Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination

by Helen Fielding

  18

  Olivia approached the reception desk and asked to have the charges since her arrival and all future charges taken off the Elan account and moved onto her credit card. It was turning into an expensive trip, but a girl has her pride. As she waited, the nosy bellboy with the goatee beard and muscles appeared.

  “Leaving, Ms. Joules?” he said. There was something far too clever and self-possessed about him for a bellboy.

  “Not yet.”

  “Enjoying your stay?”

  “Yes, apart from the microphone in the room,” she said softly, watching his face.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You heard.”

  The receptionist returned just as a vaguely familiar, nastily sweet smell invaded her nostrils. Olivia turned. It was Alfonso, chest hair protruding from a polo shirt, which this time was pink.

  “Olivia, I was beginning to think you would never appear. I was going to call up to your room.”

  The accumulated stress erupted in a burst of irritation.

  “Why? Are you coming to dinner as well?” she snapped.

  For a second Alfonso looked hurt. He was a funny chap. All oiliness and bluster, but she had the feeling that underneath he was suffering from low self-esteem.

  “Of course not. Mr. Feramo simply wanted me to make sure you arrived safely. The car is waiting for you.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, thanks,” she said, feeling a bit mean.

  “My God, what happened to your face?”

  It was going to be a long evening.

  * * *

  Alfonso led her out and proudly pointed to the “car.” It was a white stretch limo, the sort that people from out of town ride up and down Sunset Boulevard in on bachelor nights, wearing brightly colored wigs. As the driver held open the door, Olivia climbed in, or rather fell in, tripped over the bump in the middle, and found herself looking at a pair of Gucci stilettos. Her eyes moved upwards past delicate olive ankles and a dusty-pink silk dress to discover she was sharing the limo with Suraya. What was this?

  “Hello again,” said Olivia, trying to crawl onto the seat while retaining some vestiges of dignity.

  “Hi. My God! What happened to your face?”

  “I had a facial,” she said, glancing round nervously as the limo purred off onto Sunset.

  “Oh no.” Suraya started to laugh. “You went to Michael, right? He’s such a bullshitter. Come here.”

  She clicked open her bag, leaned over and started dabbing at Olivia’s face with concealer. It was an oddly intimate moment. Olivia was too startled to protest.

  “So, you and Pierre, hey?” Suraya’s voice didn’t fit with the elegant beauty. She sounded stoned and what Olivia’s mother would have described as “common.” “Are you guys an item?”

  “Heavens no! Just a friendly dinner!” There was something about Suraya which was turning Olivia into a hearty Girl Guide.

  “Oh, come on,” drawled Suraya, leaning forward. “He thinks you’re very intelligent.”

  “That’s nice!” she said brightly.

  “Sure.” Suraya looked out of the window, smirking to herself. “So you’re a journalist, right? We should go shopping.”

  “Right,” said Olivia, trying to work out the logic of this.

  “We’ll go to Melrose. Tomorrow?”

  “I have to work,” she said, thinking how nonencouraging it would be trying on clothes with a six-foot, eight-stone model. “What do you do?”

  “I’m an actress,” Suraya said dismissively.

  “Really? Are you going to be in Pierre’s movie?”

  “Sure. Movie, bullshit, whatever. Do you really think he’s for real?” Suraya said conspiratorially. “Feramo, I mean.” She opened her purse and checked her reflection, then leaned forward again. “Well?” she asked, slipping her hand onto Olivia’s knee and giving it a squeeze.

  Olivia started to panic. Were they planning a hideous seventies-style sex romp as part of the smoke screen? They were passing the pink palace of the Beverly Hills Hotel now. She wanted to open the window and yell out, “Help, help! I’m being kidnapped.”

  “Pierre? I think he’s very attractive. Are we going out to a restaurant?”

  “I dunno. Restaurant, order in, whatever,” said Suraya. “But do you think he’s really a movie producer?”

  “Of course,” said Olivia levelly. “Why? Don’t you?”

