PROLOGUE

Thursday October 19th 2000

The bell above the door to the salon tinkled as I entered, and a young woman bounded enthusiastically from the rear of the shop to meet me.

“Hi”

“Hello. I, er, have an appointment for nine this morning…”

“Yes. It was me you spoke to on the phone. I’m Lucy, by the way.” She beamed engagingly. “So…you’re here for the works, pretty much…”

“Yeah. Hence the early appointment.” I smiled back.

“Hot date tonight?”

“Sorry?”

“Ah. No. I meant, you’re going to all this trouble and all…getting your hair and make up done professionally...”

“Ah, I see. I’m meeting someone for lunch…”

“Oh, Sorry.” She bit her lip and mugged an apologetic face. She had an Irish accent, and the charm to go with it. She was maybe early 20s. Her green eyes sparkled with life. “There I go being nosey again…”

I laughed. “No – that’s ok”

“Special occasion though?”

“Yeah. You could say that. It’s a long story”. I paused, and surveyed her friendly, open face again “But then we have all morning haven’t we?”

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday 10th April 1985

Maria always said it had been fate that brought me to her. Myself, I didn’t believe in that sort of thing – a happy coincidence was the most I was prepared to admit. Synchronicity. Being in the right place at the right time…

The right place had been Liverpool. 64 Waterloo Street to be precise, just off the famous Penny Lane. It was a Victorian house, identical to the hundreds of others in that part of the city. Like many it had seen better days and provided a slightly shabby home for myself and four other architecture students in our third year at the university.

The right time was 7pm on Wednesday 10th April 1985. The five of us were enjoying a post prandial smoke in the living room, delaying the point at which we would return to our individual bedrooms to resume working, when we were interrupted by a knock on the door.

My friend Steve answered and called me through “Dave, it’s for you!”

The gentleman standing there introduced himself. “Mr. Ross? My name is Alejandro Carrera. Perhaps you are familiar with it? I used to study here in Liverpool many years ago and now run an architectural practice in Rio de Janeiro.”

He was tall – his eyes were level with mine despite the fact that I was standing, inside, a whole step higher than the pavement outside – and immaculately dressed. A white shirt inside a dark suit showed off his deep tan, which was complemented by collar length silver hair brushed back from his temple. Despite the mild weather we had been enjoying that spring he wore a long wool overcoat. He stood straight and confident, and held out his hand in greeting.

Of course I was familiar with his name. Though I had never been introduced to him formally I had attended both the lectures he had given during my time at Liverpool. He had been a student at the university in the immediate post war period prior to setting up a highly successful practice in Brazil. He returned most years to give a lecture and, as all third year students about to commence a ‘year out’ in practice were very aware, to recruit students for work experience in his office. With my friends in the house we had often talked about the possibility of working for him in Brazil. He didn’t recruit every year, but we did know that he liked to employ students who had had previous office experience and I was one of the few students that year who fitted that requirement.

In that context, I was painfully aware of first impressions and the fact that he had caught me completely unawares. I was dressed in a faded ‘Clash’ t-shirt and old jeans. My shoulder length dark brown hair had not been washed for several days and was held in a slightly greasy ponytail with an old rubber band. My beard, which I had cultivated assiduously since starting university on the misplaced assumption that it made me look coolly artistic was in reality patchy - in need of trimming in some areas and additional growth in others. “Too late to do anything about that now” I thought to myself and, taking his hand, welcomed him inside.

Working in Rio was everything I’d hoped it would be. I’d flown out immediately after graduating and found a room in an apartment near the university with a couple of local architecture students. Alejandro’s office was a short bus ride away, a couple of blocks off the seafront at Copacabana. He employed around thirty staff and it was a friendly and creative mix of both sexes. It was nice to see so many women – females in the construction industry in the UK were still few and far between at that time. Most of the people there were South American, but there were 2 or 3 Europeans too.

Because of my graphic skills I was mainly involved in competition work, but I’d asked Alejandro if I could run a small job on site to get the contract experience I needed and he’d been good enough to give me a small residential project to look after. Keen to impress, I worked hard and competition deadlines meant I was often in the office late. After welcoming me on the day I started, I didn’t see Alejandro for several weeks afterwards. My new colleagues told me he was semi-retired and it was evident that the day to day running of the office was managed by his daughter.

