Face Value (24 page)

Rio de Janeiro when you were in a hurry to head back to New York, to meet your editor and present her with possibly the biggest story of the magazine’s history, a story that could quite possibly make your career, and bring someone else to justice . . . well, that was another thing altogether. Plus, she’d been booked into some plastic surgeon’s paradise, an “eco-spa” island off the coast, with no, repeat
no
, time to look round the city itself, which was a complete anathema. Why, oh, why, hadn’t Clarissa asked her first?

So here she was, flying down to Rio at the invitation of one of the world’s most distinguished surgeons (weren’t they all?), Feliz Paracato, the man at the Face-Off exhibition who had carved up a couple of breasts as casually as if it was just another Sunday turkey roast. Clarissa maintained she thought Kate might have wanted a break, and so when the surgeon had called her that day in the studio she hadn’t thought twice about it. Obviously. Hadn’t thought, period. There was no point screaming at her. They were friends now, remember. Better get on with it.

Clarissa had done some research for her. She’d found out a few things about the eco-spa, well, three precisely: (1) there were five endangered pigs, (2) a couple of parrots also lived there, and (3) all the island’s electricity came from solar energy. None of this in Kate’s eyes made it any more than what it really was: a plastic surgeon’s holiday home; a tax-deductible way of entertaining beauty editors looking for a cheap break in return for five hundred words of copy on one of the world’s leading cosmetic pros. She had a good mind to give him his five hundred words of copy—in
Green Issues
magazine, exposing him for being an eco-phony.

The plane landed. As she sped in the limo through the outskirts of the city on her way to the marina it was impossible not to be moved by the sights and sounds of Rio. Her eyes followed the snaking path of the viaducts, twisting their way down gently sloping hills, gushing out water into the sea. Clustered around them were the infamous favelas, ghetto housing built from improbably stacked hunks of wood, cardboard, bits of cars, old wooden doors. Some had bricked-up sides, roads, shops. On the other side of the valley large condominiums, wider roads, white-painted houses stuck out of the lush forest. Security gates, swimming pools, schools with American flags flying happily next to the Brazilian flag. All of this was watched over by the beatific gaze of the Corcovado, stretching out his arms to welcome all and sundry, rich or poor, to the most magnificent city in the world.

The marina, where Paracato’s boat was moored while waiting to take her to the island, was fringed with palms, like the beaches she could see as soon as they were out at sea, the life-blood of the city, the spiritual connection of its inhabitants regardless of their financial circumstances. All worshipped at the altar of the beach, Kate realized, hence the obsession with the body beautiful. Cosmetic surgery was a cultural thing here, more than in any other city in the world, it was a need, to be fulfilled just as any other need: hunger, sex, drugs. But did that make it okay? Or did that not make it worse?

Two crew members welcomed her on board the yacht, which looked like a giant gym shoe. Her mum would have called it a gin palace. One of the men had a glass of champagne for her, another was carrying her bags onto the boat. A third, the skipper, hurried down from the top deck to explain the trip was only a matter of a few hours long, and that she should make herself comfortable. Would she prefer nut roast or vegan pasta for lunch? Every so often he’d shout out the names of places they passed: Niemeyer’s Niterói Contemporary Art Museum, a fishing village, the Sugarloaf Mountain. It was all a bit surreal. She was on a yacht, in Rio, heading out to who knows where, the rocking motion of the boat lulling her into a reverie, a soporific gazing out to sea she lacked the power to resist. She would be hanging out with one of the world’s most distinguished (there it was again) plastic surgeons, and this was . . . work? She tried not to think too much about Duran Duran, but she knew that if Lise was here the two of them would be up at the prow right now, hair blowing in the wind, shouting out the words to “Rio.”

Paracato might have created some of the world’s most beautiful women (and this she found a dubious statement in itself), but he was certainly not the world’s most beautiful man. Short, tanned, and wrinkly. Not a looker. He stood waiting for her on the jetty with six women, young, nubile, blonde, all with short white nurse’s outfits. She recognized them from the Face-Off convention. Or at least, she thought she recognized them, but she couldn’t be sure because they all looked the same, anyway. For all she knew, these could be completely different ones.