  “I guess. How long are you going to be in LA? Do you like the Standard?”

  If she was trying to get information, she wasn’t very good at it.

  “It’s great, but not the sort of place you feel like putting on a bikini. It’s like being on the set of Baywatch. Though that wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  “Nor you,” said Suraya, pointedly eyeing her breasts. “You’ve got a great little figure.”

  Olivia adjusted her dress nervously. “Where are we going?”

  “Pierre’s apartment?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “On Wilshire? So why don’t I call you on your cell tomorrow to fix up shopping?”

  “Call me at the hotel,” said Olivia firmly. “Like I said, I’ll be working.”

  Suraya looked nasty when she wasn’t getting her own way. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence as Olivia glumly imagined what was ahead: Olivia tied naked back to back with Suraya, while Alfonso strutted round them dressed as a baby in rubber pants and Pierre Feramo minced to and fro, cracking a whip. If only she’d stayed in the hotel and ordered room service.

  * * *

  Pierre’s apartment in the Wilshire Regency Towers was the pinnacle of vertical luxury living. The elevator doors swung open on the nineteenth floor to reveal a gold and beige temple to understated bad taste. This was more like it—mirrors, gold tables, a black onyx statue of a jaguar. There was only one elevator. She slipped the hatpin out of her bag and hid it in her palm, looking round for another means of escape.

  “You want a martini?” said Suraya. She threw her bag casually onto the square beige-brocade sofa as if she lived there.

  “Ooh, no. Just a diet Coke for me, thanks,” trilled Girl Guide Olivia.

  Why am I being like this? she thought, walking over to the window. The sun was beginning to redden over the Santa Monica mountains and the ocean.

  Suraya handed her the drink and stood ridiculously close. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she purred romantically. “Wouldn’t you like to live somewhere like this?”

  “Ooh! I think it might make me a bit dizzy,” joshed hearty Olivia, edging away. “How do you find it?”

  “You get used to it. I mean . . . I don’t actually live here, but . . .” Hah! A flash of annoyance in the beautiful dark eyes. So Suraya did live here. She had given herself away.

  “Where are you from?” said Olivia.

  “Los Angeles. Why?” On the defensive now.

  “I thought I heard an English accent in there.”

  “I guess I’m mid-Atlantic.”

  “How long have you known Pierre?”

  “Long enough.” Suraya downed her drink in one, walked away and picked up her bag. “Anyway, I gotta split.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out. Pierre will be here soon. Make yourself at home.”

  “Right,” said Olivia. “Well! Jolly good! Have a lovely evening.”

  * * *

  Olivia watched the elevator doors close on Suraya, listening for the groan and hiss as it moved downwards, until she was sure she was gone. It was silent now, apart from the hum of the air-conditioning. The apartment was either a high-end rental or it had been furnished by an insane designer. There was no personal stuff—no books, no dishes with pens in—just gilded mirrors, ornaments, miscellaneous onyx beasts of the jungle and strange paintings of women in peril from snakes and long, thin dragons. She listened, adjusting her hold on the hatpin, gripping the Louis Vuitton clutch tightly in the other fist. There was a corridor opposite the elevator. She padded silently across the plush carpet towards i
t, seeing a line of closed doors. Heart pounding and telling herself, if challenged, she could claim she was looking for the loo, she reached out for the first gilt handle and turned it.

  * * *

  She found herself in a large bedroom, one wall entirely window. The centerpiece was a four-poster bed, the pillars fashioned like thick ropes, bulbous lamps on either side. Again, there were no personal items. She pulled open a drawer, flinching when it creaked: nothing in there. She couldn’t close it. It was stuck. Cursing herself silently, she left it open and continued her tiptoed search. The bathroom was huge, mirrored, ghastly, in pink marble. It led to a major closet lined with cedar shelves, with a central island for laying out clothes. But no clothes. She leaned back against the wall and felt it move. A panel—two inches thick, steel—was sliding noiselessly to the left to reveal another room. A safe? A panic room? The lights came up. It was larger than the bedroom and painted white: windowless and empty apart from a line of small Oriental mats lined up against the wall. The panel started to close and impulsively, just before it closed, she darted through.