Maria was a beautiful lady. Her father’s gravitas and proud bearing had manifested themselves in her elegance and graceful movement which were emphasised by her sense of style. She was always immaculately dressed in designer outfits and she was at that age – mid 30s I guessed – where tastes mature and become more sophisticated. She was darker skinned than her dad. I’d just bought Whitney Houston’s first album and she reminded me a lot of her – in the way she held herself and moved but also her hair – a mass of tight brown curls projecting out over each shoulder. Her warm brown eyes glittered with humour and she was that most wonderful of things -a great listener who made everyone with whom she spoke feel that she cared about them. Combined with an infectious passion for her work this made Maria one of the most charming women I had met. I would watch her in meetings when she would have others in the palm of her hand. She presented design proposals in such a way that the client would be offering the commission before the presentation was even finished, and when things occasionally got difficult on site with an awkward contractor, a quick chat with Maria would always convince him of the error of his ways.

I’d got to know her quite well. She would accompany me at meetings on the project I was running and we would drive out together to site. She often asked about life in the UK and she would giggle like a schoolgirl as I recounted stories of the things myself and my friends had got up to as students. We shared a love of Monty Python and my ability to recite entire sketches word for word, mimicking perfectly the accents, would make her so helpless with laughter that sometimes she had to stop driving and pull in to the side of the road. Her attempts to join in rendered me the same – somehow the Parrot sketch became even funnier when recounted in her sexy Latina accent. There being nothing more attractive than a woman who laughs at your jokes, I was fast becoming smitten with her.

It was about four months after I’d started working in Rio. I’d received a letter that morning from my mum (she still wrote to me every week). Driving out to site I’d told Maria how my mum was a nurse back home in Lancashire and she’d told me how her mum’s family had come to Brazil as slaves from Africa, and she recounted the story of how her mum had been working as a dancer when her dad had seen her performing at a theatre and fallen in love with her. It was a lovely romantic story – he’d waited at the stage door afterwards but in her pride she’d refused to have anything to do with him. It wasn’t until he’d waited outside every night for a week that she had agreed to go on a date with him.

She paused for a while after finishing the story and then asked.

“What are you doing for Carnaval?”

“I don’t know – I haven’t made any plans yet.”

“What? Nearly everyone here starts planning almost as soon as the previous one is finished. It’s the biggest party of the year – much bigger than New Year.”

“Well. I was going to watch some of the floats…and there’s a student party that some of the guys in the office were talking about.”

“I was thinking – seeing as you haven’t been before. The first time is always special. I could show you around if you like…”

“That would be fantastic.” I glanced across at her from my passenger seat. She smiled back. Surely she wasn’t asking me out? No – don’t be ridiculous – she’s my boss; she just wants to be a good host; show me the sights. I cleared my throat. “So, the meeting. A few actions there that we need to look at.”

We talked business all the way back to the office, but my mind was racing.

Two weeks later I stood outside the address Maria had given me. It was in an exclusive residential area of Copacabana, not far from the office. A high wall to the street contained a steel gate. I buzzed the intercom and announced myself and the gate clicked open onto a small front courtyard garden with a neatly trimmed lawn bisected by a fine gravel path leading to the house. I recognised Maria’s Mercedes in the drive alongside. A large vine with fuchsia coloured flowers covered much of the front of the house, punctuated by some small windows covered by ornate wrought ironwork. The front door was broad and welcoming. As I waited I nervously adjusted my collar. I was wearing my best - my only - suit – a cream linen thing I’d had made up by a very reasonably priced local tailor out of the proceeds of my first pay cheque. I liked to think it gave me the cosmopolitan air of an Englishman abroad. I’d bought a crisp white shirt earlier that day and the collar, still fresh from the packaging, was prickly and uncomfortable.

The door opened and a maid beckoned me inside. The entrance hall was broad but shallow and the wall in front of me stopped at balustrade height. Walking towards it, I overlooked a huge double height living space, on the other side of which was a fully glazed screen looking into a verdant rear garden. A full size grand piano took pride of place amongst some classic pieces of modernist furniture which complemented the clean lines of the surrounding architecture. I was still taking it all in when I heard the click of heels on the marble flooring and Maria’s voice, full of humour as always.

“Welcome to my humble abode”

I span around to greet her, but had to do a double take. She was wearing tight black jodhpurs, the outside seams of which were picked out in a gold stripe, tucked into highly polished calf length black boots. A richly brocaded scarlet bolero jacket was cropped short at the waist and her normally voluminous hair was hidden beneath a shallow brimmed hat. She carried a red cape over one arm. She spun around, tightly, one arm raised over her head, clicking a heel as she completed the turn.

