THE BOY FROM BRAZIL
by Sophie Peacock
c. Sophie Peacock
Cover Image: © Artjazz | Dreamstime.com
All characters and events in this ebook publication, except those that are clearly in the public domain, are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.All rights reserved. Except in the case of brief quotations quoted in reviews or critical articles, no part of this ebook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission.
CHAPTER 1
Int. Night: The Back Kitchen: 47 Albion Road: London NW3
My best friend Nina has two kitchens. The front one’s more of a room, really, all shiny pine floorboards, Indian rugs and squashy sofas. We’re in the back one, where all the crap washing and laundry’s done, so the vinegar smells don’t carry through the house.
She’s dancing around, opening the window, shivering, closing the window again and fanning the air in the unique high excitement of a dieter about to break the fast big-time; while I’ve got my nose buried in the fish and chips parcels like a right old glue-sniffer. Nina’s trying to guess who was on my upgraded flight home from Brazil.
‘Go on – guess.’
‘Johnny Depp?’
‘Nope.’
‘Older, younger…. No, got to be younger…’
I hum the opening bars of What Makes You Beautiful’.
‘Not Harry Styles?’
I nod. ‘Nearly - Ed Sheeran, actually - he wrote the song.’
‘Oh who cares? That’s enough of the poncy flight home, I want to hear all about the boy from Brazil.’
We move onto the nitty-gritty of my filming trip to Brazil: did I pull and, if so, which side of the camera and what, exactly, was the lead up to the first kiss and the first fuck.
That’s our trade-in. Nina lives out her single life fantasies through me as much as I hog the cosy wifey tea-towels-warming-on-the-Rayburn, Sunday roasts with all the family, part of hers. And Benj, even by my standards, was quite a find. Nearly up there with my Tom Cruise scientologist side-kick (the white shirt and tie so weirdly sexy – like having a fling with my bank manager) or, my lesbian location caterer fling I never even told Neen about. This is unusual. She likes to know, and I usually oblige on all the ins and outs, literally - positions, perversions, fantasies, everything, of my filming flings.
Nina lives a few doors up the road from me, she’s the only one of my old university crowd I still see regularly.. First to reproduce at the grand age of l8 and now with four kids all at school, Nina not only finds the whole baby bit as much of a yawn as me, but has resolutely, and triumphantly as far as I’m concerned, refused to move her brood out of London. She says it’s because she sees little enough of Richard as it is, but I like to think it’s because she wouldn’t last five minutes longer than I would in the draughty oldy Cotswolds.
She’s always hoping I’ll nab a GBS (Great Big Star), get whisked off into a Beverly Hills sunset and invite her over for regular tennis tournaments. But who’d want to screw a Great Big Star when you’ve found the dirtiest, yet at the same time sweetest, kindest, sexiest Brazilian man...
‘His cock, oh my word Neen, I couldn’t even get my hand around it. Think coke can…’
‘You are kidding me.’
There wasn’t any need to exaggerate really, but that was all part of the fun, and in reality it wasn’t far off.
‘I met him in a favela.’
That stops her further in her tracks.
‘A slum?’
‘One of the Brazilian crew, he had a party.’
‘I thought they’d be better paid than that...’ She’s on the move again, clattering the plates out of the oven and grabbing the warm parcels from me.
‘I’m telling you, it wasn’t that bad. Dead central. On a mountain in the middle of town.’
‘Hark at you.’
‘Compared to my poky flat….’
‘Suze, you can’t compare your Victorian flat in Albion Road with a favela.’
‘No, honestly, the people were great.’
‘Till they shoot you dead.’
I give her a you ignorant racist look.
‘I’m only saying.’
‘Bad news. That’s all we ever hear about South America.’
‘Excuse me , ’ Nina protests, ‘the beaches, the perfect-bum-ownership-quota, the football … but even so, weren’t you risking it a bit too far there?’
‘It was a really nice place, I’m telling you. There is poverty, of course there is, but I was really surprised at how much normal life goes on in Rio, like any city anywhere.’
‘Even in a favela?’
‘Even in a favela. OK it wasn’t City of God or one of the really bad ones. This place, you should have seen it, it had terraces, pot plants, a fridge, a telly, carpets….’
‘So you went to this guy’s house, place, sorry, what do you call it?’
‘Not him. The sound recordist, where the party was. Benj was the next door neighbour. Here he is….’
Nina reverentially wipes her hands on a tea towel before taking my phone.
I stand behind her and take another peek over her shoulder. I’ve looked at Benj’s photo a million times, but sharing a photo makes you look at it differently. I could look at him as Nina is looking at him, for the first time. Remind myself of the first time I set eyes on him. That was some moment: the intelligent shine in the dark brown eyes fixed on me from across the room. Followed by the soft, boyish half-smile. And, boy, did that boy move fast. Let’s just say I didn’t leave the party as I’d arrived at the party.
‘Mmm. Very nice,’ she judges eventually, propping my phone up between the salt and pepper pots.
I breathe again. From Nina, approval indeed.
‘I swear, Neen, if you’d lit a match between us it would have exploded in all the pent up hotness between us floating about. And, get this, he called again last night. And I’ve had another text this morning.’
