Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination

by Helen Fielding

  From tickets to a major sporting event, premiere or award ceremony, a copy of a rarely heard early Floyd recording, to a table at the hottest new restaurant in Paris, many of LA’s most senior CEOs, movie actors, producers and recording executives are already enjoying the science-based maximization of pleasure interfaces which Enclave affords.

  Olivia leaned back from the screen and grinned. The idea, it seemed, was that clients would “give” Travis half a million dollars a year to spend, and in return occasionally receive a pair of tickets to a ball game or a free CD. She couldn’t get anything but an answering machine on Enclave’s twenty-four-hour hotline number. Presumably all the lifestyle managers were too busy managing hundreds of thousands of dollars into soft-science-based enjoyment maximization to pick up the phone.

  She Googled Ferramo again. Nothing new.

  12

  The indoor bar area of the Standard had a loosely desert theme: the walls were papered with a floor-to-ceiling frieze of Joshua trees, the floor was cork, the lamps like giant desert flowers. There were two—for some reason—fish suspended from the ceiling. Olivia sat enjoying her morning coffee and the sunlight blasting in from the pool area. Auditions were plainly about to start. A youth, sweating in the heat in thick camouflage trousers and a woolly hat, was wandering among the girls, sporting a clipboard and a rather confused expression.

  Olivia saw Kimberley before Kimberley saw Olivia. Her unfeasibly large and perky breasts were bouncing in a thin white halter-neck above her nonexistent hips, which were swathed in a miniature version of an ecru cheerleader’s skirt. Horribly aware of how attractive she looked, she was sliding her finger in and out of her mouth like a cross between a five-year-old and a porn queen. Suddenly she started talking to herself.

  “I gotta get, like, get something worked out. I don’t want to wait tables anymore. . . . Oh, yeah, she kept my reel and told me to call her and then she didn’t take my call. She kept me on hold for ten minutes. I mean, I listened to three songs?”

  Two men walked past, completely ignoring Kimberley’s scantily clad perfection. Women who would turn heads in London and New York scarcely seemed to warrant a second look in LA. It was as if they had a tattoo on their foreheads saying, “Wannabe actress slash model. Will bore you with career aspirations: unstable.” The beautiful people in Miami were much more fun, Olivia thought. In LA, their beauty and seminakedness seemed to be saying, “Look at this! Now make me a film star!” In Miami they just wanted to get laid.

  “So,” Kimberley continued, “when I finally got to meet with her she was so, like, not listening to me? She said the way I looked on the tape, I’m not, like—” Kimberley’s voice trailed off miserably—“commercial enough.”

  A wire was protruding from her ear. So at least she wasn’t completely insane. But, still, Olivia was starting to feel sorry for her.

  “It’s fine,” Kimberley said bravely. “I’m thinking maybe I could do, like, body-part work? It’s like body-double work, but they just use parts of you.”

  But what about today? thought Olivia. What about Pierre’s auditions? I thought you were all lined up for a big part? Had even Kimberley sensed that Ferramo wasn’t for real? Or had she just heard “I’m going to make you a star, baby” eighteen times too often?

  She went over to Kimberley and said hi. Kimberley responded with the sort of defensive look which assumed that anyone who said hi was trying to hit on her.

  “Olivia Joules. We met in Miami. I’m a journalist on Elan.”

  Kimberley stared for a second, rasped, “Gotta go,” into the hands-free, then turned on a dazzling smile and launched into an “Oh. My. God.” routine.

  “Where’s Demi?” said Olivia, once the incredible nature of the coincidence had been dealt with. “Isn’t she auditioning for the film too?”

  A strange froideur seemed to enter the proceedings.

  “Has she been saying stuff about me? I mean, you know, I’m not going to say anything, like, bad about Demi. She has issues? You know? I mean, honestly? I think she’s got a problem. But I’m not the kind of person who says anything bad about anyone.”

  Olivia was confused, trying to work out how long it was since the party when they were the best of friends. Two days.