“Ta da! What do you think?”

“Wow!” I was speechless for a moment. “Not quite what I had expected…but you’re the best looking toreador I’ve seen recently.”

She laughed. “And just how many others have you seen?”

Even dressed as she was, in such a macho costume, she looked incredible. Her eyes flashed as she attempted another mock fierce pose but she giggled immediately at the pretence.

“But you never told me it was fancy dress.”

“It’s Carnaval, of course it is fancy dress.”

“But I haven’t got anything.”

“I have something for you.”

“Oh, ok. So am I the front or the back end of the bull?”

She looked at me blankly. I made a mental note that jokes about the British pantomime tradition didn’t translate.

We walked down a stair into the main living room and through into a small corridor.

“This is a beautiful house.”

“Thank you. My papa designed it. I grew up here. It’s too big just for me now and I’d love to design something for myself, but it’s not easy finding land these days…”

“So what have you got for me to wear?”

She beamed. “Wait. It’s in here.”

She opened a door and flicked a light switch. Inside, spread out carefully across a large bed in the centre of the room was a Ferrari red flamenco dress, layers and layers of ruffled lace cascading over onto the adjacent floor. I swallowed hard.

“But you can’t, I mean...I can’t wear that.”

“Why not? I am dressed as a boy. It is the tradition of Carnaval…”

“Yes but… I mean, you might be wearing boy’s clothes but, I mean, it’s different. Women wear jodhpurs and boots all the time…”

“Half the men in Rio will be wearing dresses tonight.”

“Well, maybe, but…”

“Oh, come, I’ve always loved your sense of humour. Please, indulge me tonight.”

Her charm was, as always, winning the day. I tried one last time.

“But my beard…”

“Tch. It will grow again. Besides, I think you will look more handsome without it.”

Checkmate.

I sighed. “Oh, ok then, I suppose.”

She beamed again and clapped her hands together excitedly.

“You’ll look fantastic!”

“Humph!”

I retired to the adjacent en suite, under instructions, with a sharp razor and a bruised ego. How could I have been so foolish to think that Maria might find me attractive? Why hadn’t I stood up for myself more?

I thought I might struggle to get rid of my beard, but the truth was it was much thinner and more straggly than I’d been prepared to admit and it came off easily. Maria had also asked me to get rid of any hairs on my arms and legs and again I meekly obliged – not that there was too much to get rid of there either.

After towelling myself dry I stood for a moment in front of the mirror to see how I looked without the beard. It had been a while since I hadn’t had one and I’d forgotten how delicately featured I was without it. With the beard gone and my damp, now more than shoulder length hair hanging down each side of my face my appearance was anything but macho. I sighed deeply. Any chances of impressing Maria tonight seemed gone. I slipped on the towelling robe she’d left for me and returned to the bedroom.

She gestured me towards a seat in front of a dressing table, on top of which was arrayed a bewildering selection of pots and tubes containing, I supposed, make up. Bending down in front of me Maria took one of the tubes, squirted some liquid out of it onto her finger and began applying it to my face.

“So where are you planning on taking me tonight?”

“Well, I have tickets for a private party at a club.”

“Sounds good.”

The conversation felt a bit awkward now, and soon ebbed as she continued her work. Strangely, I found myself enjoying it. I hadn’t had the chance to see Maria as up close as we were now and she looked kind of cute as she progressed with her task, her tongue protruding as she concentrated. She was so close I could feel her warm breath on my face and smell her scent. As much as that, though, I found the application of the make up quite sensual. I’d always loved the sensation of having my hair cut and having the make up applied reminded me a little of that. Maria’s fingers, and the various brushes she used felt fantastic as they ran over my skin.

Putting on the eye make up wasn’t quite the same. Maria chastised me gently for blinking at the wrong time when she was applying eyeliner and she had to remove it a couple of times with a wipe before she was satisfied. Finishing off with a bright red lipstick (to match the dress, she said), she squealed with pleasure but she wouldn’t let me look in the mirror to see for myself just yet. She blow dried my hair and then pulled it back tightly. Where I held it in place with a rubber band at the nape of my neck, she fastened it higher. From a drawer in the vanity unit she took out what looked like a chocolate brown hamster, but turned out to be a hairpiece already fashioned into a bun. “I wasn’t sure this would match” she said as she clipped it into place “but it’s perfect.” Lastly she took a red flower from a vase and clipped it into my hair at the side.

