stood, held out his hand and helped her up, smiling with a flash of his perfect teeth. “And now we must rejoin the party.”
As Olivia was leaving, she saw the guest list, abandoned under crumpled napkins and dirty glasses on a white table by the door. Always good to hang on to a guest list. Just as she was reaching for it, a door opened behind the table and Demi emerged adjusting her top, followed by the dark youth who’d been in charge of arrivals.
“Hi!” giggled Demi sheepishly and headed back into the party.
“I think I gave you my jacket when I arrived?” Olivia said to the youth, giving him a conspiratorial grin. “Pale blue? Suede?”
“Of course. I will look for it straightaway. I like your accent.”
“Thank you.” She flashed him a dazzling smile. I like your accent too, she thought. And it’s no more French than your boss’s.
“Oh, gosh!” She hurried along the corridor after the youth. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t come in a jacket. I’m an idiot.”
p. 45 “That’s all right, ma’am.”
“Brain like a sieve. Sorry. Thank you,” she said, slipping him five dollars.
And she stepped into the elevator, the guest list folded safely inside her clutch.
Chapter 8
p. 46 “Y ou kissed him?”
“I know, I know. Oh God.” Olivia was stretching the phone to the end of its cord, looking out of the window at the ships’ lights on the ocean, wondering if Ferramo was looking out there too. Then she realized what she was doing and hit herself hard on the forehead. Idiot.
“I’m going to have to be quick. I’m in the newsroom,” Kate was saying on the other end of the phone. “So, let’s just get this straight. Last night you call me to say he’s Osama bin Laden.”
“I didn’t say he was actually . . .”
“Not twenty-four hours later you call me to say you’ve been snogging him on a rooftop. You’re the most ridiculous human being I’ve ever met.”
“Well, you were right,” said Olivia. “He’s not a terrorist.”
“You didn’t tell Barry?”
“Nearly,” giggled Olivia. “But no. I’m going to meet him tomorrow.”
“Who? Barry?”
“No, Pierre.”
“Pierre bin Laden?”
“Shut up. I know, I know. But I’m not going to sleep with him. I’m just going to have breakfast with him. It’s just a little, you know, pick-me-up.”
p. 47 “Right, right, sure,” said Kate. “Oh, fuck, got to go. Call me after, okay?”
Once again Olivia couldn’t sleep. Trying to steer her mind towards reality, she clicked the light on and surveyed the overdesigned white room. Within seconds, her scruffy North London flat and its eclectic contents were transformed into an outpost of Delano-style minimalist chic, the walls and contents purged and white: the living room lit by a single lamp in a shade ten times too big, the washbasin disguised as a stainless-steel bucket, a simple but stylish chain instead of a toilet roll holder. I could have a chandelier in the garden, she told herself excitedly. Why bore neighbors with traditional dull landscape lighting? And a giant chess set and a white indoor sofa outside — when I get a garden, that is.
Unfortunately, before long she also had Pierre Ferramo in the garden, on the sofa. She jumped out of bed and logged on to her e-mail. There was a message from Barry. “Re: Miami Cool.”
She clicked “Read.”
“Good.”
That was all: “Good.” Glowing with pride, she clicked “Reply” and typed:
Re: Good.
1. Thanks, Bazzer.
2. Elan keeping me on another day.
3. Do you want a story about wannabe actresses? 500 a day arriving in Los Angeles hoping to make it?
Over and out. Olivia.
Within the next hour, she knocked out seven hundred and fifty words on the face-cream launch for Elan, then impulsively sent them the idea for the Los Angeles wannabe article, as well as an article on making rash judgments when you first meet someone and how first impressions can be completely
As Olivia was leaving, she saw the guest list, abandoned under crumpled napkins and dirty glasses on a white table by the door. Always good to hang on to a guest list. Just as she was reaching for it, a door opened behind the table and Demi emerged adjusting her top, followed by the dark youth who’d been in charge of arrivals.
“Hi!” giggled Demi sheepishly and headed back into the party.
“I think I gave you my jacket when I arrived?” Olivia said to the youth, giving him a conspiratorial grin. “Pale blue? Suede?”
“Of course. I will look for it straightaway. I like your accent.”
“Thank you.” She flashed him a dazzling smile. I like your accent too, she thought. And it’s no more French than your boss’s.
“Oh, gosh!” She hurried along the corridor after the youth. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t come in a jacket. I’m an idiot.”
p. 45 “That’s all right, ma’am.”
“Brain like a sieve. Sorry. Thank you,” she said, slipping him five dollars.
And she stepped into the elevator, the guest list folded safely inside her clutch.
Chapter 8
p. 46 “Y ou kissed him?”
“I know, I know. Oh God.” Olivia was stretching the phone to the end of its cord, looking out of the window at the ships’ lights on the ocean, wondering if Ferramo was looking out there too. Then she realized what she was doing and hit herself hard on the forehead. Idiot.
“I’m going to have to be quick. I’m in the newsroom,” Kate was saying on the other end of the phone. “So, let’s just get this straight. Last night you call me to say he’s Osama bin Laden.”
“I didn’t say he was actually . . .”
“Not twenty-four hours later you call me to say you’ve been snogging him on a rooftop. You’re the most ridiculous human being I’ve ever met.”
“Well, you were right,” said Olivia. “He’s not a terrorist.”
“You didn’t tell Barry?”
“Nearly,” giggled Olivia. “But no. I’m going to meet him tomorrow.”
“Who? Barry?”
“No, Pierre.”
“Pierre bin Laden?”
“Shut up. I know, I know. But I’m not going to sleep with him. I’m just going to have breakfast with him. It’s just a little, you know, pick-me-up.”
p. 47 “Right, right, sure,” said Kate. “Oh, fuck, got to go. Call me after, okay?”
Once again Olivia couldn’t sleep. Trying to steer her mind towards reality, she clicked the light on and surveyed the overdesigned white room. Within seconds, her scruffy North London flat and its eclectic contents were transformed into an outpost of Delano-style minimalist chic, the walls and contents purged and white: the living room lit by a single lamp in a shade ten times too big, the washbasin disguised as a stainless-steel bucket, a simple but stylish chain instead of a toilet roll holder. I could have a chandelier in the garden, she told herself excitedly. Why bore neighbors with traditional dull landscape lighting? And a giant chess set and a white indoor sofa outside — when I get a garden, that is.
Unfortunately, before long she also had Pierre Ferramo in the garden, on the sofa. She jumped out of bed and logged on to her e-mail. There was a message from Barry. “Re: Miami Cool.”
She clicked “Read.”
“Good.”
That was all: “Good.” Glowing with pride, she clicked “Reply” and typed:
Re: Good.
1. Thanks, Bazzer.
2. Elan keeping me on another day.
3. Do you want a story about wannabe actresses? 500 a day arriving in Los Angeles hoping to make it?
Over and out. Olivia.
Within the next hour, she knocked out seven hundred and fifty words on the face-cream launch for Elan, then impulsively sent them the idea for the Los Angeles wannabe article, as well as an article on making rash judgments when you first meet someone and how first impressions can be completely
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