by Andy Lucas
‘Me neither, I’m good to go,’ agreed Sarah. ‘Travelling light is something I learned to do long ago. All I want now is to just get to Rio and hit the beach. I want to relax for a few days until the real work begins.’
Looking at her, dressed in the short, floral print summer dress split daringly high on the thigh to reveal her slim white legs, and with black hair hanging loose, Pace took a moment to imagine her laid out on a powder sand beach. He saw her, skin gleaming with sun tan oil as she slowly roasted by a crashing, white-foamed azure ocean. It was disturbingly erotic and a thought dispelled with real difficulty.
Pace had never been a particularly hard drinker but, for no reason he could understand, he sank another three bottles of beer before even boarding the plane and went on to polish off half a bottle of merlot with the in-flight meal.
Two hours into the flight and, for want of a better description, he was feeling light-headed yet pleasantly warm. Contrary to his earlier plan, the last thing he now wanted to do was talk. Besides, they had sumptuous first class seats, which were large and paired. Hammond and Sarah occupied one set of adjacent seats and were engrossed in discussing paperwork right from take-off.
Pace was seated across the gangway from them and sadly blighted with the companionship of an incredibly fat old lady, whose excessive buttocks filled the wide girth of her own seat and hedged a little way onto his own, despite the seats themselves being wide and deeply contoured.
Obviously rich, her chubby fingers were strewn with gold and diamond rings that would have looked gaudy on somebody half her age. Vividly coloured auburn hair was hard pushed to mask the original grey. With several well-wrinkled chins and jowls a hound dog would have developed a complex about, she was the passenger from hell.
By the time he finished his meal and was getting to grips with the small video screen that popped out of the arm of his chair; moving smoothly on a specially designed metal arm, she’d eaten her own meal and demolished several snacks. She’d also polished off an entire bottle of expensive champagne and, much to his disgust, passed wind twice with little or no attempt at disguise. Pace couldn’t place her accent but she had little in the way of manners when summoning a hostess to attend to her slightest whim, which invariably involved food. Mrs Moorer-Simms was the name Pace heard her mention several times.
Even in his muzzy state he was pretty sure she had purchased the double barrelling. He was also certain about the only double barrels she deserved. He so much wanted to say it, and very nearly did on at least one occasion but forced himself to stare blindly at the film being played until he dozed off. Just as he started to drift off, she broke wind yet again.
The flight from Heathrow to Rio had an official duration, outbound, of just over eleven hours. The city lay comfortably within a time zone only three hours behind GMT so they touched down twenty minutes shy of midnight, altering watches back to local time of eight-forty pm. Pace had spent a few hours sleeping and a few more browsing through every word in a guidebook to Rio he picked up at Heathrow. It was interesting but purely in the sense that it allowed him to dissuade Mrs Moorer-Simms from bothering to engage him in conversation.
When he wasn’t sleeping, Hammond or Sarah were, though there were windows during the flight when Pace leaned across the gangway and they all talked together. They even dared to play three hands of poker at one point. Another good thing about the long flight was that Pace felt completely sober by the time they started their descent towards the coast of South America, if a little stiff.
Over the intercom the captain suggested looking down through the clear sky to see the coastline approach as they dipped through the thirty thousand feet mark, but Pace didn’t feel like leaning over his chubby neighbour.
Like everybody else he had planned to spot the famous statue of Jesus that overlooks the sea from high upon the summit of Mount Corcovado. The reality would have meant getting far too close to Mrs Simms for his liking so, as they dropped down towards the Aeroporto Internacional do Galeao, he stayed seated, pretending to still be engrossed in his guidebook as the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from other passengers assailed his ears.
The plane continued to descend smoothly and landed with barely a bump, a few minutes later.
According to his book, the airport itself was built in a place called Ilha do Governador, about half an hour’s drive out of town and was a modern, highly acclaimed airport. As he stepped out of the door and into the extended disembarking tube; pushed up snugly to the aircraft’s door, Pace had to admit that it felt just the same as any other modern airport; he could have been anywhere. He waited just inside the tube until Sarah and Hammond stepped out, each of them stretching their little aches from joints and muscles as inconspicuously as possible.
