A Case in Red

Chapter 02

After a few minutes in Raquel's car, listening to my friend prattle on about her perfect doctor fiancé, we arrived at the Maison Rubra. A line of cars was forming ahead of us, and guests were stepping out onto a red carpet swarming with photographers from magazines, newspapers, and a few paparazzi from gossip blogs. We were still far from the entrance, but I could already see the women arriving. All of them wealthy, clinging to the arms of their millionaire husbands and wearing designer gowns. I squeezed the clutch in my lap, nervous. It wasn't the first time I’d been invited to such an important event; however, I always got anxious about the possibility of letting it slip that I didn't belong to the same universe as all those people. To them, knowing how to distinguish between forks, spoons, and wine glasses was second nature. I came from a place where any spoon would do, and the cups were plastic because glass was reserved for Christmas and New Year's.

Raquel seemed to notice my anxiety, as she took one hand off the wheel and firmly gripped my shoulder with that gentle smile that made me feel guilty for not being such a good friend after all.

— You are the most beautiful woman here — my stylist sounded remarkably sincere. We moved a few more inches, and another wealthy family posed on the red carpet. — And you’re the only one wearing an original Raquel Devêroux piece.

I smiled at her, trying to look more "thank you for being my friend" and less "thank you for rubbing your clothing brand in my face, sweetie."

— I’ll make sure to mention your name to all the interviewers.

I looked back at the red carpet, where another couple with a bank account fuller than the Atlantic Ocean smiled for photos. I knew most of those people, as part of my job is staying updated on the near-secret lives of the Brazilian elite. I knew exactly which schools those families chose for their children, I knew where they found the best and most reliable domestic staff, and I knew about their most successful investments. A smart woman observes the lives of those she wishes to resemble. It’s part of my research.

A few minutes later, Raquel’s car pulled up in front of the red carpet. All the photographers were in position to record the arrival of the next guest. I checked my makeup and hair in the mirror one last time. Raquel looked at me, gave a wink, and unlocked the car door. It was, finally, my time to shine.

I opened the car door slowly, intending to create a sense of suspense and anticipation for the paparazzi. First, I elegantly placed my right foot on the sidewalk to gain support and balance, and then I stepped out of the vehicle dazzlingly. I positioned myself on the red carpet, one hand on my waist and the other showcasing the Miu Miu bag. At first, I noticed a single expression on the photographers' faces: admiration. Before they could photograph me, they seemed to want an exclusive mental image of me. They looked me up and down with a mix of desire and respect. After a few long seconds of them being awestruck by my presence—something I confess I’m used to causing in people—a barrage of flashes came my way. It became difficult for me to walk toward the entrance of the event.

— Live! Viviane Beltrão, Rio de Janeiro’s most coveted socialite, has just arrived at the grand opening of the Maison Rubra here in Copacabana!

— One of the VIP guests who has just arrived at the party, Viviane Beltrão, is walking the red carpet at this very moment!

— Viviane, is it true your company just closed a deal with the Maison Rubra hotel?

— Over here, Viviane! Is your photo with Kim Kardashian real or AI?

— Viviane, is it true you’ll start representing Virgínia’s company internationally?

Several vultures flocked to me with their microphones and cameras. What makes a woman wiser and more intelligent than others is knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. I decided to ignore all reporters from irrelevant or sensationalist outlets; I want them to know that getting an interview with me is a luxury they won't achieve.

— Viviane, my name is Letícia and I represent Vogue Brazil! Who designed the dress you’re wearing tonight? — I looked at a short journalist with disheveled hair and glasses too large for her face. When I heard the name "Vogue," I couldn't help but flash an even better smile. This is what I’m talking about: a relevant woman knows who she should talk to, and I wouldn't be considered smart if I didn't know you never throw away an opportunity to speak with Vogue Brazil.

— This is an exclusive piece from the Raquel Devêroux atelier — I showed off the backless cut and delicately ran my hand over the high neck, which was adorned by a beautiful and original pearl necklace. — My seamstress, stylist, and friend in her spare time. The most competent in all of Latin America.

— And this clutch you’re using, what can you tell us about it? — Letícia asked another question, still scribbling my words in her little notebook.

— This bag is a limited edition by Miu Miu. One of the few in Brazil. — I ran my hand over the ruby-red leather bag, feeling the power and exclusivity that such a simple accessory brought me. — I could be completely naked and still feel like the best-dressed person here just with this bag.

Letícia laughed, finishing her notes, and looked at me for the first time since she started questioning me.

— Thank you very much, Ms. Viviane. Your interview will be in the next issue of the magazine, and I’m sure I’ll get a bonus from my boss for managing to interview you. — The girl seemed so honest and grateful that I felt a pang of pity. I could have given her some confidential information about my life just to see those huge brown eyes sparkle with joy, thinking about the reward she’d get from the magazine for publishing an exclusive article about me. In that moment, I questioned if my humanity still existed, because only someone who hasn't learned to discard the remnants of being human would commit such an idiocy. — Can we take an exclusive photo of you for the page?

— Who says no to Vogue?

By this point, we were at the hotel's entrance. The entrance itself commanded respect even before revealing what was kept inside. The doors were made of solid wood, with carved details that betrayed the meticulous care of artisanal work. I posed in front of the door, feeling overshadowed by the grandeur and luxury that a simple inanimate object conveyed. I ignored that feeling; after all, what kind of person competes with an object?

I gave my best smile—restrained yet elegant—and the photographer took the shot. Letícia came to me one last time, being skewered by the envious glares of all the journalists standing there.

— Thank you, Ms. Beltrão.

I limited myself to looking at her without much affection, and the double doors opened for my entrance.

Finally, it was my moment to truly mark the room with my illustrious presence.