Thirty-eight minutes later, she was on Rodeo Drive, lying under a sheet in a white room with six separate jets of very hot steam hissing at her face.
“Er, are you sure these steam things are all right? They seem a bit . . .”
“They’re perfect, trust me. We need to engineer a radiant temperature in order to micro-collapse the epidermal cellafeeds and stimulate—”
“Right. They’re not going to leave big red blotches, are they?”
“Relax. You’re going to be sooo adorable.”
She was feeling many tiny sucking movements all over her face, as if a set of toothless mini-piranhas had been let loose on it, along with the six Bunsen burners.
“Michael,” she said, determined to get at least something useful out of the hideous two-hundred-and-fifteen-dollar experience, “how do you know Travis?”
“Travis? Who’s Travis?”
“You know—Travis? The guy you introduced me to in Miami?”
“You’ve just flown in from Miami? Do you have jet lag? I could ionize your face.”
“No, thank you. He’s an actor slash writer, isn’t he?”
“Oh, that guy. Right.”
“He’s the guy who’s written the screenplay for Feramo’s movie.”
“You’re kidding me. Feramo’s movie is written by Travis? Would you like to take a jar of Crème de Phylgie? The larger one is excellent value; you get two hundred milliliters for . . .”
“No thank you. What’s wrong with Travis writing the movie? Ow! What are you doing?”
“I’m lifting the initial resistance of your epidermis. You should try the ionizing. Even if you’re not jet-lagged, it’s an excellent rejuvenating exfoliant, hypoallergenic, totally free of free radicals . . .”
“No thanks.”
“. . . biocolic-balancing plant extracts,” he oozed on, ignoring her.
“How do you know Travis?”
“Travis?” Michael Monteroso laughed. “Travis?”
“What’s so funny?”
“Travis picks up the cash from the salon and takes it to the bank. He works for a security firm. Do you have a facial technician who works with you regularly?”
“No, I don’t actually,” she said. “Bizarrely enough—”
“If you like, I’ll give you my card when you go. I’m actually not supposed to work outside the salon, but for special clients I can come to your home.”
“You’re very kind, but actually I don’t live here.”
The Bunsen burners stopped, and she felt herself being lulled by the eucalyptus scents and the steady flow of gibberish into a half-asleep state. She tried to fight it and stay alert.
“I could come to your hotel?”
“No. So how do you all know each other—all the people at the party?”
“I don’t really know them. I just help out with the facials for the events. I think some of them met at the dive lodge down in Honduras—you know, Feramo’s place on the islands down there. Now this is eucalyptus and castor oil I’m putting on you here.” Feramo had a dive lodge in Honduras? She concentrated on not changing her expression.
“I actually use a range of dermatologically tested organic products. This is totally organic, additive free. I’ll make you up a pot to take with you.”
“How much is it?”
“Four hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
“Just the facial will be fine, thanks.”
When she got into the changing room, she looked in the mirror and let out a horrified sigh. Her face was covered in small red rings, as if she’d been attacked by a creature with tentacles or tiny parasites trying to suck greedily on her, tails wiggling. Which, in a way, she had.
Olivia stopped at the mall on the way home and returned to her room armed with books: books on Honduras, books on al-Qaeda, and a book by Absalom Widgett, a British scholar of Islam, called The Arab Sensibility: The Unlikelihood of the El Obeid Plasma TV. She climbed under the covers for comfort to read. As she flicked through the al-Qaeda books, she suddenly froze and stared, rereading the same paragraph:
Intelligence officials warn that the Takfiri, an offshoot of al-Qaeda, belie their Islamic roots by drinking alcohol, smoking, even drug taking as well as womanizing and dressing in sophisticated Western style. Their aim is to blend in to what they see as corrupt societies with the goal of destroying them.
Professor Absalom Widgett, the British scholar of Islam and author of The Arab Sensibility: The Unlikelihood of the El Obeid Plasma TV, has described them as devastatingly ruthless: the hardcore of the hardcore of Islamic militants.
It was six-fifteen. She was to leave for dinner with Feramo in fifteen minutes. Her palms were sweating, and her stomach kept being gripped by spasms of fear. As she dressed and made herself up, dabbing the red sucker marks with concealer, she tried to stop, breathe, think, act calmly. She tried to think of positive scenarios: Feramo was just a playboy. Feramo had never heard of the word Takfiri. Feramo knew nothing about the phone call or the room bugging. Maybe it was the nosy, overly chatty bellboy with the bulging muscles and strange facial hair. Maybe the bellboy was working for the tabloids and had thought a celebrity was going to be checking into Olivia’s room and had planted the bug.
By six-thirty she had psyched herself into thinking it was all completely okay. It was fine. She would just have this last fun dinner and then go back to London and start to rebuild the tattered remnants of her journalistic career.
Then she stepped out of her room and lost her cool again. What was she doing? Was she out of her mind? She was about to have dinner, alone, she didn’t know where, with an al-Qaeda terrorist who knew she was on to him. There was no positive scenario. Feramo didn’t want to have her to dinner, he wanted to have her for dinner. Still, at least the blotches on her face didn’t show now.
The elevator doors opened.
“Oh, my dear, what has happened to your face?”
It was the wrinkly voice-coach lady, Carol.
“Oh, nothing. I, er, had a facial,” said Olivia, stepping inside. “Have you been working with the actors at the auditions?”
“Yes, well. Not just the audition people.”
Olivia looked at her quickly. She seemed to be troubled.
“Oh, really? So you’re not just working with the actors then?” She decided to risk a bit of boldness. “You work with the rest of the team as well?”
Carol looked her straight in the eye. She seemed to be thinking a lot of things that she couldn’t say.
“I always thought it was only actors who needed voice coaches,” said Olivia lightly.
“People change their accents for all sorts of reasons, don’t they?”
The elevator doors opened to the lobby. Suraya was crossing their line of vision, radiant against the white walls.
“What do you reckon?” said Olivia conspiratorially, nodding towards Suraya. “Malibu with a touch of Bombay?”
“Hounslow,” Carol said. She wasn’t laughing.
“And Pierre Feramo?” whispered Olivia, as they stepped out of the elevator. “Cairo? Khartoum?”
“That’s not for me to say, is it?” Carol said overbrightly, never taking her eyes off Olivia’s. “Anyway. Have a lovely evening.” She gave a brittle smile and, pulling her cardigan around her, headed off towards the parking valet.