From the tube they entered the light, air-conditioned space of Terminal C and were duly processed through customs, then channelled professionally through checkpoints without a hitch. Luggage was already spilling out onto a circular conveyor as they entered the baggage area. Hammond’s cases; three of them, came into view first, closely followed by Sarah’s. Lastly came his own.
When they eventually got outside, his first experience of serious tropical heat since his flying days struck home like a sledgehammer. Although the sun had sunk beneath the horizon two hours earlier the air remained hot and humid, filled with the unpleasantly familiar tang of petrol fumes as taxi after taxi loaded up and pulled away from the kerb. The rank of cabs stretched endlessly down the road for as far as the eye could see; a range of models but all painted yellow and sporting a blue stripe down the side.
The three travellers were targeted, pounced upon and hurriedly jostled towards the next available car by its enthusiastic driver, who urged them inside. The man was in his late fifties and as small and as bald as Hammond, although he did have eyebrows and a small grey moustache. Despite his size, he easily wrestled their cases into the spacious trunk of his old Chrysler, slamming it closed with practiced skill. Barely a minute later he was settled comfortably behind the wheel and they were easing their way into city-bound traffic.
All the windows were open because the car did not have air-conditioning. It was large enough to house all three of them on its green vinyl back seat but Hammond chose to ride up front and give the driver details of their hotel.
The car turned onto a new section of highway and headed south, through some less than pleasant industrial areas before pushing on another eight or nine miles towards the coast. That was when they hit the more acceptable face of paradise.
They drove through brightly lit streets crowded with tourists, walking and shopping, eating and drinking in cafes or restaurants, both inside or on tables set out on the pavement. Music filled the thinner sea air, weaving a tapestry of rock, jazz, reggae and club anthems, as they sped past different car radios and townhouses.
The Zona Sul; an area for the rich and elite, was their destination. They reached the coast and turned onto the Avenida Atlantica, driving west. The road ran parallel to the ocean, just a few hundred yards away, and it carried them swiftly into the famous Copacabana district.
Copacabana was a veritable rampart against the sea; a wall formed by huge glass and stone hotels. The golden beach – man-made according to his guide book - stretched for over two miles as a frontage. Two casinos, glitzy and very Las Vegas, interspersed the hotels, as did several more sedate private mansions. Most of the residences were hidden behind high walls and menacing security gates.
It wasn’t long before their driver pulled off the main road and turned through two huge stone pillars, hung with open, twenty-foot high wrought-iron gates, and drove up a tree-lined gravel drive that led to the ornate double entrance doors of their hotel; Copacabana Ambassador.
The hotel was one of the thirty-storey monoliths of tinted glass. It occupied, Pace judged, about one hundred and fifty feet of the beachfront. Although it was too dark to see, Pace had done his homework and knew that the hotel’s grounds were laid to a mixture of lawn and exotic flowe
rbeds, allegedly maintained in rainbow bloom.
An immaculately uniformed commissionaire, his burgundy outfit decked with gold braiding and epaulets that matched his black and gold flat cap, waved a hand towards the taxi. A couple of younger men in similar uniforms, minus the braiding, appeared from behind the gleaming revolving glass entrance door. They skipped neatly down the three stone steps and busied themselves helping the driver unload the luggage.
Conversation had been light between all of them during the ride; nobody had the energy for anything heavier. They were all in need of a shower and a good night’s sleep. Turning to suck in a deep lungful of warm evening air, rich with the scent of orchids and other expertly blended wild flowers, Pace stole a glance back the way they had come.
From this side of the gates it was now possible to see that the large stone pillars were not entirely solid entities. A small portal had been hewn into each one, large enough for a man to stand within, which was exactly what the security guards were doing.