“This is a gardenia.” she said “The singer Billie Holiday always wore one when she performed, but she usually preferred white.”

She moved to one side to allow me to look in the mirror.

“What do you think?”

If what I’d viewed in the bathroom mirror earlier had the potential to be construed as androgynous, now there was no doubt. The delicate features which had lain hidden beneath my beard were now not just exposed but celebrated. My oval face had been rendered smooth with foundation, cheekbones above blushed cheeks. My lips, which with my beard removed already looked fuller had been plumped with lipstick and gloss, and my blue eyes, which I’d often been told were my best feature as a man, appeared huge when surrounded with expertly applied shadow, liner and mascara. Conflicting emotions ran through my head. I was glad in a strange way that I didn’t look like a man wearing make up but the fact that I looked so much like a woman, and a good looking one at that, shocked me. Not getting an answer, Maria replied for me.

“You look amazing. This is going to be so much fun.”

“I don’t know Maria. I’m not sure I want to do this.”

“Hey, you’re thousands and thousands of miles from home. Who is going to recognise you?”

‘It’s not that, it’s…”

“Listen. It’s Carnaval. It’s a special time. Once a year you get the chance to be somebody else. Somebody completely different. You can leave the stresses and worries of your normal life behind. Pretend David isn’t here.”

I looked at her.

“Psychologists have studied festivals like Carnaval. They have proved it’s good to get out of yourself every once in a while.” She clicked her heels again and flashed her fierce look. “Tonight I am Mario, the famous toreador, and you shall be my woman, Esmerelda.”

I laughed. “The bulls don’t stand a chance.”

She led me back to the bed where some underwear lay next to the dress. She gave an exaggerated display of not looking whilst I pulled on some panties and then she helped me into a matching black satin bra, padding the cups with some tights. Picking up the dress, she laid it out on the floor and then gestured for me to step into it. It felt cool and smooth as I pulled it up my legs. I hooked my arms in and Maria struggled with the zip at the back. At last she managed to fasten it. The dress was skin tight down to mid thigh, where the layers of ruffled lace flared out into a train that trailed a yard or so behind me. She pulled out a pair of shoes but the dress was too tight for me to fasten them so she bent down and did the buckles.

“How did you know my size?” I asked.

“Your site boots.” she answered.

“Well, you really are a schemer aren’t you?”

She clipped some long dangly earrings into place and fastened a thin satin choker around my throat.

“There. Now you are ready. Oh no, almost forgot…”

And so I sat down again and she glued a set of red false nails to mine.

Finally, I stood up again and she beckoned me over to another mirror, this time a full length one on a wardrobe door. The dress slid in a disconcertingly enjoyable way over my legs as I walked.

“No, no, no. You’re walking like a man.”

“Well, duh!”

“Go back and try again, this time one leg in front of the other.”

“That’s what I normally do.”

“Smarty pants! No, I mean like you’re walking on a tight rope.”

I tried again.

“Now. Let your hips swing a little – not too much or you’ll look like a hooker.”

I walked across the room again. The dress really did feel delicious on my freshly shaved legs, although I had to be careful not to catch my shoes in the train when I turned around. She beamed.

“That’s it. You make a very sexy senorita, if you don’t mind me saying.”

I turned towards her, hands on my hips, pouting in what I imagined was an exaggeratedly suggestive way whilst batting my eyelashes. I remembered that one of the voices I’d been able to mimic in a passable way at university had been Marilyn Monroe and I tried to recall how I’d done it.

“Why, thank you, Senor.”

It came out not bad. Maybe not Marilyn, but definitely not David either. Maria squealed again.

“How did you do that?”

I tried again, this time more confidently.

“Well, a girl doesn’t tell all her secrets.”

She skipped in a most un-toreador like way over to my side and gave me a big squeeze.

“Thank you. This is going to be a great night.”

I squeezed her back. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be too bad after all.

Maria had a driver take us the short distance into Copacabana. As we neared the seafront, the streets were more packed with partygoers. Maria explained that the Magic Ball at the Palace Hotel was one of the social occasions of the year for the great and good of Rio society. Tickets were like gold dust and she had been lucky to have been given a couple by a client.

