“Hi, Olivia? It’s Imogen from Elan. I have the editor for you.”
She snapped the light on and sat up straight in bed, pulling her nightie over her boobs, running a hand through her hair and staring wildly round the room. Sally Hawkins. The editor of Elan. First thing in the morning. After a whole evening of, like, you know, like, Kimberley and her, like, friends. The horror, the horror.
“She’ll be right with you.” Imogen’s voice had that assistant’s “I-don’t-need-to-be-nice-to-you-any-more-because-you’ve-fallen-from-grace” tone.
“Olivia?” Crisp, I’m-very-busy-and-important Sally Hawkins voice. “I’m sorry to have to ring you so early. I’m afraid we’ve had a complaint.”
“A complaint?”
“Yes. I understand you called the FBI and suggested they should be checking out Pierre Ferramo.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“We don’t know the source, but Century PR are absolutely furious and rightly so, if, indeed, you did call the FBI. I told Melissa I’m sure if you had some concern about one of her people, you would have called us first.”
Olivia panicked wildly. She hadn’t called the FBI, had she? Or rather, she had, but she hadn’t got through, or rather she had got through but she’d put them on hold and not said anything.
“Olivia?” Cold, nasty tone.
“I . . .I . . .”
“We work with Century very closely on a lot of celebrity interviews and shoots. We have the awards season coming up, for which we’ll be relying on them very heavily and, and, really . . .”
“I didn’t call the FBI.”
“You didn’t?”
“Well, I did, but I never got through to a person. I can’t understand why—”
“I’m sorry,” snapped Sally Hawkins. “This really isn’t making any sense. Did you call them, or didn’t you?”
“Well, I started to call them, but . . .”
Olivia was staring at Century PR’s press release for Ferramo’s movie. Pierre Feramo, it said: Feramo with one r. No wonder she couldn’t find him on Google. She had bloody well spelled his name wrong. Oh God. Don’t panic.
“Olivia, are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, yes, it’s just . . . I . . . I . . .”
Wedging the phone between her ear and her shoulder, she moved over to the desk and Googled Pierre Feramo. There were 1,567 entries. Oh dear.
“All right. I see.” The editor was now talking to her as if she were a retarded child. “All right. Now you’ve had a very frightening experience in Miami. I understand that. I think the best thing is if you just take a good rest for a few hours and come home. You’ve done some of the research for the story?”
Olivia was scrolling down the first page of the 1,567 Google entries: producer credit on a French short which won the Palme d’Or; photographed with a model at “the Oscars of the perfume industry”; quoted in the Miami Herald after the Crème de Phylgie launch.
“Yes. No, really I’m fine. I want to finish the story.”
“Well. We think it would be much better if you came home. Century PR are not happy about you continuing to work with their people. So perhaps you can write up your notes and e-mail them to Imogen, and I’ll have her arrange a flight for you this afternoon.”
“But, listen, I didn’t say anything to the FBI . . .”
“I’m afraid I have to go, Olivia. I’ve got a conference call. I’ll have Imogen call you with the flight details. Make sure you send the research over.”
Olivia stared around the room, disbelieving. She hadn’t called the FBI, had she? She had only practiced calling the FBI. Had they perfected reading people’s thoughts over phone lines? No. The CIA possibly, but not the FBI. She sat down on the bed. Surely not. The only person who had known that she was going to call them was Kate.
* * *
Olivia was typing furiously, writing up as much of the wannabe story as she’d got together in the short time before she was so cruelly fired. Every few minutes she flicked to a document called “Kate: FURY: RE VENTING OF” and vented.
“I can’t believe you fucking well did this to me. I thought our friendship was based on trust and loyalty and . . .”
Three more paragraphs of wannabe story. Back to “Kate: FURY: RE VENTING OF”: “Kate, I hope I’m not jumping to conclusions unfairly, but I don’t understand . . .”
Wannabe story again. “Kate: FURY: RE VENTING OF,” more considered this time: “Listen, you fucking bitch-queen from hell, how the fuck dare you do me over by fucking telling them I called the fucking FBI when I fucking didn’t, you fucking . . .”
