‘It’s just Shantal.’ She shoots Henri a quick smile. The kid looks as though he’s going to pass out. Miguel and I exchange a look of amusement.
Over our last year on Heidelberg together (and because he put a ring on the finger of the woman who’s basically family to me), I’ve got a lot closer to Miguel de la Fuente. He has loads more experience than I do – he’s twenty-six-ish years old with a World Championship under his belt. However, I’d hardly consider the guy to be a mentor. He causes more chaos than almost anybody, drives like he’s still a teenager, and sets up pranks in the paddock. Once, he even snuck a bottle of Jack Daniel’s into his suite when we were in Austin and had the thing shipped all the way back to Barcelona. It’s a miracle his trainer never found out. I can’t lie – before I knew him well, it was hard to separate him from his family name. But the more you learn about Miguel, the more he tends to prove you wrong.
I unlock the car and we pile in like we’re on our way to family dinner – Shantal to my right, Miguel and Henri in the back.
‘Ready to see Rio?’ I ask Shantal.
‘It depends.’ She pointedly raises an eyebrow. The effect is startlingly attractive, whether she realizes this or not. ‘Is Darien showing me around, or is André?’
I choke on sheer air, managing a violent cough of surprise. ‘Who is André?’ Miguel prods.
‘Oh, no one,’ I start. I don’t need him having that particular bit of ammo on me, but Shantal, evidently, would love nothing more.
‘Well, see, Darien here lied to me about his identity when we met yesterday because it made him feel like one of the commonfolk,’ Shantal takes over dryly. ‘Our own little Princess Jasmine fromAladdin.’
Henri and Miguel explode into a chorus of ‘What the hell?’, Henri’s exhortations punctuated by an exasperated ‘mate’. I groan and press my face to the steering wheel. ‘Can we drop André, please, Shantal?’
‘Maybe’ is her one-word reply.
‘Maybe?But—’
‘Drive!’ everyone in the car demands in unison.
I roll my eyes. It’s ‘hate on Darien’ day, I guess. ‘Fine. First stop, Sugarloaf.’
The track is located conveniently near Sugarloaf Mountain, best described as a slab of giant grey rock sticking up from Urca. The view of it from the Ring is spectacular on its own. Seeing it up close is somewhat horrifying.
As much as I’d love to go further up, we don’t have that kind of time on our hands and we still have plenty of spots in the main city to hit. I start by taking us to Copacabana, from where, I warn the others, we’d best walk.
Shantal is undeterred. Henri stares at her in disbelief as she swaps her sandals out for a pair of sneakers she brought in her bright pink tote bag.
‘Someone came prepared.’ Miguel nods in approval, and Shantal returns him a small smile. Great, Miguel has gotten on her good side. To my knowledge (and judging from the way she looks at me with murderous intent), I’ve made no progress in that direction.
Shantal throws her hair into a quick Founding Father-esque ponytail. She looks like a genuine tourist. We’ve all changed to blend in, but Shantal understood the assignment too well to be intentional. The white strapless crop top and blue skirt combois selling it hard. She’s even got the sunglasses and crossbody belt bag.
‘Do you own any flip-flops?’ I ask her with a raised eyebrow.
She shoots me a look. ‘I didn’t bring those. I’ll be on my feet all the time.’
‘No flip-flops?’ I gape. ‘In Brazil?’
‘What, should I have some?’
‘Maybe,’ I remark sarcastically, although I am being truthful. Flip-flops are every local’s shoe of choice, whether you’re walking a foot or a mile. We’ll certainly solve this problem for Shantal along the line.
Copacabana, naturally, ispacked.There’s barely room to breathe. Seeing it full is one thing, but today, the umbrellas are nearly overlapping. Some great big sand football thing is going on; people are gathered all around. The boardwalk isn’t any better, with throngs ofcariocas– locals – and tourists alike flooding the area.
‘It’s … crowded,’ remarks Miguel. Out of us all, it’s he and Henri who are most shell-shocked by real Rio. I can’t quite get a read on Shantal, even when she removes her sunglasses. She doesn’t look quite as turned around out here as she did near the arches.
‘Is this familiar to you?’ I go out on a limb and ask her.
She startles when she turns my way, but she nods. ‘Somewhat. I grew up near a … slightly less chaotic beach.’
‘In the UK?’
Shantal glares at me. Her irises flash a paler brown than I’d initially thought they were in the light of the sun.
‘You’ve got an accent,’ I say nervously.