After inching slowly along the last few hundred metres the car eventually came to a stop outside the hotel, surrounded by throngs of onlookers, held back by tuxedoed security guards, all straining towards a short length of red carpet where they might catch a glimpse of a favourite celebrity. I looked across at Maria,

“Oh. My. God. This is unbelievable.”

She grinned back.

“Your chance to pretend you’re a Hollywood star…be careful getting out of the car – going headlong because you caught your heel in your dress isn’t a good look!”

The driver took my hand as I swung my legs out of the car, keeping both knees together, and ensuring my feet landed on the carpet and not on the train of my dress. Maria offered me her arm and I linked her as we began walking towards the hotel entrance.

“Take your time” she hissed in my ear “and look like you’re enjoying it and not doing some particularly hard calculus.”

“Sorry. I’m just trying to concentrate on not standing on my dress.” I whispered back and tried a smile.

Maria smiled in the general direction of the crowd and a battery of flashguns went off.

“You look gorgeous. Don’t worry. Give them a smile and a wave – go on.”

I tried to relax a little – not be quite so stiff – allow the swaying movements of my dress and its train to lead my body into mimicking their fluidity. One foot in front of the other…swing the hips…all too soon we were at the top of the carpet and through into the hotel foyer. I let out a huge sigh of relief and laughed at Maria.

“Wow! That was certainly different to anything I’ve ever done before!”

The hotel looked amazing. Art Deco in style, its magnificent architecture had been further complemented by an overwhelming array of sparkling decorations. But even then, the hotel provided a relatively subdued backdrop compared to the costumes of the guests. About half the people there were in evening dress rather than costumes but even they looked fantastic. The men wearing what were clearly very expensive, tailored immaculately fitting suits whilst the women were in a variety of stunning designer evening gowns. Some of the costumes were incredible. Never before had I seen such a huge volume of sequins and feathers fail so spectacularly to cover such a vast area of bare flesh. Maria must have noticed me looking, because she poked me in the ribs.

“Oi! Don’t you know it’s rude to look at other women when you’re in the company of one!”

“I was just looking at the costumes, honestly.”

“Humph!” she gave me a mock frown and then smiled.

We had made our way to the ballroom and were sipping on a couple of glasses of champagne when a middle aged gentleman in a dinner suit approached Maria.

“Maria. Is that you?”

“Antonio! It’s wonderful to see you!”

He hugged her and they kissed on each cheek.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Ah, yes, well…it is Carnaval…No fancy dress for you, then?”

“No, I’m afraid tonight is more about business for me. Any way. Please…”

He turned to look at me. Maria started.

“Oh, forgive me. This is my beautiful flamenco dancer” she laughed “Allow me to present Esmerelda…”

Antonio reached out to take my hand as Maria continued.

“Actually Esmerelda is in fact…”

I interrupted her sharply.

“Sue. Sue Ross. I’m a student from England. Over here getting some work experience with Maria’s company.”

Maria was standing behind Antonio and gave me a hard quizzical stare over his shoulder which I chose to ignore. I offered him my hand which he took and with an exaggerated gesture, raised to his lips.

“Delighted to meet you.”

Antonio was a good three or four inches shorter than me and wore a lifetime of fine dining around his midriff which the cummerbund he was wearing struggled to contain. He was bald on top and sported a greying moustache, but whilst the rest of his body betrayed his advancing years, his brown eyes sparkled with youthful exuberance beneath his bushy eyebrows.

“Allow me to introduce you Sue to my son Tony Jr.”

Behind Antonio, his son had presumably inherited his mother’s looks, for he was an altogether different specimen. Tall, broad shouldered, bronzed skin, he was classically good looking Latin leading man material. He smiled at me, revealing a perfect set of gleaming white teeth and then hugged Maria closely.

“Are you with a group?” Antonio asked Maria.

“No, just the two of us.”

“Then come, you must join us, for a while at least.”

We walked across the ballroom to a large table occupied by around eight or nine other tuxedoed middle aged gentlemen.

“What’s with the Sue thing?” Maria hissed as we walked but I didn’t have time to answer before we were being introduced to the other guests.

“Maria. Please. You will sit with Tony over here” he gestured to the far end of the table “and Sue, you will sit with me here.”

My mind was spinning. I didn’t know why I’d introduced myself as Sue – perhaps it was because I looked so convincing and I didn’t want people to think I was such an effeminate man that I could easily pass as a woman. Whatever it was, I would have to be careful not to give myself away now. I would have to keep the charade going for a little while longer at least.