Back to the article. She typed a final paragraph and read it over. She made a few changes, ran spell-check, pressed “Send,” then kicked the leg of the desk.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. In a sudden moment of blind fury, she picked up the phone and dialed Kate’s home number. It was on answerphone, but she decided to go for it anyway.
“Hi, it’s me. Listen, Elan just called and fired me for calling the FBI about Feramo. I didn’t call the FBI. The only person who knew I was even thinking of calling the FBI was you. I can’t believe you just wanted to get me off the story so you could, you could . . .”
Olivia’s voice cracked. She was really, really hurt. She put down the phone and sat on the beanbag, blinking and rubbing a tear away with her fist. She stared ahead for a long time, lower lip trembling, then marched over to the tan and olive carry-on case, took out a very old, tatty piece of paper, unfolded it carefully, and sat back on the beanbag with it.
Rules for Living by Olivia Joules
Never panic. Stop, breathe, think.
No one is thinking about you. They’re thinking about themselves, just like you.
Never change haircut or color before an important event.
Nothing is either as bad or as good as it seems.
Do as you would be done by, e.g., thou shalt not kill.
It is better to buy one expensive thing that you really like than several cheap ones that you only quite like.
Hardly anything matters: if you get upset, ask yourself, “Does it really matter?”
The key to success lies in how you pick yourself up from failure.
Be honest and kind.
Only buy clothes that make you feel like doing a small dance.
Trust your instincts, not your overactive imagination.
When overwhelmed by disaster, check if it’s really a disaster by doing the following: (a) think, “Oh, fuck it,” (b) look on the bright side and, if that doesn’t work, look on the funny side. If neither of the above works then maybe it is a disaster so turn to items 1 and 4.
Don’t expect the world to be safe or life to be fair.
Sometimes you just have to go with the flow. And then the new one from Elsie, added at the bottom:
Don’t regret anything. Remember there wasn’t anything else that could have happened, given who you were and the state of the world at that moment. The only thing you can change is the present, so learn from the past. And then Olivia’s own practical application of this:
If you start regretting something and thinking, “I should have done . . .” always add, “but then I might have been run over by a lorry or blown up by a Japanese-manned torpedo.”
Nothing is either as bad or as good as it seems. There were always one or two of them which jumped out. Trust your instincts, not your overactive imagination. Did she really think, in her gut, that it was Kate?
No. She didn’t. And the information hadn’t come from the FBI because she never actually spoke to the FBI. The only place the information could have come from was right here, inside the room. She started systematically checking the lights, the phone, under the desk, in the drawers. What would a bug look like? She had no idea. Would it be like a microphone? Would it have batteries? She giggled. Or little legs?
She thought some more, then reached for the phone again and dialed information: “The Spy Shop on Sunset Boulevard. Spy
Shop. S.P.Y. You know, spies? James Bond? Kiefer Sutherland? English public-school nineteen-thirties homosexuals?”
* * *
Half an hour later, she was staring at a large bottom-cleavage, which was protruding from under the bed.
“Ohhh Kayyy. Here we go. This is basically your problem.”
Olivia took a few steps back as the bottom-cleavage started wriggling out towards her. Connor the countersurveillance expert pulled himself awkwardly to his knees, joyfully holding out the square cover from the phone jack with the same smiley expression used by techies the world over—computer buffs, diving instructors, ski instructors, pilots—when they’ve found something only another techie would understand but which they have to explain to a lay person.
“It’s a two-point-five MP with a pilger. Probably took him about ten seconds if he had a DSR.”
“That’s great.” She tried valiantly to provide him with some sort of emotional reinforcement. “Great. Er . . . so this was actually tapping the phone line?”
“Oh no. Oh no. No. This is just a microphone. Just a simple XTC four-by-two.”
“Right. So it would just pick up what I said? They wouldn’t have any way of knowing whether I was actually on the phone or not?”
“You got it. They might pick up the dial tone but . . .” He sucked in air through his teeth and stared at the phone jack cover, then shook his head. “No way. Not with a gimper. They would probably just pick up what you actually said. You want us to do anything else?”
