Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination

by Helen Fielding

  “Don’t you write about beauty for Elan?” Suraya purred, slightly pitying.

  “Really?” said Michael Monteroso. “Let me give you my card and my Web site. What I do is a special microdermabrasic instant-lift technique. I gave it to Devorée three minutes before the MTV awards.”

  “Didn’t she look great?” said Suraya.

  “Will you excuse me?” murmured Pierre. “I must return to the game. There is nothing worse than a host who wins, apart from a host who wins and then slides off.”

  “Yeah, we should definitely get back there.” Suraya’s accent was odd. It was a fluid mixture of drawling West Coast American and bookish Bombay. “Don’t want rumblings of discontent.”

  * * *

  As Michael Monteroso watched Ferramo’s retreating back with evident disappointment, there was no need for Olivia to remind herself that no one was thinking about her. Monteroso looked like a man who had clawed his way to success late in life and was hanging on to it for all he was worth. He nodded at her vaguely, turned to see if there was anyone more interesting to talk to and broke into a white-toothed smile.

  “Hey, Travis! How you doing, man?”

  “Good, good. Good to see you.”

  The guy sharing a high five with Monteroso was one of the most overtly good-looking men Olivia had ever seen, with ice-blue, wolflike eyes, but she sensed desperation.

  “How’s it going?” said Monteroso. “How’s the acting?”

  “Good, good, you know. I’m doing like a little writing, and, you know, lifestyle management, and I’m making these kind of lifeline boxes, and, you know . . .”

  So that would be bad, then, on the acting front, thought Olivia, trying not to smile.

  “Olivia, I see you’ve met Travis Brancato! Do you know he’s writing the script for Pierre’s new movie?”

  Olivia listened politely to Melissa’s shtick, then escaped to find the giggly Beavis and Butthead guys from Break, who told her excitedly that they were going to be extras playing surfers on Ferramo’s movie and introduced her to Winston, a beautiful black diving instructor who worked for various hotels on the Keys and was in town to take out clients on the OceansApart. He offered to show her round the ship the following afternoon, maybe even take her out for a dive. “I kinda get the feeling I won’t be busy. I’ve only had one client so far, and I had to bring him back because he had a pacemaker.”

  Unfortunately, she was interrupted yet again by Melissa bearing a press release and a barrage of autowitter about Ferramo’s new movie, including the news that Winston was going to be underwater consultant. Eventually, Olivia was forced to conclude that the reason she was there was not that Pierre Ferramo had noticed her, but because she was supposed to write an article promoting his new movie.

  * * *

  She left the throng and stepped out onto the terrace. There was nothing but blackness now towards the sea. She couldn’t make out where the dunes ended and the beach began, but she could hear the waves pounding the shore. She noticed a metal staircase winding up from the balcony to a higher level and headed up, finding herself on a small private deck. She sat down, out of the wind, pulling her wrap around her, feeling disgusted with herself. It was insane to have let herself be manipulated by a publicist, to imagine that some ridiculous playboy was interested in her and then care enough to actually mind when it turned out he simply saw her as a marketing opportunity—and an overopinionated one at that. Worse, she realized, a part of her she wouldn’t admit to anyone else was frankly disappointed that Ferramo wasn’t a terrorist. She was just as bad as those fame-driven journalists she despised, always trying to make their names out of other people’s misfortunes. Pull yourself together, she told herself. You’re Olivia Joules now. You need to get out of this daft party and get on.

  There was a sound on the metal staircase. Someone was coming up.

  “Why, Ms. Joules. You are roosting up here like a little bird.”

  Ferramo was carrying champagne and two glasses. “Now you will join me, surely, in one glass of Cristal.”

  He was very attractive. It had been a very long day. She took a sip of the exquisite, ice-cold champagne and thought, Rules for Living number seven: sometimes you just have to go with the flow.