“So, Sue. Which part of England are you from?”

“Liverpool.”

“Ah, yes. I was there on business only a couple of years ago. It was a wonderful trip. My hosts took us to see the football. That is some team, no? Almost as good as our Brazilian teams, no?”

“Yes, they are fantastic – Rush, Souness, Dalglish – I miss not seeing them now I’m in Rio.”

“So – a woman who likes football.” He grinned disarmingly “If only I was thirty years younger. And the Beatles, too. When I was a young man they were popular, even here…when I went to Liverpool it was fantastic to see all the places they sang about. Strawberry Fields, Penny Lane…”

I told him that I had lived just off Penny Lane and he was visibly impressed.

“Still. Our music is good, no? Have you enjoyed the samba since you arrived?”

I told him that I hadn’t had much time to go out dancing since I’d arrived, and that I was working hard on a design competition just now.

“And who is that for?” he asked.

“The client? An oil company called SERPO”

He chuckled. “Did Maria not tell you who I am?”

I hesitated. “No. Why?”

“SERPO is my company. I am the chairman and founder.”

I was silent and he laughed again.

“Come. I will show you the samba’” He stood and held out his hand.

“Oh, but I…”

“Come. I insist.”

I looked across at Maria for help, but she was deep in conversation with Tony Jr. I took Antonio’s hand and he led me onto the dancefloor.

He raised his hands and for a second I almost grasped his right with my left before I remembered that he would be leading. Fortunately he didn’t seem to notice and he grabbed my right hand and I gingerly placed my left on his shoulder.

“You may want to pick up your dress so you don’t trip on it.”

“Ah. Oh. Yes.”

“Now. Here we go. One and left and…follow me…good…yes…now, right…perfect!”

He walked me through the steps.

“Listen to the music. Feel the rhythm.”

As the moves repeated themselves I gradually began to feel more confident. Antonio had a way of gently and effortlessly guiding me; all the while offering words of encouragement, laughing and occasionally bursting out in song to accompany the music.

He was good company and even though – my god, by how much – the evening wasn’t turning out how I’d thought it was going to several hours earlier, I was having fun.

“You have saved my life tonight you know.” He whispered conspiratorially during a quiet lull in the rhythm.

“How do you mean?’

“Look at them, over there.”

He spun me around to face the table at which we’d been sat a few minutes earlier. His guests that he’d introduced to us previously were still sat at the table, watching the dancing or just absentmindedly staring around. To a man they were middle aged, grey or balding, but without Antonio’s redeeming twinkle.

“Government officials.” He went on. “My God they are so boring these days. When I was a young man, we would take them out and entertain them…when we needed a favour, you understand…and we would get them drunk, and find them a nice girl…forgive me, but you know what I mean…nowadays they are so scared of the media reporting on them…”

I giggled.

“Well, thank you for teaching me the samba. Tonight has been lovely.”

Perhaps it was the heat of the dancefloor, but I swear I saw him blush.

“Uh, oh. Here comes Maria. It looks like I’m going to have to let you go for a while.”

Maria walked over “Do you mind?”

She took me by the hand and led me off the dancefloor.

“Where are we going? I was enjoying that...”

“The restroom. Now.”

Without asking any further questions I followed her into the ladies. As soon as we were inside she turned, confrontationally.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean pretending to be Sue and then spending all night flirting with Antonio.”

“I’m not flirting!” I was taken aback. “I mean, I don’t know why I said I was Sue, but after I did I felt that I just had to keep up appearances…”

“Well, you are certainly doing that.”

“Anyway, you’re not doing so bad with Tony Jr. Every time I look around you are staring into each other’s eyes, deep in conversation…”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She snapped. Then, more softly. “Do you know who he is?”

“Antonio? He said he was the SERPO boss. I didn’t know, sorry. If I had…” my voice trailed away.

“Antonio and my papa grew up together. Went to school together. They’ve known each other for maybe sixty years. He’s like an uncle to me. Tony Jr – I’ve known him all my life. He’s almost a brother…”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She was silent for a while and then “Look. I’m sorry too. I should have told you before...well, before you went dancing with him. And…” she was quieter now “Seeing you dancing with him. Well, it made me a bit jealous…”

For a moment I was intensely aware that she’d placed her hand on my waist but then it was gone. She giggled quietly.

