Most of the stuff I wore to the expensive restaurants and society events was stored at Joao’s villa.

I gathered up my cosmetic bag, took one of the towels that had been left folded at the end of the bed and began to head for the shower. Then stopped and collected my dress and underwear too. The bathroom that Lucas had pointed out when we arrived was on the other side of the living room and I didn’t want to walk back past him and Raoul clad only in a short bath towel.

Lucas handed me an opened bottle of imported Japanese beer as I emerged.

‘May as well get started now,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re looking forward to later?’ he continued.

‘Umm, yeah. I heard the nightlife is good here.’

He chortled.

I lingered in the shower. The bathroom was spotlessly clean, at least, and the water pressure blissfully strong. I had forgotten to bring any body wash, so soaped myself all over with Lucas’s shower gel, a deep-blue-coloured substance labelled ‘Ocean Crest’ that smelled distinctly masculine.

By the time I had dried off, slipped into my dress and applied my make up and scrunched a little anti-frizz product through my hair, unfamiliar voices were audible through the bathroom door.

I came out.

‘And here she is, the lovely lady,’ Lucas said. He was still standing by the kitchenette counter, and raised his beer bottle into the air, toasting me.

I looked around.

Several more men had arrived. They were six now, including Raoul and Lucas, standing or lounged over the couch, beers in hand, long legs spread wide apart. Raoul was stationed by the bedroom door, sitting on the floor, wearing a distinctly smug smile. The men on the couch were speaking to each other in Portuguese, too quickly for me to follow their conversation, but I was certain that I was the subject.

I swallowed. Took a mouthful of beer.

‘Hi.’ They nodded at me, but didn’t introduce themselves, and Raoul and Lucas stayed silent.

I felt like a deer in headlights as I walked across the flat’s no-man’s-land to the bedroom, convinced that all six pairs of eyes were focused on me.

I closed the door.

Heard further laughing.

Then it dawned on me that I was the only woman present. Lucas and his friends hadn’t brought any female partners, girlfriends, with them but surely can’t all have been gay. Neither was I about to tag along on a boy’s night out, I knew.

My throat was dry, despite the beer.

Raoul’s voice played over and again in my mind.

Whore

Slut

Animal

I’m surprised I didn’t find a queue at your door

I want to watch you with other men

Maybe one day

I recalled and now recognised the expression that I had so often caught a glimpse of on Raoul’s face when he thought that I wasn’t looking. The same mask that I had seen on the men in the sauna. Arousal mixed with contempt. Just as I had known it then, I knew now that Raoul’s attitude was not role play. Not a power-exchange scene where he would degrade and humiliate me while we fucked or he forced me to fuck others and then hold me against him tightly afterwards and tell me that he loved me, and we would both know that our words and actions meant nothing at all outside of the context of our mutual enjoyment of kinky sex.

Raoul didn’t love me at all. He didn’t even like me. This wasn’t BDSM, it was real life, and he wasn’t a dom, he was an arsehole.

I grabbed my passport, the small evening bag that held a handful of local banknotes and my mobile phone, and stuffed them down the front of my dress. The fabric was stretched tight enough to hold them there. Everything else I would have to leave behind, or Raoul would know as soon as I emerged from the bedroom exactly what I was intent on doing. He had our printed return boarding passes and I had no means to access or change the flight details. I would have to find another way home, but I would cross that bridge later. My ballet flats were stationed by the front door, I could grab them on the way out.

I bolted for the front door.

Once outside, I initially felt disoriented. The night was full of lights, burning bright and dazzling. The city was an unknown quantity. I knew the final flights back to Rio would have left the airport already and I had no wish to spend the night on a bench there. And then I realised, to my dismay, that I didn’t have the means to purchase any such ticket anyway, having left my credit card back in Rio.

The bus station, then?

Or maybe an all-night bar or club could shelter me while I waited? Where I could sit and listen to music maybe, plug in to life. Although I also knew that, even more so in Brazil, as a lone woman I would become an inevitable target for men. Oh well, I had survived before. I would again.

7

On the Road Again

Noah drove April to Heathrow to catch her flight to New York. The journey took an eternity, or so it felt, as the morning rush-hour traffic built up around Hanger Lane and both of them grew increasingly concerned at one stage that she might miss her flight. Aside from that, it was a drive full of guilty silences, as they both knew this was in all likelihood the final occasion they would spend together and anyway had little to say to each other by now.

Noah was eager to return to his office, to get in touch with Viggo, who had called and left a voicemail on his phone that Noah hadn’t yet been able to return, something to do with Summer, but the early morning slow procession of cars on the M4 was at a standstill. The music on the car radio kept getting on his nerves to the extent that he ended up well before the Chiswick roundabout switching over to Classic FM. Which on this occasion didn’t play any of Summer’s recordings.