  “I mean, she’s still in Miami, right, with that Portuguese guy?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  But Kimberley’s attention had wandered. She had seen someone coming and started arranging her breasts in the halter top, like a bowl of fruit for a photo shoot. Olivia followed her gaze and found herself looking straight into the eyes of Pierre Ferramo.

  He was dressed as an LA film producer in shades, jeans, navy jacket and whiter-than-white T-shirt. His manner, though, was as regal as ever. He was flanked by two dark-haired, flustered boys, who were trying to deal with a growing cluster of would-be auditionees. Ignoring the entourage, he made his way directly to Olivia.

  “Ms. Joules,” he said, slipping off his shades, “you are two days late and in the wrong hotel in the wrong city, but as always it is a pleasure to see you.”

  His liquid gaze burned into hers.

  “Pierre.” Kimberley teetered over and flung her arms round his neck. A fleeting glance of disgust crossed his features. “Can we, like, go right away? I’m so, like, psyched?”

  “The auditions will be starting shortly,” he said, disentangling himself. “You may go upstairs and prepare if you wish.”

  As Kimberley wiggled off, swinging her bag on her hip, Ferramo waved his aides away and spoke to Olivia in a low, urgent voice. “You did not make our appointment.”

  “I went for a jog first, down to the harbor . . .”

  He sat down opposite her. “You were there?”

  “Directly across the water.”

  “You are hurt?” He took her hand and examined the dressing. “You have had medical attention? Is there anything you need?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “And how did you come to be in the vicinity of the explosion?”

  “I was jogging. I often jog in the mornings. I was trying to get a good look at the ship. Did you know anyone aboard?”

  She watched his face, like a detective watching a grieving husband make an appeal to his missing wife’s abductor. Ferramo didn’t miss a beat.

  “No, thankfully I did not.”

  What about Winston, your underwater consultant?

  “I did.”

  “You did?” He lowered his voice, leaning closer to her. “I am so very sorry. They were people you knew well?”

  “No. But they were people I very much liked. Do you know who did it?”

  Was there a glimmer of a reaction to the oddness of her question?

  “As you will have heard, the investigation is only just beginning. It has the marks of al-Qaeda, of course, but we shall see.” He glanced around. “This is not the time or place for this discussion. You are here for some days?”

  One of the boys appeared behind him, hovering with papers. “Mr. Ferramo . . .”

  “Yes, yes.” Different voice, harsh, authoritarian, dismissive. “One moment. I am in conversation, as you can see.”

  He turned back to Olivia. “We can reschedule our meeting perhaps?” A-rrreeeeshedull owah meeting. It was a harsh, staccato intonation.

  “I’m here for a few days.”

  “You will join me for dinner? Tomorrow evening, perhaps?”

  “Er, yes, I . . .”

  “Good. You are staying here? I will call you and make the necessary arrangements. Until then. It is a pleasure to have you here. Yes . . . yes.” He turned to the boy, who was holding out a document apologetically.

  Olivia watched as he looked at the document and rose to his feet, heading back to the wannabes. “Actually, we should be through by four.” He handed back the paper. “Shukran. And then we can reconvene to discuss the call-backs.”

  Shukran. Olivia looked down, trying not to betray any reaction. Shukran was Arabic for “thank you.”
<
br />   13

  “Come home,” Kate said from London. “Come home now. Call the FBI and get on the next plane.”

  Olivia sat trembling on the silver beanbag, pushed up hard against the door to the room. “But last time we spoke, you said I was jumping to conclusions.”

  “The only evidence you offered was that he was ‘languid.’ You somehow overlooked the fact that he tried to persuade you not to go to the OceansApart the night before it blew up.”

  “I thought it was part of a crappy pick-up line about asking me to breakfast. You know: ‘Shall I phone you or nudge you?’ kind of thing.”

  “You are literally unbelievable. Listen. He lied. He told you he was French and then he starts talking Arabic.”