“Come on. While we’re here. Your lipstick needs touching up. You might as well learn.”

She opened the clutch bag she’d given me and brought out a lipstick, removing the cap and screwing out the tube before handing it to me. We stood at the vanity, side by side, for all the world like two girlfriends.

“There.” She said, teasing one of my bangs into place as I replaced the lipstick in my clutch. “You’re looking all gorgeous again. And that’s important because…”

She paused for dramatic effect, her eyes glistening with humour as she stretched on tiptoes to whisper in my ear.

“All that time Tony and I were talking…he was asking about you…I do believe you’ve got an admirer there.”

She giggled again and gently pushed me out of the ladies and back into the ballroom.

Of course Tony was waiting for me when we got back to the table. I was pleased that I’d managed to get the gist of the basic steps of the samba with his dad, who had been entirely charming in taking me under his wing. Somehow with Tony I didn’t want to be a vulnerable novice, I wanted to be cool and elegant and slightly superior…

He was quite different to his dad. Where Antonio looked as though he was completely infatuated with the samba, Tony didn’t. He was a good dancer, for sure, but he made me feel that he didn’t dance because he enjoyed it, but because it was socially useful and that being good at it was a way to impress women. The same applied to his conversation. We talked about Rio, and about architecture, but he seemed less interested in what I said than in what he could tell me about himself. No doubt his good looks and his money were enough to get him what he wanted in terms of girlfriends, but when he suggested that I might want to join him for a spin in his brand new Maserati that he’d just bought that weekend, it was all I could do to stop myself from giggling at his chat up technique. For a moment he seemed genuinely bewildered when I said I would be too busy working on the competition to join him.

And so the evening progressed. I danced with Antonio and Tony, and even one or two of the less boring government officials. Maria danced with them too, but with everyone there thinking I was a girl it felt too awkward for us to dance together. Eventually Antonio said that he and Tony had to leave to escort their guests back to their hotel. “They don’t even have the energy to party through until morning these days.” he moaned. They offered us a lift but Maria declined and eventually, just as the night began to wind down, we found ourselves alone.

“Now we can dance” she said.

The music had slowed, and she pulled me close, lifting my arms to wrap around her neck as she gently clasped my waist.

“I confess” she leaned to whisper in my ear “I’m a bit tipsy. I’ve drunk too much champagne.”

She giggled and one of her hands slipped down from my waist to gently caress my bottom through the smooth taffeta of my dress. I swallowed hard, and felt like my heart was going to explode out of my chest. She pulled me tighter and our bodies swayed smoothly in unison. I could smell her musk, feel her warm breath on my face. I had just made up my mind to kiss her and damn the consequences when the music stopped and the lights went up.

It was daylight outside as we left. Maria wielded her cape with a flourish as I charged, giggling, my index fingers forming horns either side of my head, back up what was now thankfully a deserted red carpet. She joined me in an impromptu, and very uncoordinated, flamenco dance as we waited for the car to arrive. We fell into it, laughing helplessly, and were driven back home in fits of giggles. Maria was still teasing me as I stepped out of the car at her house, grabbing my bottom as I bent and exclaiming loudly in a deep man’s voice “Phwoar! What a bottom you’ve got in that dress.”

“Don’t touch what you can’t afford!” I joked and skipped off down the path. Maria chasing me, we crashed together against the front door which swung open, depositing us in an unceremonious heap on the floor, me on my back and Maria landing on top of me.

“Ow!” I rubbed the back of my head.

“Awwww” She teased, poking me in the ribs with a finger and making me squeal again. For a brief moment our eyes locked and then her lips were on mine. I kissed her back, hungrily, and rolled her over on to her back but she immediately flipped me back again.

“No. Tonight I am Mario, and you are Esmerelda…”

Her hands ran over the smooth silk encasing my body. Reaching under my skirts she slid them up my legs to my waist. She was between my legs now, fumbling at her belt with her hand, our mouths still locked together.

“Shit! I can’t get these fucking jodhpurs off! They’re tucked into my boots!”

We both burst out laughing and then she stood up and, taking my hand, pulled me to my feet too. She kissed me again, his time slowly and lingeringly, her lips brushing gently against mine and then her tongue exploring my mouth.

“Come. Let’s go to the bedroom.” My hand in hers, we walked down the stairs towards her room, the train of my dress rustling softly behind me.