Nina gives a low whistle.
‘Neen. He wants me to go back.’
She looks up at me sharply, ‘To Brazil?’
‘Where else?’
‘Take that stupid grin off your face, girl.’
‘I’m not going, of course I’m not. But all the same, it’s nice to be asked.’
‘Did you screw?
‘Of course we did, about five seconds after meeting.’
‘Slut.’
‘It was one of those instant connections, Neen, that’s what I mean.’
‘Oh yeah, come on the food’s getting cold. Give me the details over ice cream or I’ll get too hot and bothered.’
We stop jabbering and tuck in to our food. Nina vigorously sprinkles the vinegar onto her chips.
‘Nothing like the first chip is there,’ she says.
‘Mm...’
We eat quickly. When Nina places the tub of Hageen Das Cookie Dough on the table between us I’m ready and waiting on cue to fill her in.
‘I tell you there was nothing like that sweetest first fuck, Neen.’
Nina sighs, ‘I wouldn’t know, would I?’
‘I did sort of try to restrain myself,’ I say, finally.
‘Sort of…?’
‘Sort of… I know you Suze! Too well!’
I guess if you call a woman who loves sex a slut then that’s me. I call it being honest? If half the human rac
e is supposed to not love sex, well - it just doesn’t make sense. I love sex even more when it just happens, of its own accord, when the animal passions just rise up inside you and your body starts reacting all by itself before you’ve even touched each other and you know where it’s all going to go. But not how exactly.
It really hasn’t happened that much in my life, even in the debauched world of feature films. Put it this way, I don’t carry condoms around with me. I reckon I’m more honest than slutty. And I defy anybody who got the eye from Benj as I got the eye from a creature such as Benj to resist.
His English was good. We both knew we didn’t have much time. This was the wrap party, the going home party, the going back to England party.
‘The small talk wasn’t exactly pointless but the breathing between us was getting shorter as we spoke.’
There really didn’t seem much point in wasting any time. We both started looking around, wondering where we could go. He said he lived next door, but I wasn’t about to go next door with a stranger in a place like that. He knew that as well so we didn’t even go there.
‘So where did you go?’
‘The bathroom of course.’
‘So there was a bathroom?’
‘Two!’
‘No?’
‘Well one was a loo, the other was a bathroom.’
‘Convenient!’
‘Exactly. Not many people were going to be taking a shower in the middle of a party. A lock on the door was all I needed.’
‘Did he lead you there or did he say something first?’
She likes to know every detail, does Neen.
‘Nobody needed to say anything, Neen. We touched hands, almost too electric to hold hands but we managed it somehow without pawing at each other and slipped into the bathroom.’
‘Did anybody see?’
‘I don’t know do I! The mists of lust had closed in around me.’
As soon as we were behind the door we kissed. I stood with my back to the wall and we just stayed there, still almost at first, except for our mouths that found each other. It was such a relief, such a release. Then as we kissed he ran one hand over the back of my neck, up and down, softly up down, and the other over my arse, sliding his fingers through my dress to my bum crack. .I could feel he was already hard against me, I couldn’t believe the size Neen for such a slender-hipped guy, and pushed my arse against his hand so that his fingers moved through my legs to my throbbing clit. I just kept my hands on his tight little round arse and let the feelings surge through me. He was enjoying himself enough exploring me. I just imagining what was beneath his trousers, what was going to spring out of there when the other hand moved from the back of my neck to the top of my zipper. Down came my dress. It slid down and dropped to my ankles like it was made for the purpose of being removed that night.’
‘Fabric?’
‘Cotton, but a silky kind of cotton that just dropped off me!’
‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘I have now after that session.’
‘Well, don’t stop now! What then!’
‘What do you think? He stopped kissing me and looked down as his slipped a finger into my panties, hooking them and ripping them down. I watched his crotch, feeling suddenly ashamed.’
‘Why on earth….’
‘I’m hairy, Neen. I’m full on down there. And the Brazilians, well…’
‘I bet he was too far gone to notice even if it would bother which I can’t imagine.. Besides, they can’t ALL be…’
‘I turned the attention on to him, feeling around his throbbing bulge first before unzipping him. He groaned in my ear, licking my lobes as I put my hand around his cock. Or tried to. There was no point in hanging around Neen, he grabbed my buttocks and slipped himself inside me, right up to the top, right in, one great big thrust that made me yell out loud in a kind of ecstatic groan. He held himself inside me, still and we smiled at each other as we both throbbed down there. The party was going on just outside the door, but there was no point in pretending we weren’t in there doing it, and this was Brazil after all. It just all felt so natural, not dirty, not wrong. Just very, very beautiful. ‘You want to come now?’ I said.
‘OMG he had protection didn’t he?’
‘Of course, Neen.’
‘You left that bit out.’
‘He was an expert at slipping it on. He gets a lot of practice I imagine. Anyway, so he began thrusting then.’
‘Fast or slow?’
‘Slowly at first and then it all took over and he was on his way to climax, thrusting hard into me until he came really quickly. But it didn’t matter because we kind of knew that wouldn’t be the last time that night. I was like in permanent ecstasy anyway.’