  “He only said one word. He still could be French. Anyway, even if he is an Arab doesn’t mean he’s a terrorist. It might be just that sort of prejudice he was trying to avoid. I’m doing a story. Elan is paying my expenses.”

  “They’ll understand. You can always pay them back. Come home.”

  “Kate,” said Olivia quietly. “This is my story.”

  There was silence for a second. “Oh God. It’s that byline thing, isn’t it? That was Barry. He said it would be a joint byline. I called him when I saw it and bawled him out.”

  Then why didn’t you call me too?

  “He said they took your name out to save space. You’re not on staff. I’m not trying to nick your story. Just come home and be safe.”

  “I’ve got to go,” said Olivia. “I’m supposed to be at the auditions.”

  She clicked off the phone and started feverishly to type a list on her laptop which fell under two headings:

  Reasons for thinking Pierre Ferramo is an al-Qaeda terrorist plotting to blow up LA.

  Reasons why it is prejudiced, overimaginative or otherwise wrong to think Pierre Ferramo is an al-Qaeda terrorist plotting to blow up LA.

  Then she paused, frowning, staring straight ahead. Olivia thought of herself as a liberal-egalitarian humanitarian. But was she actually just a common garden racist?

  14

  “You may be from the bright lights of LA, but here, in the desert, you will find out who you really are, what you mean . . . mean.”

  “Okay. Hold it there, hold it there.”

  Olivia sympathized with directors. She wouldn’t have the first idea what to say to an actress who was fucking up her lines except, “Could you do it . . . better?” But this director didn’t seem to have anything to say at all. He glanced feebly at Alfonso, who was there in some undetermined capacity, opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again, then said, “Um.”

  Olivia looked at the director, bemused. His name was Nicholas Kronkheit. He didn’t seem to have done anything at all except direct a couple of student music videos at Malibu University. Why pick him?

  “Okay,” Alfonso broke in bossily. “Let’s take it again, baby, from the top.”

  The script, written by Travis Brancato, was, well, worrying to say the least. Entitled Boundaries of Arizona, it was the story of a Hollywood film star who realized Hollywood was meaningless and ran away to the desert, where he fell in love with a Navajo girl and discovered happiness and fulfillment through making ornamental lifeline boxes.

  As Kimberley—dark, plaited wig doing its best to bring out the Cherokee in her—prepared to run through the lines yet again, Olivia slipped out of the room with a strange crablike sideways gait which she’d never used before. It seemed to be a spontaneous and unconscious expression of guilt and apology for finding the whole thing so desperate.

  * * *

  She sat in the bar, sucking iced latte through a straw and pondering the various ways in which the production of Boundaries of Arizona made no sense. Was Ferramo going to finance the whole thing himself? In which case, why had he picked such an ill-qualified nitwit as a director? If he was looking for finance elsewhere, why would he have hired a director and started casting before he involved a studio? And how come he hadn’t noticed that the script was total crap?

  * * *

  “Hi!”

  Olivia started and choked on her latte at the sheer force of Melissa’s arrival.

  “How were the auditions? How did the interview with Nicholas go?”

  Fortunately, there was no need to reply when Melissa was talking.

  “Look, these are our surfers. Aren’t they the cutest? They’ve been trying out at the beach all morning and now they’re going to do lines. Are you going to come and watch? I’m sure you’ll need a bit of that for the piece.”

  A bunch of bleached-blond youths were ogling today’s girl-in-her-underwear in the glass box behind reception.

  “Oh, and this is our voice coach, Carol. Have you met her already?”

  The woman looked interesting and rather nice. She actually had a wrinkled face, which looked completely out of place in the Standard. It was like seeing someone in a rumpled old shirt in a room full of immaculately pressed outfits. Olivia started imagining the concierge rushing up, shrieking, “Oh. My. Gaaaaaad. Give it to me! We’ll have it pressed!”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said the wrinkled one.

  “You’re English!” said Olivia.

  “So are you. Northeast? Nottingham? North of Nottingham?”

  “Worksop. You’re good.”

