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 p. 84 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 prod p. 85 ucts. 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, p. 86 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
“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 p. 84 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 prod p. 85 ucts. 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, p. 86 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
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