“No, no. I’ll pop in later and pick up the rest of the stuff.”
She had ordered a bug detector disguised as a calculator, an invisible-ink pen, a chemical-attack protection hood, an excitingly flat and tiny digital camera and, childishly, but most thrillingly, a spy ring with a mirror you could flick up to see behind you. It was an excellent stash of stuff to go with the survival tin.
* * *
After the countersurveillance man had left, she immediately called Kate and left a message. “It’s me. I’m sorry. Really sorry. Brainstorm. Turns out the room was bugged. I owe you a big margarita when I get back. Call me.”
Then she started pacing the room, trying not to panic. It wasn’t a game anymore, and it wasn’t her overactive imagination. Something really bad was going on and someone was after her. She glanced at the Rules for Living again, breathed in and out deeply, thought: Oh, fuck it, and tried to imagine the whole thing worked up into an amusing anecdote to tell Kate. The trouble was, it didn’t seem all that funny.
17
Thirty-eight minutes later, she was on Rodeo Drive, lying under a sheet in a white room with six separate jets of very hot steam hissing at her face.
“Er, are you sure these steam things are all right? They seem a bit . . .”
“They’re perfect, trust me. We need to engineer a radiant temperature in order to micro-collapse the epidermal cellafeeds and stimulate—”
“Right. They’re not going to leave big red blotches, are they?”
“Relax. You’re going to be sooo adorable.”
She was feeling many tiny sucking movements all over her face, as if a set of toothless mini-piranhas had been let loose on it, along with the six Bunsen burners.
“Michael,” she said, determined to get at least something useful out of the hideous two-hundred-and-fifteen-dollar experience, “how do you know Travis?”
“Travis? Who’s Travis?”
“You know—Travis? The guy you introduced me to in Miami?”
“You’ve just flown in from Miami? Do you have jet lag? I could ionize your 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 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 products. 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, 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 bugging. Maybe it was the nosy, overly chatty bellboy with the bulging muscles and strange facial hair. Maybe the bellboy was working for the tabloids and had thought a celebrity was going to be checking into Olivia’s room and had planted the bug.
By six-thirty she had psyched herself into thinking it was all completely okay. It was fine. She would just have this last fun dinner and then go back to London and start to rebuild the tattered remnants of her journ
alistic career.
Then she stepped out of her room and lost her cool again. What was she doing? Was she out of her mind? She was about to have dinner, alone, she didn’t know where, with an al-Qaeda terrorist who knew she was on to him. There was no positive scenario. Feramo didn’t want to have her to dinner, he wanted to have her for dinner. Still, at least the blotches on her face didn’t show now.
* * *
The elevator doors opened.
“Oh, my dear, what has happened to your face?”
It was the wrinkly voice-coach lady, Carol.
“Oh, nothing. I, er, had a facial,” said Olivia, stepping inside. “Have you been working with the actors at the auditions?”
“Yes, well. Not just the audition people.”
Olivia looked at her quickly. She seemed to be troubled.
“Oh, really? So you’re not just working with the actors then?” She decided to risk a bit of boldness. “You work with the rest of the team as well?”
Carol looked her straight in the eye. She seemed to be thinking a lot of things that she couldn’t say.
“I always thought it was only actors who needed voice coaches,” said Olivia lightly.
“People change their accents for all sorts of reasons, don’t they?”
The elevator doors opened to the lobby. Suraya was crossing their line of vision, radiant against the white walls.
“What do you reckon?” said Olivia conspiratorially, nodding towards Suraya. “Malibu with a touch of Bombay?”
“Hounslow,” Carol said. She wasn’t laughing.
“And Pierre Feramo?” whispered Olivia, as they stepped out of the elevator. “Cairo? Khartoum?”
“That’s not for me to say, is it?” Carol said overbrightly, never taking her eyes off Olivia’s. “Anyway. Have a lovely evening.” She gave a brittle smile and, pulling her cardigan around her, headed off towards the parking valet.
Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination Page 8