‘I didn’t.’
‘You did, you said you were a neighbour.’
‘I meant the next mountain, not the next house. There, that’s Paolo’s place, down there.’
He points to the left where the rooftops turn to a jumble.’
‘Do you want to come downtown with me?’
‘I could go to the beach. Which beach should I go to?’
He laughs.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You’re becoming a Carioca already,’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the first thing new friends ask each other. Copacabana or Itaparica - it’s like asking which pub you go to in England. And then, which part of the beach is like asking which beer you drink.’
‘Or if you’re Tesco or Waitrose.’
‘Pardon me?’
He’s really big again now and he gently pushes me back towards the bed.
‘The safest places are in front of the big hotels, they have their own guards looking out for you. The Meridian on Copacabana or the Cesar on Itaparica..’
‘Right.’
He pushes my legs open wide and strokes my smoothness.
‘Just don’t take valuables, don’t wear jewellery…’
‘Benj! I know all that!’
He climbs on top of me..
‘And don’t accept sweets from strangers.’
‘Now you’re taking the piss.’
His cock is between my thighs but he doesn’t enter me.
‘Listen to me. It’s one of the cleverer tricks. You use your bag as a head-rest, no?’
‘Of course.’
‘So they come along and offer you a sweet, you sit up, and they whip it away….’
‘OK OK.’
‘Fuck me, Benj, please, fuck me now.’ I thrust my hips up off the bed towards him.
‘Along the beaches you’ll see Postos for the lifeguards with numbers on them. Different sorts of people hang out at the different numbers, OK? So you’ll get gays at one, older people at another, then there’s the intellectuals, the swingers, the bohemians. I’ll drop you at Itaparica, take a walk there, see how each Posto changes. Then, after our meeting, I’ll take you to my favourite restaurant. We’ll have a long, late lunch and come back for an early night to bed.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
Suddenly he’s inside me and thrusting hard.
The talking stops.
But then he pulls out.
I reach for him but he’s turned me over.
‘No!’
‘Shhhh’
‘Shhhhittt, NO!’
The full weight of him is on top of me and I can’t move.
He kisses my ear, ‘trust me,’ he whispers.
He holds my head into the pillow and lies full on top of me as he reaches for a drawer. I feel his hand smoothing between my buttocks, then a coldness of something, and then….
‘No, no NO!!!
‘ ‘
‘Oh?’
‘ ‘
‘Ohhh!’
‘No o o oh oh oh yeeeEEESSS!’
And then, he’s there. Where No Man’s Ever Been.
And there and in that moment I realise why there are so many gay men in the world and why so many of them speak with high, squeaky voices.
Afterwards we both lie very, very still.
Wow. We both go wow and kiss. I’m amazed he’s as amazed as I am. That he really is feeling as overwhelmed by this as I am.
But, as they say, nothing lasts for ever and all my squashy lovely thoughts start turning purple.
The thing is, all my well-laid contingency plans are making me feel like a jammy, deceitful cow.
How could I have ever doubted him?
But then again, am I doubting him less now just because he’s rich?
I’ve got a hotel in town booked for the whole three months plus lists of hotels and contacts from the shoot stashed in my laptop. I’ve e-mailed all my contact lists, credit card numbers, passport photocopies and all the numbers ever associated with me, to myself at Hotmail and to Nina. I’m feeling rotten for even thinking my family’s suspicions about him could hold even a glimmer of truth. Hell, if there’s one thing I know all about, it’s spotting disaster before it happens. I’ve made a career out of it, after all.
But no. Caution must reign.
Neither of Us Knows. That’s why I’m here. To find out more.
I must still keep my wits about me. Like any lovers when they first meet, we’re both being peacocky, showing off our best bits to each other, accommodating each other as we find out about each other. This is the bit I like. I’m used to this. It’s when the cracks start appearing and I discover they love nothing more than a good fart in the mornings or suddenly noticing they’re chest-scratching snooker addicts who eat pickles with everything, that’s the bit I can’t bear. All those little nerky things you’re not supposed to find out about until love has sufficiently blinded you. I can’t imagine any of this with this man. Never. Ever.
He tumbles off my back.
I miss the weight of him.
We lie side by side. He’s looking at my nakedness. We’re not touching except for our fingertips, which is setting me off all over again.
‘What’s that?’ I sit bolt upright.
‘What?’
‘I thought I heard a..’ then I know I’m hearing a noise in the corridor.
I lie back, hitting the bed with a thud and grab his shoulder.
‘WHASSATT!!’
Before I know what’s happening the door has clicked open and a tall, woman with a tumble of dark hair piled on top of her head and high, diamenté sandals is clipping across the marble-tiles. Then she starts clattering away in Portuguese to Benj nine to the dozen as she puts a tray of coffee – with TWO CUPS, by his bed. Without as much as a by or by, he starts jabbering back.
I dive for the crumple of sheet on the floor and cover myself. This scuppers any ideas of playing the old hotel room-service trick of pretending to be asleep. So, instead, I half sit, half lie, holding the sheet to my chin, alternating between nonchalance and direct glower, neither of which seems right under the circumstances. I mean, I know they all have maids here. It’s positively antisocial not to spread your income about a bit if you’ve got one, but, really, she’ll have to be trained not to do this while I’m in residence. Just think if she’d come in a few minutes earlier.
My Learning Land Portuguese Part 1 part of my brain is failing spectacularly here at even picking one word from the sea of rapid-fire verbage that’s going on between them. Whatever it is, it’s certainly more than ‘here’s your breakfast, sir.’
‘Suze, heeere, have some coffee,’ he finally turns to me, saying it so casually, so gently, handing me a mug, as if we’re still alone. I can’t snatch it or it’ll spill, and I don’t want that. The rich, thick smell fills my nostrils, turning my apoplectic rage down to simpering indignity. But then, she doesn’t go away. She’s STANDING there. Looking at me!
Is it a territorial look? She’s pretty gorgeous looking, but, then, that’s nothing in these parts, is it? I’m just running through the “IS HE SHAGGING THE MAID??” possibility when I hear some English words filtering up out of Benj’s Portuguese mish mash:
‘Suze, please. Meet my mother.’
To be continued…
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
iv>
The Boy From Brazil (1) Page 5