  “Now tell me,” he said, raising his glass to hers. “Can you relax? Is your work complete? Do you have your story?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I’ve moved on to another. The OceansApart. You know? The giant apartment ship?”

  “Oh really? How interesting.” His face said the opposite. “And with the OceansApart you will do what? Interviews perhaps? A visit to the ship?”

  “Yes. Actually I met a couple of passengers who come from very near my home town. I’m going to go see them tomorrow and . . .”

  “At what time?”

  “Um, in the morning at—”

  “I really do not think that is a good idea,” he murmured, taking her glass away and drawing her closer.

  “Why not?” He was so close she could feel his breath against her cheek.

  “Because,” he said, “I hope that tomorrow morning you will be having breakfast . . . with me.”

  He reached out and touched her face, masterfully raising it to his, his eyes melting into hers. He kissed her, hesitantly at first, his lips dry against her mouth, then passionately, so that her body pulsed into life and she was kissing him passionately in return.

  “No, no,” she said, suddenly pulling away. What was she doing? Snogging a playboy with a roomful of his other snoggees downstairs.

  He looked down, composing himself, steadying his breathing. “There is something wrong?” he murmured.

  “I’ve only just met you. I don’t know you.”

  “I see,” he said, nodding, thoughtful. “You are right. Then we will meet, tomorrow, at nine. I will come to the Delano. And we will begin to get to know each other. You will be there?”

  She nodded.

  “You are true to your word? You can delay your interview?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t need to. It wasn’t until eleven.

  “Then good.” He stood, held out his hand and helped her up, smiling with a flash of his perfect teeth. “And now we must rejoin the party.”

  * * *

  As Olivia was leaving, she saw the guest list, abandoned under crumpled napkins and dirty glasses on a white table by the door. Always good to hang on to a guest list. Just as she was reaching for it, a door opened behind the table and Demi emerged adjusting her top, followed by the dark youth who’d been in charge of arrivals.

  “Hi!” giggled Demi sheepishly and headed back into the party.

  “I think I gave you my jacket when I arrived?” Olivia said to the youth, giving him a conspiratorial grin. “Pale blue? Suede?”

  “Of course. I will look for it straightaway. I like your accent.”

  “Thank you.” She flashed him a dazzling smile. I like your accent too, she thought. And it’s no more French than your boss’s.

  “Oh, gosh!” She hurried along the corridor after the youth. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t come in a jacket. I’m an idiot.”

  “That’s all right, ma’am.”

  “Brain like a sieve. Sorry. Thank you,” she said, slipping him five dollars.

  And she stepped into the elevator, the guest list folded safely inside her clutch.

  8

  “You kissed him?”

  “I know, I know. Oh God.” Olivia was stretching the phone to the end of its cord, looking out of the window at the ships’ lights on the ocean, wondering if Ferramo was looking out there too. Then she realized what she was doing and hit herself hard on the forehead. Idiot.

  “I’m going to have to be quick. I’m in the newsroom,” Kate was saying on the other end of the phone. “So, let’s just get this straight. Last night you call me to say he’s Osama bin Laden.”

  “I didn’t say he was actually . . .”

  “Not twenty-four hours later you call me to say you’ve been s
nogging him on a rooftop. You’re the most ridiculous human being I’ve ever met.”

  “Well, you were right,” said Olivia. “He’s not a terrorist.”

  “You didn’t tell Barry?”

  “Nearly,” giggled Olivia. “But no. I’m going to meet him tomorrow.”

  “Who? Barry?”

  “No, Pierre.”

  “Pierre bin Laden?”

  “Shut up. I know, I know. But I’m not going to sleep with him. I’m just going to have breakfast with him. It’s just a little, you know, pick-me-up.”

  “Right, right, sure,” said Kate. “Oh, fuck, got to go. Call me after, okay?”