Inside, the hotel was every bit as modern and luxurious as the outside led them to believe. They rode the escorted lift up to the twenty-ninth floor penthouse; Pace had been one out on his height guesswork, where they each took up residence in one of its three separate bedrooms. The penthouse was huge, having a lounge area, a bar, sauna and three bathrooms to complement each of the bedrooms individually. The entire space was expensively decorated and lavishly furnished.
Once he’d dumped his cases into a huge bed Pace had a good look around. Finding a set of ornate patio doors, he went outside and up a small flight of stone steps that brought him out on to the flat roof of the hotel. He expected to find some sort of little balcony but was amazed to find himself standing on a huge veranda.
The veranda housed a decent-sized swimming pool and an adjacent hot tub, together with a small patio area complete with sun loungers, table, six padded chairs and a large gas barbeque. The whole area was subtly lit and the hot tub already bubbled away invitingly. Black wrought-iron railings securely hemmed in all sides of the hotel’s roof – it would not do to lose guests over the edge he supposed – yet still afforded him a birds-eye view out over the ocean that was nothing short of breathtaking.
Looking out across the dark water, sparkling under moonlight in eternal motion, he felt a sense of inner peace he couldn’t remember feeling before in his life. High above everyone else, ensconced within a paradise, within paradise, any remaining cares about his decision met a timely end. Whatever happens, he thought, it was worth coming just to see this.
The other thing about finding himself in such an open, airy space was that it made him quickly realise just how hot and sticky he felt, especially when the gradually cooling sea breeze wafted his own smell up his nostrils. It wasn’t a sweet smell either. If he didn’t like it then nobody else would.
Pace dragged himself back inside reluctantly. He quickly unpacked, taking no more than fifteen minutes to do so, and then dived into a shower that could happily accommodate a football team, with its four separate shower heads inside a ten-foot square, beautifully engraved glass cubicle. Like the other bathrooms he’d peeked into, these shower taps were gold-plated, as were the towel rings, toilet fittings and closet handles. He had hardly ever dreamed of such opulence.
He turned on the shower and water cascaded down from all sides, hot and pounding against his skin. Half an hour later, scrubbed clean, he slipped on a pair of swimming shorts, grabbed a towel, and headed back up to the roof. Nobody else had finished in their respective bathrooms and he had ten minutes of wonderful solitude, lazing in the open pool before being joined by Sarah.
She nearly took his breath away, clad only in a white bikini that left extremely little of her lithe figure to the imagination. Heaven had sent him a beach goddess and he could die a happy man. Slipping into the water she stroked across the fifteen-foot distance between them and stopped with barely a ripple before disappearing beneath the surface with a deep breath, to sit on the bottom perhaps five feet below him.
The water was clean and pleasantly warm and being completely immersed in it seemed a great idea, so Pace joined her. Together they sat on the bottom, facing each other in the ethereal glow from several underwater pool lights, for no good reason he could think of. It turned into a good-natured breath holding contest. Sarah surfaced first, but not by much. She wiped water from her eyes with a big smile on her lips.
‘Now that feels better,’ she breathed. ‘It’s so nice to stretch my muscles out in water, and what a view.’
‘Amazing isn’t it.’
‘It’s the best they have. It’s my father’s treat for us all.’
‘Always thought he was a nice chap,’ Pace quipped.
‘When you’re struggling through a steaming jungle and trying to tackle the set challenges, or just trying to keep your footing over permanently flooded roads, think of this place and be happy.’
‘You say that so easily for a person who gets to stay in a nice hotel the whole time.’
‘I’ll be with you in spirit,’ she laughed lightly.
‘Oh, that’s okay then,’ he shot back.
Turning over onto her back, she allowed her body to just float as she stared up into the starry night sky, not moving. Pace headed off on his own but Sarah soon rejoined him and they spent ages laughing and splashing, generally blowing off steam like a couple of kids on the first day of summer break, suddenly freed from the prison of a stuffy classroom.
Hammond hadn’t joined them and Pace was glad. It was great to have Sarah’s company all to himself. At times they raced but mainly they lazily matched each other’s speed so they could talk.