  “So!” broke in Melissa. “I’ve got you down for dinner with Pierre tomorrow night. This afternoon I want you to talk to the surfers, and then drinks early evening with some of the other boys.”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Joules.” It was the concierge. “Just to say we have your appointment for a facial with Michael Monteroso at Alia Klum at three-fifteen tomorrow. They do have a twenty-four-hour cancellation policy, so I need to give them a credit-card number. The cost is two hundred and fifteen dollars.”

  “Two hundred and fifteen dollars?” said Olivia.

  “Oh, I’m sure we can get Michael to give you a complimentary treatment,” said Melissa. “And Kimberley and some of the other girls are going to meet you here at eight, take you out and show you some of the hangouts.”

  “No, that’s fine. I don’t take freebies,” said Olivia. “And I think I might have to skip the drink this evening. I’ve got some calls to make.”

  Melissa pulled a nasty quizzical face, with her head on one side.

  “Can’t just write about this one production, you know!” said Olivia in a hearty voice. “So many interesting things going on around here, don’t you think?”

  15

  “Which city, please?” said the voice on the end of the phone.

  “Los Angeles,” said Olivia, drumming her pencil on the desk.

  “And the number you’re searching for?”

  “The FBI.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The FBI.”

  “I’m not seeing any listing for that. Is that a business or a private number?”

  Olivia snapped the pencil in half. She had fifteen minutes before she was supposed to meet Kimberley for the night out and she hadn’t done her makeup yet.

  “No, the FBI. The Federal Bureau of Investigation. You know: cops, detectives, X-Files, hates the CIA?”

  The other line started ringing. She ignored it.

  “Oh, right.” A laugh. “I got you. Here’s the number now.”

  “The number you require can be automatically dialed by pressing one now,” said a jerky, electronic voice. “An additional charge will be made.”

  “Hello, this is the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said another recorded voice. Mercifully the other line stopped ringing.

  “Please listen carefully to the following list of instructions. If you are enquiring about employment possibilities, press one now; for existing cases, press two . . .”

  Damn it. The other line started ringing again. She pressed HOLD and picked up line two.

  “Olivia? It is Pierre Ferramo.”

  “Oh, er, hi, Pierre,” she trilled gaily. I’m just calling the FBI on the other line to tell t
hem you’re an al-Qaeda terrorist.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes! Fine! Why?”

  “You sound a little . . . tense, perhaps?”

  “It’s been quite a long day.”

  “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to make sure that we are still scheduled for our dinner tomorrow night? I would hate for us to miss each other again.”

  “Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Excellent. I will have someone pick you up at six-thirty.”

  Six-thirty? That’s a bit early for dinner, isn’t it?

  “That will be lovely.”

  “And how were the auditions?”

  By the time he’d gone, so had the FBI.

  * * *

  “Hi. Is that the FBI? I just wanted to report a suspicion I have in connection with the OceansApart.” Olivia was pacing the room, practicing out loud. “It’s probably nothing, but you might just check out a man called Pierre Ferramo and . . .”

  “Hi, Joules here. That the CIA? International terrorism, please. I’ve got a hot lead on the OceansApart. Ferramo, Pierre Ferramo. Arabic, certainly, possibly Sudanese . . .”

  She couldn’t do it. She felt as though she was about to go into an audition and had lost her motivation. She was Rachel Pixley from Worksop getting carried away and the operator would just laugh; at the same time, she was a treacherous Mata Hari arranging dinner dates with her murderous lover then turning him over to her masters.

  She decided to go out with Kimberley and pals and make the FBI call early tomorrow. She could order room service and make a morning of it.

  16

  Pierre Ferramo was wearing a green beret, speaking on al-Jazeera: “She is a pigdog and an infidel. Her stomach is too fat to grill. It must be roasted.”

  A phone was ringing in the background. Kimberley Alford produced an onion from her halter-neck and began to slice it, smiling to camera, blood oozing between her teeth. The phone was still ringing. Olivia fumbled for it in the darkness.