  * * *

  Once again Olivia couldn’t sleep. Trying to steer her mind towards reality, she clicked the light on and surveyed the overdesigned white room. Within seconds, her scruffy North London flat and its eclectic contents were transformed into an outpost of Delano-style minimalist chic, the walls and contents purged and white: the living room lit by a single lamp in a shade ten times too big, the washbasin disguised as a stainless-steel bucket, a simple but stylish chain instead of a toilet roll holder. I could have a chandelier in the garden, she told herself excitedly. Why bore neighbors with traditional dull landscape lighting? And a giant chess set and a white indoor sofa outside—when I get a garden, that is.

  Unfortunately, before long she also had Pierre Ferramo in the garden, on the sofa. She jumped out of bed and logged on to her e-mail. There was a message from Barry. “Re: Miami Cool.”

  She clicked “Read.”

  “Good.”

  That was all: “Good.” Glowing with pride, she clicked “Reply” and typed:

  Re: Good.

  Thanks, Bazzer.

  Elan keeping me on another day.

  Do you want a story about wannabe actresses? 500 a day arriving in Los Angeles hoping to make it?

  Over and out. Olivia.

  Within the next hour, she knocked out seven hundred and fifty words on the face-cream launch for Elan, then impulsively sent them the idea for the Los Angeles wannabe article, as well as an article on making rash judgments when you first meet someone and how first impressions can be completely wrong.

  * * *

  The following morning Olivia was up and dressed freakishly early. By seven-thirty, she was powering along the South Shore, determined to eradicate all foolish fantasies from her brain, to separate logic and desire, while giving her cheeks a pleasing healthy glow. It was windier than ever; leaves and branches had fallen from the palms, shreds of them were littering the road. A waiter was running after a tablecloth as it flapped away from him.

  Out on the beach, the hoboes were starting to stir. One of them was staring in lewd delight at an oblivious beachside yoga class: seven girls on their backs, opening and closing their legs. She found herself following the same route as yesterday, telling herself she’d get a taxi back and have plenty of time to make herself pretty for breakfast.

  She came to a stop when she reached the grassy island where she had met the old couple. She sat down on a concrete wall to look at the OceansApart, once more overwhelmed by its enormity. There was the bing-bong of a loudspeaker on the boat followed by an announcement. A seagull dived into the water for a fish. There was the usual dockside smell, petrol mixed with fishy odors and seaweed. The warm wind was rustling the surface of the water, little frothy waves lapping against the man-made rocky shore. People were on the balconies. She raised her spyglass to her eye, looking for Elsie and Edward’s cabin. There it was in the middle of the boat, third deck from the top. Elsie was sitting in a white wicker chair in a white bathrobe, her hair caught up loosely, robe fluttering in the wind. And there was Edward, also in his bathrobe, standing in the doorway. Lovebirds.

  As she watched, a muffled boom came from deep under the water. Suddenly the whole monstrous edifice gave a lurch like a drunken stagger, then righted itself, creating a wave which surged across the calm channel towards her, flinging itself against the rocky shore. She heard shouts and more figures appeared on the balconies, peering over the side.

  Instinct told her to get away. There were some prefab shacks two hundred yards to her right, raised a couple of feet off the ground, and a steel storage container. She started to walk fast towards them. She was maybe twenty yards away from the steel container when there was a flash followed by a sound like a giant door slamming underground.

  As she turned, a single large plume of water was rising beside the ship. She broke into a run, heading for the steel container, stumbling on the uneven ground. A siren started up. There were shouts, another siren, and then a blinding burst of blue light and a second boom, louder than anything she had ever heard. A great wall of hot air hit her, full of shards of metal and debris, flinging her forward onto the ground. Hearing herself gasping, her heartbeat banging in her ears, she dragged herself the final few feet towards the container. There was a gap underneath it, and she forced herself into it, wriggling to squeeze herself in as far as she could. She made a space around her mouth with her hands and breathed, trying to keep out the acrid smoke, trying to calm down, trying to shrink into herself to nothing, to hibernate like a tortoise in a cardboard box filled with straw.