“Welcome to my home,” he said, a big smile beaming from his walnut face.

“Hi,” said Kate, not so much wearily as with a resigned “what now?”

The girls gave a little cheery wave in singsong voices.

“You must be tired. Would you like a swim? Or shall we tour the island? I have a Jeep here and a driver all ready. . . . Or would you like to see your room? I hope you will be happy here, I so wanted you to see this place, and I have heard so many amazing things about you. My, but you are beautiful!”

She shot him a withering look. He was about 110 years older than her.

He didn’t seem to notice. “You will be company for me,” he said, walking up the hilly path with her to a group of white domed houses, early 70s Brazilian architecture at its best.

“Come on!” He put his arm through hers and jauntily walked her into the biggest dome-shaped house, which had a huge plasma screen facing one wall, a wicker bar, hanging wicker chairs, and uncomfortable-looking white concrete sofas that seemed to spring straight out of the floor. The walls were covered with paintings and etchings with signatures that even she knew were worth something: Picasso, Chagall, Dalí. A white grand piano was festooned with framed pictures of himself. Here he was with Gina Lollobrigida; there with Sophia Loren; another with Shirley Bassey. There he was skiing, medals around his neck; another showed him diving from a high board. One framed picture, a group shot, showed him with his family. It was signed: Annie Liebowitz. Closer inspection revealed it had first appeared as a
Vanity Fair
cover.

“What do you do on this island?” she asked as another glass of champagne was thrust into her hand.

“Oh, you know . . . party!” he chckled. “My family comes sometimes, we hang out, I get my friends over. A lot of people have stayed here you know . . . pop stars! And I’ve had all the supermodels here.”

“For work?”

“Oh, naughty girl!” he said playfully. “As if I’d tell you that! They are my friends!”

“And of course, there are your nurses to keep you company.” She took off her cotton jacket, aware of his eyes scrutinizing her upper arms. “What?”

“I like women to have a bit of flesh. Everyone’s so thin these days,” he said, pinching her arms.

“I can’t believe you just said that!”

He laughed and patted her bottom.

“I can’t believe you just did that!”

“Ah, come on! Relax. Let’s have some fun together, Kate, no?” He had a glint in his eye that unnerved her.

“Professor Paracato, I really don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean, you have a wife, and I have . . . I have . . . my work to think about, and I . . .”

He looked surprised.

“I only meant to go for a swim!” Then he made as if to grab her by the waist. Ugh! Why did men always hone in on the fat bits? She pried his arm off and exited the room, walking as quickly as she could without turning her steps into a run.

He could move fast for a geriatric plastic surgeon. She started running up the hill as he shouted after her, “But if there are other ways you want to relax Kate . . . ?”

At the top of the hill was the pool. It was a perfect square of blue-yellow green, with verdant grass flush to its edges. She wondered how they kept it trimmed so immaculately without getting loads of cut grass in the pool. Paracato arrived behind her, breathless, still laughing.

“Come on . . . let’s have a swim together!”

“I’d really rather not,” she said, primly. This was a nightmare. Here she was on an island off the coast of Rio, with a lecherous old man trying to get her naked and naughty and in a swimming pool.

“Well, at least let’s sit down,” he said, trying to catch his breath, “and have a drink together, huh?”

A white-suited man who looked like Nick Nack arrived as if from nowhere, with a silver tray and four caipirinhas.

“Ah! Just the man I wanted to see!” Paracato grinned broadly.

She looked at him and suddenly caught a glimpse of the fun-loving playboy he must have once been. She wondered if he wasn’t entirely joking when he said he wanted company. It was clear his wife and kids hadn’t been here for ages—there was no evidence of any kind of domesticity; rather, it was one big Bond-style playboy fantasy, which, at his age, was more than a little sad.

“Okay, then,” she sighed, sitting down on a lounger.

He sat beside her, still smiling, then downed two of the four caipirinhas in quick succession.

