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Authors: Helen Fielding
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talking tough. Then she said, “I used to p. 56 think I’d always want revenge: an eye for an eye, but now I just think, ‘How can the world be so . . . cruel?’ ” And her voice broke on the “cruel.”
The next time Olivia woke, she realized it was not a hospital but the Delano, and the red flashing light was not a heart monitor but the message light on the phone.
“Hi, Olivia! Hope I’m not calling too early. It’s Imogen from Sally Hawkins’s office at Elan. We got your e-mail and we had a call from Melissa at Century PR about the wannabe story. Yes, Sally would like to go for it. We’ll get onto the travel arrangements. Give us a call when you wake up. Oh, and good luck with the OceansApart .”
“Hi, Melissa here. I’ve spoken to your editor. We’ll be holding auditions in the Standard Hotel in Hollywood over the next week or so, so I’m really hoping you’ll be able to join us.”
“Olivia? It is Pierre Ferramo. I am in the lobby. Perhaps you are already on your way down for our rendezvous?”
“Olivia? It is Pierre at nine-fifteen. I will be waiting for you on the terrace.”
“Olivia, it appears you have forgotten me. There has been the most terrible disaster, perhaps you have heard. I will telephone you a little later.”
“Olivia, oh God. It’s Imogen from Elan. Oh God. Call us. Oh God.”
“Olivia, it’s Kate. I’m just hoping you weren’t anywhere near that ship. Call me.”
The hotel front desk, the doctor, Kate, nothing more from Pierre. Kate again. Then Barry.
“Where are you? Listen, can you get out there again? There’s a press conference down at the dock at six-fifteen your time. We’ve got a snapper there. I just need you to get a few quotes, then get off to the hospital for survivors and families. Call me.”
p. 57 She fumbled for the remote, clicked on CNN, and lay back against the pillow.
“ More, now, on the OceansApart in Miami. As the death toll continues to rise, investigators on the scene say there are signs that the explosion may have been caused by a submarine, possibly of Japanese construction, packed with explosives. The submarine may have been manned by suicide bombers. Again, signs that the terrible explosion on the OceansApart may have been the work of terrorist suicide bombers .”
The text strip underneath ran: “OceansApart explosion: 215 dead, 189 injured, 200 missing. Terror alert rises to red .”
She sat at the desk and rested her head on her arms. She felt damaged, exhausted, scared and lonely. She wanted comfort. She wanted someone to hold. She reached for a card on the desk and dialed a number.
“Hi.” It was a woman’s voice, slight West Coast drawl.
“Could I speak to Pierre?”
“Pierre’s not around. Who needs him?” It was the hair-flicking Suraya model.
“It’s Olivia Joules. I was supposed to meet him this morning but—”
“Sure. You want to leave a message?”
“Just, er, just say I was ringing to apologize about missing our meeting. I was down at the docks when the OceansApart blew up.”
“Yeah. God. That really sucked.”
Sucked?
“Will he be back later?”
“No, he had to leave town.” There was something odd about her tone.
“He left Miami? Today?”
“Yes. He had urgent business in Los Angeles. He’s holding auditions for the movie. You want to leave him a message?”
“Just tell him I called, and, er, sorry about the meeting. Thank you.”
Olivia put down the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, the p. 58 sheet screwed tightly in her fist, staring straight ahead, unseeing. She was thinking of the night before: Ferramo leaning close to her on the rooftop deck as she told him about the OceansApart story and her morning appointment with Edward and Elsie.
“I really do not think that is a good idea”—his breath against her cheek—“because I hope that tomorrow morning, you will be having breakfast . . . with me.”
She picked up the phone and dialed Elan.
“Imogen?
The next time Olivia woke, she realized it was not a hospital but the Delano, and the red flashing light was not a heart monitor but the message light on the phone.
“Hi, Olivia! Hope I’m not calling too early. It’s Imogen from Sally Hawkins’s office at Elan. We got your e-mail and we had a call from Melissa at Century PR about the wannabe story. Yes, Sally would like to go for it. We’ll get onto the travel arrangements. Give us a call when you wake up. Oh, and good luck with the OceansApart .”
“Hi, Melissa here. I’ve spoken to your editor. We’ll be holding auditions in the Standard Hotel in Hollywood over the next week or so, so I’m really hoping you’ll be able to join us.”
“Olivia? It is Pierre Ferramo. I am in the lobby. Perhaps you are already on your way down for our rendezvous?”
“Olivia? It is Pierre at nine-fifteen. I will be waiting for you on the terrace.”
“Olivia, it appears you have forgotten me. There has been the most terrible disaster, perhaps you have heard. I will telephone you a little later.”
“Olivia, oh God. It’s Imogen from Elan. Oh God. Call us. Oh God.”
“Olivia, it’s Kate. I’m just hoping you weren’t anywhere near that ship. Call me.”
The hotel front desk, the doctor, Kate, nothing more from Pierre. Kate again. Then Barry.
“Where are you? Listen, can you get out there again? There’s a press conference down at the dock at six-fifteen your time. We’ve got a snapper there. I just need you to get a few quotes, then get off to the hospital for survivors and families. Call me.”
p. 57 She fumbled for the remote, clicked on CNN, and lay back against the pillow.
“ More, now, on the OceansApart in Miami. As the death toll continues to rise, investigators on the scene say there are signs that the explosion may have been caused by a submarine, possibly of Japanese construction, packed with explosives. The submarine may have been manned by suicide bombers. Again, signs that the terrible explosion on the OceansApart may have been the work of terrorist suicide bombers .”
The text strip underneath ran: “OceansApart explosion: 215 dead, 189 injured, 200 missing. Terror alert rises to red .”
She sat at the desk and rested her head on her arms. She felt damaged, exhausted, scared and lonely. She wanted comfort. She wanted someone to hold. She reached for a card on the desk and dialed a number.
“Hi.” It was a woman’s voice, slight West Coast drawl.
“Could I speak to Pierre?”
“Pierre’s not around. Who needs him?” It was the hair-flicking Suraya model.
“It’s Olivia Joules. I was supposed to meet him this morning but—”
“Sure. You want to leave a message?”
“Just, er, just say I was ringing to apologize about missing our meeting. I was down at the docks when the OceansApart blew up.”
“Yeah. God. That really sucked.”
Sucked?
“Will he be back later?”
“No, he had to leave town.” There was something odd about her tone.
“He left Miami? Today?”
“Yes. He had urgent business in Los Angeles. He’s holding auditions for the movie. You want to leave him a message?”
“Just tell him I called, and, er, sorry about the meeting. Thank you.”
Olivia put down the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, the p. 58 sheet screwed tightly in her fist, staring straight ahead, unseeing. She was thinking of the night before: Ferramo leaning close to her on the rooftop deck as she told him about the OceansApart story and her morning appointment with Edward and Elsie.
“I really do not think that is a good idea”—his breath against her cheek—“because I hope that tomorrow morning, you will be having breakfast . . . with me.”
She picked up the phone and dialed Elan.
“Imogen?
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