  * * *

  As the sounds of destruction died down, leaving an unnerving silence, Olivia opened her eyes. Don’t panic, she told herself. Olivia had understood long ago how life can turn on a sixpence, in a fraction of a moment. Rule number one, the chief survival rule: never panic. Never let your mind be clouded by hysterics so you forget to look, forget to grasp what’s really going on, forget the obvious thing. She was looking through bitter black smoke towards the dock, where a huge fire was raging. It was hard to see, but it looked as though the water itself was on fire. She could dimly make out the OceansApart, which seemed to have been blown in two. One side was still horizontal; the other had reared up until it was almost vertical. Elsie and Edward’s balcony was right on the dividing line: where it had been was now a gash, showing the ship in cross-section like a diagram.

  She decided to stay where she was. As she watched, the half of the ship which was still horizontal seemed to bend outwards. A wall of hot air hit her once more, as if she’d opened an oven, and there was another boom as the hull burst into a giant fireball. Olivia buried her chin in her chest, feeling the flesh on one hand burning. There was a deafening roar above her. She pulled herself out, relieved to find her legs just about holding up beneath her. She ran for her life, as behind her she heard the boom of the container exploding.

  9

  “You all right, ma’am?”

  Olivia was crouched, her arms wrapped around her head, against a low building which was shielding her from the docks and the OceansApart. She looked up into the face of a firefighter.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The traffic had stopped on the highways and bridges. The air was filled with the sound of sirens and helicopters.

  He pulled out a water bottle. She took a small mouthful and handed it back.

  “Keep it.”

  “No, you keep it.” She nodded back towards the ship. “You get out there. I’m fine.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  She leaned back against the wall and looked down at herself. She was black. The back of her left hand was burnt, although it didn’t seem to hurt at all. She felt her hair gingerly. It was on the crispy side but still there—a miracle the peroxide hadn’t combusted. Her eyes were smarting. There were hunks of torn metal and debris everywhere, and fires burning in dozens of places. It’s absolutely fine, she thought. It’s perfectly simple. I’ll just go into the water and find Edward and Elsie and bring them to shore.

  * * *

  Olivia moved round the edge of the building, glancing for a moment out towards the open sea, the yachts in the marina, the blue sky. Then she looked back at the OceansApart and remembered how life can be such different things all at once: it was
like switching from a TV holiday program to a disaster movie. The vertical half of the ship was sinking fast, the water boiling around it. The other half had a vast blackened hole in the hull and was listing. Smoke and flames were still billowing from it. Fires were burning all over the channel. The firemen were starting to pour foam on the flames. In between the flames floated debris, the corpses of sharks and barracuda and, Olivia realized, human beings, some of them still alive.

  The paramedics had arrived and were setting up a help station. Olivia could see a man in the water close to the shore. Only his head was visible, his mouth wide open. As he looked in panic towards the shore, he went under. Olivia kicked off her trainers, took her sweatpants off and stepped into the water. Hot mud belched up between her toes. The water was hot too and dirty and thick. When she was close to where the man had disappeared, she took a big breath, steeled herself and plunged beneath the surface. She couldn’t see a thing and she groped around in the foul murk for what seemed like an agonizingly long time until she finally felt him. He was barely conscious and he was a big man. She dived down again, put a hand on either side of his waist and pushed him upwards until he broke the surface. Then she let go for a second, burst into the open air beside him and took hold of his head. She held his nose and started rescue breathing, but it was too hard to keep them both buoyant. She turned to the shore and waved, then tried again. He took a huge, rasping breath. She put her arm around his neck as she’d been taught, and started to drag him towards the shore. The paramedics came out to meet her in the shallows and took him from her.

  She looked back at the channel. It looked as though more people had been washed from the wreckage. A team of divers had arrived on the bank. She walked unsteadily over to where they were setting up. No one took any notice of her. She asked for a mask and some fins and a buoyancy-control jacket.