Pace’s pulse remained raised for the entire time, for reasons besides the energy he was using in the pool. Sarah was graceful in the water, moving easily as though it was her natural habitat. Her nearly-there bikini also hinted maddeningly at transparency whenever she stopped to stand up, at times lounging warmly against his shoulder for support.
An hour passed at least and Pace had kissed her, in his mind anyway, a dozen times before the chance to do so for real presented itself. Beneath a tropical night sky, lit in tandem by a bright full moon and sprinkling of stars, her hair plastered wetly down her back, Sarah leaned against him for another rest. He slipped an arm around her waist and she slowly looked at him. Her brown eyes were unreadable but suggested mild humour.
Was she waiting for him to kiss her? Was she just amused by his indecision, or was he getting his signals all mixed up?
You could always bloody help me out, he thought angrily, feeling his cheeks flush hotly. He was grateful for the soft lighting and the wealth of cast shadows all around but resolved to do it anyway. Sadly, painfully, the kiss did not come.
As he started to move forwards she made no attempt to avert her gaze or move away. Then, a fraction of a second before their lips were to meet, his racing heart froze as Hammond’s voice cut across the moment. How long he’d been out there Pace could only guess at. He hadn’t heard him because his eyes had been otherwise engaged.
‘Sarah.’ That word in itself was fine. It was what came next that crushed him flat. ‘Telephone for you. It’s your husband.’ A pause for effect. ‘I’ll tell him you’re busy, shall I?’
‘No,’ she snapped at him. The mood evaporated and she pulled away from Pace sharply. ‘I’ll come down and take it in my room.’
She pulled herself out of the water, wrapped a towel angrily around her shoulders and flew down the steps. Hammond followed.
Neither of them came back.
The pool felt suddenly chilly to him. It was purely a psychological phenomenon but Pace got out anyway, towelled dry for the second time that evening and returned to his room. He pulled on a pair of black jeans and light blue cotton shirt. On went a pair of trainers and he brushed his hair neatly in front of a large, gilded mirror before heading back to the lounge.
Hammond was nowhere to be seen and Sarah was still in her room because he heard the muffles of conver
sation from behind her bedroom door as he headed for the front door. Riding down within the walls of a lift large enough to have been called a room in its own right, he chided himself.
She wore no ring, so how was he to know she had a husband? She didn’t act like a married woman and had never mentioned a husband. What stung most was that he liked her; he really liked her. The lift stopped on the ground floor and he made his way across the polished marble floor towards several restaurants and bars that were advertised. Suddenly he needed a drink. Fundador.
Although technically a cheap Spanish brandy, alongside Jack Daniels it ranked as a personal favourite. Mocked by friends with more pretentious tastes, it was obviously well exported because a bottle of it sat behind the first bar he came to.
He quickly took refuge inside a glass of it, swallowing most of it down in one before the understanding bartender smoothly refilled it almost before he set it back down on the bar. Despite the late hour, a smiling waitress showed him to a small table and took his order.
Pace chose a hot chicken salad, which was delivered to his table within five minutes. When it came, there were at least two breast fillets, thinly sliced and coated with a chilli peanut sauce, layered on a bed of green salad, the strips seared black in places. A large spoonful of the sauce was piled on top and the whole plate was garnished with a mixture of finely chopped spring onions, red chilli peppers and toasted sesame seeds. He wolfed it down and finished his meal with a third brandy. In need of some fresh air, he then took himself out onto the hotel’s ocean patio, the route well signposted in several languages.
Outside, a light breeze blew in from the beach to ruffle at his hair, coaxing him to relax on a full stomach and to keep sipping at his drink. He took a good look around him. Cane furniture filled a large flag-stoned area. Like the restaurant, it was bustling. Couples of all ages, singles, children with their parents, and small groups of men and women, were all being very dutifully attended to by professionally unobtrusive waiters. Relaxing music played from concealed speakers, setting the mood nicely.