He arrived late and Rhonda had a handful of yellow slips for him, calls missed, calls to be returned, urgent matters to attend to, and he was unable until after the lunch hour to switch to private mode. By then, Viggo was bunkered up in his private basement studio, dabbling away at one thing or another and unable to be reached.

It wasn’t until the following morning that they could speak.

‘It’s Noah.’

‘Hi, mate.’

‘You mentioned you had some news about Summer Zahova?’

‘Hello would be nice, to begin with.’

‘Sorry.’

He thought of telling Viggo that his interest was down to pressure from his board in New York, the need to come up with something new for the label, but he had the feeling that wouldn’t fly. He was right.

‘Something tells me your interest in our violin player might not be all business. Am I right or am I wrong?’

Noah mumbled some clumsy explanation, but he knew all too well that Viggo was increasingly aware of the obsession he was nurturing for Summer. He never had been particularly good at hiding either his thoughts or his emotions, a trait that had proved inconvenient in the past when his motivations were spread plainly across his face for others to view.

‘No need for apologies, mate. She has that effect on people. Or should I say men.’

From what Noah had gleaned over the months, he guessed men were far from the only gender affected and that Summer was not averse to experimentation. This was quickly confirmed by the amused tone in the singer’s voice, and all the unsaid things it implied.

‘You mentioned you’d thought she might be in South America . . .’

‘Indeedy . . .’

He realised Viggo was now teasing him, enjoyed having him hanging on to every word and shard of information.

‘And?’

‘That’s all.’

‘What?’

‘Not much to go on, I know.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘The thought first hit me when I noticed a photo of the three of us by the beach, taken a couple of years ago . . . then I was chatting to Susan – Summer and Lauralynn’s agent – the other day. She popped over to catch up with Lauralynn on a new project she’s working on, providing cello backing to some new experimental indie band . . . Anyway, she’d been in touch with Summer about the proceeds from the sale of the Bailly. Apparently, Summer didn’t want the lump sum yet. Still hadn’t found the right property, or had got cold feet about buying. Seems that was the principal reason for putting the violin up for auction, to purchase a place of some sort. She instructed Susan to park the cash in a bank. When I heard she was worrying about changing over pounds to real, things somehow fell into place.’

‘What things?’

‘We all once went to Brazil.’

‘Brazil?’

‘She was having problems at the time. I think the trip had a strong effect on Summer. Instinct tells me she might be found there. She loved the place. Rio maybe, where we stayed a few days. But knowing Summer, she’s probably travelling around. Itchy feet, you know. Only time she ever stayed still long was when she was living with Dominik, before he passed.’

Noah fell silent, all sorts of thoughts spinning around in the fever dream taking root in his mind. And questions.

Viggo continued. ‘Now I might be wrong, of course. It was just a thought.’

‘Thanks.’ Noah felt deflated. As if the trail leading to Summer had now branched out into a thousand dead-end lanes and cul-de-sacs. Brazil? It would be like seeking a needle in haystack.

Fortuitously, he had to move on soon after the call to attend and chair the label’s fortnightly A&R meeting, where he and his creative and marketing staff would listen to the bunch of tapes and demos submitted by management companies and artists. It was always a lively affair, with opinions flying in all directions and much passion at play. The distraction was welcome.

During the course of the following days, Noah hoped against hope for another phone call, a further random encounter, a stray piece of information innocently dropped into a conversation which might, illogically, bring him a further clue as to Summer’s precise location, but the gods of obsession were no longer smiling down on him and nothing emerged. There was no way he could drop everything and set off on a fool’s errand to South America in search of Summer Zahova with so little information at his disposal. It would make no sense.

It felt as if the trail was growing cold.

An improbable solution came up during the course of a global marketing meeting for which executives from all the label’s international subsidiaries convened in Paris at the weekend to coordinate their plans and maximise promotional budgets. The company’s compact building was situated by the Senate, the top-floor boardroom windows opening up on the Luxembourg Gardens and a glimpse of the distant fountains towards the Boulevard Saint-Michel and Panthéon intersection.

Michèle Becker, who ran their office in the French capital, mentioned in passing that The Handsomes, one of the main acts on her small roster, an electronic/deejaying duo with a strong and growing fan base beyond France, were planning to visit Central and South America on a month-long tour, and she wished to lobby for extra marketing support from both head office and local distributors. Michèle was a rail-thin woman in her forties, always clad in charcoal-grey designer business suits, and was one of the label’s longest-lasting heads, having begun her career when punk was all the rage, and had survived through successive waves of easy listening, electronica and every passing fad to the present day, a cold-headed realist who ran a tight ship but attracted the respect of musicians and managers. Even though they were both French, she had discovered The Handsomes playing support at Webster Hall in Manhattan, had signed them for the French office and encouraged them to accentuate the dance and disco elements in their music and been proven spectacularly right with a couple of massive hits they still feasted on.