  She stood, heart beating, looking around. Was it really a panic room? Were they prayer mats? She turned to look at the wall behind her. There were three white posters with Arabic writing on them. She took out her camera, put the bag on the carpet, started to photograph them, then froze. There was a slight noise from the other side of the sliding wall: muffled footsteps! Someone was in the bedroom. The footsteps stopped. Then she heard the sound of someone struggling to close the drawer.

  The footsteps started again, slow, still muffled, but moving closer. She felt as though she were trapped underwater, out of air. She forced herself to breathe, stay calm and think. Could there be a second exit? She tried to visualize the corridor outside: a long break, then a door. Another bedroom suite?

  She heard the footsteps on the marble floor of the bathroom and looked back at the panel, noting the slight change in tone of the wall, then scanned the wall opposite. There! She tiptoed over and leaned her shoulder against it. It started to open. She slipped through the gap, willing the panel to move back, almost sobbing with relief as it did. She was in another closet, this time full of men’s clothes. There was a faint smell of Feramo’s cologne. They were his clothes: shiny, almost dainty shoes; dark suits; crisply ironed shirts in pastel shades; neatly folded jeans; polo shirts. Her thoughts came randomly and fast as she hurried through: God, he had a lot of clothes for a guy. Very neat, almost anal. She could really mess up a closet like this. How was she going to explain her emergence into the corridor? She stepped into the bathroom. That was it: perfect. She could pretend she’d just come out to use the loo. Her reflection looked back at her from every angle. She heard the slight, almost noiseless movement of the sliding panel. She tucked the miniature camera under her armpit and flushed the loo. Maybe good manners would keep whoever it was out of the bathroom.

  “Olivia?” It was Feramo.

  “Hang on a sec! Not decent!” she said brightly. “Okay.”

  She smiled, trying to look as natural as one could, with one arm concealing a miniature camera under it. But Feramo’s eyes were deadly cold.

  “So, Olivia, I see that you have discovered my secret.”

  19

  Feramo moved past her, shut the bathroom door, locked it and turned to face her.

  “Do you normally wander through your host’s home without permission?”

  Go with the fear, she told herself. Don’t fight it. Use the adrenaline. Go on the attack.

  “Why shouldn’t I look around for a bathroom if you ask me for dinner and have me met by unexplained six-foot sex goddesses then leave me hanging around on my own?”

  He slipped his hand inside his jacket. “I take it this belongs to you?” he said, holding out the Louis Vuitton clutch. Bugger. She had left it on the floor when she was taking photographs inside the secret room.

  “You told me you were French. You made a great thing about speaking from the heart. And then you bloody well lied to me. You’re not French at all, are you?”

  He looked at her, impassive. His face, in neutral, had an almost aristocratic sneer.

  “You are right,” he said eventually. “I did not tell you the truth.”

  He turned and unlocked the door. She thought she was going to faint with relief.

  “But come. We will be late for our dinner,” he said, more pleasantly now. “We will talk about these things then.”

  He threw the door open, gesturing her out into his bedroom. It was a big bed. Olivia strode determinedly past it—there was his shirt on a chair, books by the bed—and out into the corridor. He closed the door and stood between her and the elevator, directing her the other way.

  At the end of the corridor was yet another closed door. He moved ahead of her to unlock it, and she grabbed the chance to slip the camera into her bag as he pushed the door open to reveal a stairwell.

  “Up,” he said.

  Was he planning to push her off the roof? She turned to look at him, trying to gauge if this was the moment to run. As her eyes met his, she saw that he was laughing at her.

  “I’m not going to eat you. Up you go.”