‘Oh Suze. It sounds amazing. You’re so lucky.’
‘You’re the one who’s going to get all those lovely feelings later when you snuggle up in bed with your husband tonight. And here’s me back on my ownsome again. A vibrator doesn’t kind of work so well for a while after an experience like that.’
‘Well that’s true. I’m feeling so, well, turned on now. At least he’s calling you, Suze.’
‘Yeah. I’m dead chuffed he’s calling.’
‘All we need now’s to find you someone that little bit closer to home. Now, listen, there’s another speed dating night coming up at the Finch….’
‘Neen!’
‘What’s so hard? All you got to do is turn up?’
‘If you’re so curious, you go.’
‘I’m not allowed in am I... though I might as well, the amount of time I see my husband around here,’ she looks at the photo again, ‘So, come on, any more details, mundane details I mean. Back to the beginning.
CHAPTER 2
Ext. Night: Rio De Janiero
Benj and I met on the last day of filming.
Everything about the making of BRAZIL BRASIL, a quirky, feel-good, buddy-type story, had been big. The two GBS’s were Simon Ryan the hottest British soap-stud I’d copped my first class upgrade on the way home with, and the American/Brazilian music diva Angela Pinheiro. Their mere presence assured mass-distribution and, an increasing rarity, a comfortable budget.
Most of the filming was done at Pinewood, but for the carnival scenes only the real thing would do. It wasn’t real at all, of course. Even Global Event Pictures didn’t have enough clout to barge in on that little party, but they’d packed a real carnival school into the Sambodrome, which is like a football stadium where they forgot to build the goal ends, and mocked up the whole thing.
On set all the intense concentration had slacked off to the usual last-day banters, practical jokes and rumours about where the coolest post-wrap party gathering would be. But when we got to the Martini Shot, the final shot of all, I felt none of the usual buzz. But then, I suppose I’ve never been totally wild about wrap parties. The slate 500 parties, those are the ones I love. Unemotional alcohol-fuelled parties in the middle of a shoot when we’ve moulded ourselves into whatever manifestation of on-set cast and crew odd-family we’ve become. By then most of the relationships that are going to happen have happened, with a mini-past behind them and a mini-future ahead.
I’m usually looking forward to the final scene, though. Unless it’s been a Zero shoot of course in which case I’ll be dreading it. But usually, if all the short bursts of intense concentration in between all the hours of hanging around while every shot is, lit, framed, rehearsed, shot, reshot, reshot, and reshot, haven’t got to me, I’m so knackered by all the early morning starts I’m as punch-drunk as anyone about the thought of a lie-in in under my own duvet.
But I wasn’t looking forward to going home after this Zero-free shoot at all. I felt so sad I didn’t want it to finish. I didn’t want to leave.
Normally whatever you’re shooting drives you insane by the end of it. I don’t know how many times I must have heard the carnival theme Brazil Brasil, but I swear that song is as much a part of me as my heartbeat now. Like Springsteen�
�s Born in the USA is my teenage years, part of my DNA.
It was the least mocked-up set I’d ever been on. The extras, all togged up in last year’s real costumes and with the real floats and music, were the most riotously, exuberantly, wildly, ecstatically, thrilled and happy extras I’d ever seen in my life. Not only were they going to be in the movies, but, with most of them from the slums, each was raking in the equivalent of a month’s salary every day. It was like being in a stadium-full of lottery winners. Even with all the stopping and starting, it was easy to imagine they were doing it for real. As far as they were concerned, I’m sure they were.
I didn’t have much to do either. The camera had a digital video recorder feed to monitors, so the director was checking the continuity as he went along on a little TV screen. All I had to do was log the shots. This meant writing down each take on my clipboard against its slate number, saying whether it was useable or not and why. I had to be fully alert all the time, though, which in many ways is more exhausting than when I’ve a full-on continuity situation. It gave me more space to think. A dangerous thing on location.
I remember one day in particular. It was a big float scene, with everyone in front of the camera dancing their hearts out. I allowed myself to stop concentrating and let the sound take me over. I wanted to dance, only for a few minutes, but I couldn’t let anyone standing behind me see that I wasn’t doing my job 100%. Then it all seemed to be bonkers. I couldn’t see the logic of what I was doing at all. Why was I standing there in my jeans and T-shirt with a clipboard when everyone else was dancing? It was like all these people had real lives, however poor they were, and I didn’t.
I felt really mean, then, just thinking that. I had no right, so I forced myself to think about how lucky I was to be English.
But what was I going home to? An undie-washing turnaround in my functional flat-pack flat with the ghastly Ursula downstairs always ready with the broom to bang on her ceiling if I ever even thought of putting any music on; and Mr Whittle upstairs, his TV news and sport blaring at full whack, all day, every day.
There were so many of us that the post-wrap sub-parties (in actor-speak ‘having somewhere to go on to’) were multiplying. One of the guys I’d fortuitously palled up with around the food caravan was Paolo, a sound assistant and it just so happened that his was fast becoming the hot favela-chic invite of the night.
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