Read Online Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination by Helen Fielding - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen Fielding
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p. 53 rived 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.
She walked back to the water’s edge, putting on the jacket, blowing into the tube to inflate it until it felt tight against her rib cage, then letting the air out. For a moment Olivia felt nausea rising in her throat again. She thought she would find Elsie and Edward because they had been on their balcony on this side of the ship facing the shore. And although she had only just met them, they had brought with them all the comfort and familiarity of home.
Olivia brought back quite a few people, she didn’t know how many. She felt as if she was on automatic pilot and none of it seemed quite real.
She sat down by a tree, suddenly exhausted. One of the paramedics came over with some water, got her to put her sweatpants back on, put a towel round her shoulders and rubbed her hands. He said she should go to the medical center and helped her to her feet. The mobile phone in the pocket of her sweatpants rang as they walked along.
“Hey, Olivia. Listen, the OceansApart . . .”
“Hi, Barry,” she said bitterly. “The OceansRippedApart, you mean.”
“Listen, are you down there? What have you got for us?”
She gave Barry what he needed between his interruptions: what she had heard from the paramedics and divers and police, the fragments of recollections people had come out with as she brought them to the shore.
“Good. Any witnesses? Come on, where are you? Can you get me someone there? On the scene?”
She caught the eye of the paramedic who had brought her in. He took the phone, listened for a few seconds then said, “You sure sound like one hell of an asshole, sir,” clicked off the phone and handed it back to her.
p. 54 Olivia let the paramedics take her vital signs and cover the burns on her hand. She ate a piece of bread and took some rehydration salts. Then, with a blanket round her shoulders, she got up and walked around. She saw a woman with auburn hair being brought in on a stretcher. Olivia stood there, bewildered, melting down, the pain from the last few hours reawakening the pain from the past—like hitting an old bruise. She found an empty corner, pulled the blanket over her, and curled into a ball. After a long time, she straightened up and wiped her fist across her face.
A voice said, “Are you all right, love? Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Ooh, that looks too strong for her, love. Put a drop more milk in.”
She looked up and there, holding out a tray, were Edward and Elsie.
Chapter 10
p. 55 A s darkness fell, Olivia staggered back into the foyer of the Delano. She made her way unsteadily, her vision blotchy, to the front desk.
“Can I have my key, please? Olivia Joules, Room Seven-oh-three,” she said thickly.
“OhmyGod. OhmyGOD,” said the receptionist. “I’ll call the hospital. I’ll call the emergency services.”
“No, no. I’m fine, really. I just need . . . my key, and some . . . some . . . some . . .” She turned, clutching her key, looking for the elevator. She couldn’t see where the elevator was. Then the beautiful bellboy was supporting her, then two bellboys, then total whiteout.
For a second, when she woke, her mind was wiped clear, but then the memory of the disaster flooded her consciousness in a tangle of images. She opened her eyes. She was in a hospital. Everything was white except for a red light flashing on and off beside her bed. She was Rachel Pixley aged fourteen, lying in a hospital bed, looking at a zebra crossing, running out of the newsagent’s with a packet of Maltesers and a copy of Cosmopolitan. Running to catch up with her parents. There was a shout, a screech of tires. She closed her eyes, thinking about a woman she had seen on television after the Twin Towers came down: a thickset woman from Brooklyn. She had lost a son and was
She walked back to the water’s edge, putting on the jacket, blowing into the tube to inflate it until it felt tight against her rib cage, then letting the air out. For a moment Olivia felt nausea rising in her throat again. She thought she would find Elsie and Edward because they had been on their balcony on this side of the ship facing the shore. And although she had only just met them, they had brought with them all the comfort and familiarity of home.
Olivia brought back quite a few people, she didn’t know how many. She felt as if she was on automatic pilot and none of it seemed quite real.
She sat down by a tree, suddenly exhausted. One of the paramedics came over with some water, got her to put her sweatpants back on, put a towel round her shoulders and rubbed her hands. He said she should go to the medical center and helped her to her feet. The mobile phone in the pocket of her sweatpants rang as they walked along.
“Hey, Olivia. Listen, the OceansApart . . .”
“Hi, Barry,” she said bitterly. “The OceansRippedApart, you mean.”
“Listen, are you down there? What have you got for us?”
She gave Barry what he needed between his interruptions: what she had heard from the paramedics and divers and police, the fragments of recollections people had come out with as she brought them to the shore.
“Good. Any witnesses? Come on, where are you? Can you get me someone there? On the scene?”
She caught the eye of the paramedic who had brought her in. He took the phone, listened for a few seconds then said, “You sure sound like one hell of an asshole, sir,” clicked off the phone and handed it back to her.
p. 54 Olivia let the paramedics take her vital signs and cover the burns on her hand. She ate a piece of bread and took some rehydration salts. Then, with a blanket round her shoulders, she got up and walked around. She saw a woman with auburn hair being brought in on a stretcher. Olivia stood there, bewildered, melting down, the pain from the last few hours reawakening the pain from the past—like hitting an old bruise. She found an empty corner, pulled the blanket over her, and curled into a ball. After a long time, she straightened up and wiped her fist across her face.
A voice said, “Are you all right, love? Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Ooh, that looks too strong for her, love. Put a drop more milk in.”
She looked up and there, holding out a tray, were Edward and Elsie.
Chapter 10
p. 55 A s darkness fell, Olivia staggered back into the foyer of the Delano. She made her way unsteadily, her vision blotchy, to the front desk.
“Can I have my key, please? Olivia Joules, Room Seven-oh-three,” she said thickly.
“OhmyGod. OhmyGOD,” said the receptionist. “I’ll call the hospital. I’ll call the emergency services.”
“No, no. I’m fine, really. I just need . . . my key, and some . . . some . . . some . . .” She turned, clutching her key, looking for the elevator. She couldn’t see where the elevator was. Then the beautiful bellboy was supporting her, then two bellboys, then total whiteout.
For a second, when she woke, her mind was wiped clear, but then the memory of the disaster flooded her consciousness in a tangle of images. She opened her eyes. She was in a hospital. Everything was white except for a red light flashing on and off beside her bed. She was Rachel Pixley aged fourteen, lying in a hospital bed, looking at a zebra crossing, running out of the newsagent’s with a packet of Maltesers and a copy of Cosmopolitan. Running to catch up with her parents. There was a shout, a screech of tires. She closed her eyes, thinking about a woman she had seen on television after the Twin Towers came down: a thickset woman from Brooklyn. She had lost a son and was
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