  It was very confusing. Reality kept shifting to and fro. Suddenly, now, with his laugh, it felt like a date again. At the top of the stairs he pushed opened a heavy fire door, and there was a rush of warm air. They stepped out into a strong wind and a tremendous roar. They were on the top of the building, the vast panorama of Los Angeles surrounding them. The noise was coming from a helicopter parked on the roof, rotor blades turning, the door open, ready.

  “Your carriage awaits,” Feramo shouted above the noise. Olivia was torn between fear and wild excitement. Feramo’s hair was streaming straight back from his face as though he were in front of a wind machine on a photo shoot.

  Olivia ran across the concrete keeping low to dodge the rotor blades. She scrambled into the helicopter, wishing she hadn’t worn a slip dress and the uncomfortable shoes. The pilot turned round and gestured towards the harnesses and ear protectors. Pierre was in the seat beside her, pulling the heavy door closed as the helicopter lifted into the air, the building shrinking away below them. They were heading towards the ocean.

  * * *

  It was impossible to speak against the din. Pierre didn’t look at her. She tried to concentrate on the view. The sun was setting over the Santa Monica Bay, a heavy orange ball against a pale blue sky, red light reflecting back off the ocean’s glassy surface. They followed the coast a little way, banking downwards against the dark line of the mountains towards Malibu. She could see the long line of the pier, the little half-built restaurant at the end, and beside it the surfers, black, seal-like figures, catching the last of the waves.

  Feramo leaned forward, instructing the pilot, and the helicopter swung out towards the open sea. She thought of her mother, years ago, chastising her for her sense of adventure, her interest in dangerous boys and life close to the edge: “You’ll get yourself into trouble; you don’t understand the world, you only see the excitement. You won’t see the danger until it’s too late.” Unfortunately the advice was only given in the context of Catholic boys or boys with motorbikes.

  The sun was slipping behind the horizon, separating in two, one orb on top of the other like a figure eight. Seconds after it disappeared the sky around exploded into reds and oranges, the lines of airplane trails white against the blue high above.

  Well, she wasn’t having this. She wasn’t just being whisked out into the middle of the Pacific without so much as a by-your-leave. She dug Feramo indignantly in the arm.

  “Where are we going?”

  “What?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “What?”

  They were like a geriatric married couple already.

  She wriggled further up in her seat and yelled in his ear.

  “Where are we going?”

  He smirked. “You’ll see.”

  “I want to know where
you’re taking me.”

  He bent to say something in her ear.

  “What?”

  “Catalina!” he bellowed.

  Catalina Island—a day-tripper’s island twenty miles offshore. There was one little cheerful seaside town—Avalon; the rest was wilderness.

  Night fell quickly. Soon a dark shoulder of land was rearing up out of the gloom. Far away to their left, she could see the lights of Avalon—cozy and welcoming, cascading down to the little curved bay. Ahead of them was only blackness.

  20 CATALINA ISLAND,

  CALIFORNIA

  The chopper was descending into a deep, narrow bay on the ocean side of the island, well hidden from the Californian mainland and the lights of Avalon. She saw vegetation, palm trees flattening away from the chopper. As they landed, Feramo opened the door and jumped out, pulling her after him and gesturing at her to lower her head. The blades didn’t stop. She heard the engine sound rise again and turned to see the chopper taking off.

  He guided her along a path towards a jetty. There was no wind. The ocean was calm, the steep line of the hills on either side and the jetty black in silhouette against it. As the noise of the helicopter faded, there was silence except for tropical sounds: cicadas, frogs, the clink of metal against metal at the jetty. Her breath was coming short and fast. Were they alone here?

  They reached the jetty. She noticed surfboards leaning against a wooden hut. What did he want with surfboards? Catalina was hardly fabled for its surf. As they drew closer, she realized that the hut was a dive shack, stocked with tanks and gear.

  “Wait here. I need to get something.” She gripped the wooden railing, listening to Feramo’s footsteps die away into silence. She was both terrified and confused. Was she in danger? Should she just grab a dive rig and make her escape? But then if this was, by any remaining chance, just an über-romantic date, it would seem like a pretty extreme piece of strange behavior.