"The glasses are so small these days, no?” He settled himself, yawning. “You know I was only teasing you before. We Brazilian men, love to show women how much we appreciate their beauty. I hope I didn’t upset you when I said that about being a little . . . larger.”

“No . . . no,” she said, not knowing what to talk about now that they were both “relaxing.” “Besides, I’m sure you’ve got a handy suction-thingy to swoosh it all out with,” she laughed.

“A microcannula? Don’t be silly, I’m off duty. You must think I’m very superficial, but you know . . .”

Not another insecure plastic surgeon.

“I make a lot of people very happy.”

And yourself very rich, she thought to herself.

“Everyone likes to look their best,” he yawned again. “Even animals lick themselves clean.”

“I know.”

“And I’ve reached the age now where, quite frankly, I don’t view women as creatures to be perfected, to be operated on.”

“I’m sure we’re all very grateful for that.” She nodded.

There was an awkward pause.

“Professor . . .”

“Please, call me Feliz.” He downed another caipirinha and slumped back in the lounger. She noticed his eyes were closing; he was fighting the need to fall asleep. She felt the sun burning into her bones and it felt good. She knew she should reach into her bag for her Sisley Sunleya Age Minimizing Sun Protection SPF 15, but frankly she couldn’t be bothered. It was so hot, she wondered if she could slip quietly into the water without him noticing. She undressed down to her bra and knickers and eased herself slowly into the water, thankful his eyes were still closed. The water was deliciously cool. She glided from one side to the other, frightened to splash or make too much noise in case the old tortoise woke. There was a corner of the pool that looked onto a clearing, where the trees were less dense. The view of the sea, its azure depths tinged with white frothy crescents farther out on the horizon, was exquisite. She noticed another boat had moored at the jetty alongside the one she had arrived on. Maybe he did just want her to relax, she mused, turning with her back to the view now, her arms, her flabby arms, outstretched on the limestone pool surround. She rescued a beetle drowning in the overflow, flicking him out onto the side so he could dry out. The pool, the yacht, all of this . . . she had heard of Brazilian generosity, their relaxed, warm attitude to life. You only had to think of the Carnival—life was one big party. She climbed out of the water and wrapped herself in a towel from a pile stacked neatly to the side. The professor’s eyes opened half an inch. He patted, languidly, the lounger next to him, and gingerly she sat down.

“Professor, why did you ask me here?”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Why did you invite me?”

He sighed, still fighting sleep. The caipirinhas had taken their toll. “Oh . . . well, I didn’t, my dear. My PA told me you wanted to visit, to perhaps do a big story on the eco-island, and my work, and on your friend’s work, well, our friend’s work . . . and don’t you ever relax, silly English girl?”

Kate sat bolt upright.

“What friend?” She was suddenly on fire.

“He’ll be here in a minute.” His eyes closed again; he rolled over on his side with his back to her.

Kate prodded his back, between the shoulder blades.

“What friend?” she repeated.

“John . . . John Kingsley the Third!” he said, before passing out.

“What?!” She felt she was going to explode, the heat rising from her stomach to her throat, her body shaking. So he’d arranged it all. Not Clarissa. Set her up, so that he could . . . what exactly? What was the point? She scooped up her clothes in one arm, grabbed her bag, slipped on her sandals, and started to walk briskly down the hill. Her feet were still wet and the thong between her toes was rubbing. She quickened her pace, her shoes clacking noisily. She had to get off the island, had to leave now. The bastard! He could be here at any minute! Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Why make her fly all the way to Rio, and leave her stranded on some island?

She was about halfway down the hill on the way to the jetty when he called out her name. “Kate!”

She could see his blond hair, see him waving frantically. He must have arrived on that second boat. He ran up the hill toward her, a huge grin breaking out, a camel-colored canvas weekend bag slung over his shoulder, bashing against his right hip, until he was only a few feet away. He slowed down into a brisk stride, still smiling.

She waited until he was close enough to get the full force of her rage before shrieking: “How could you?!”

He took a step backward, astonished. “I—Kate—I—”

“How could you get me here under false pretenses? Why?” She broke down in tears. Suddenly the fragility of her position terrified her.