Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination by Helen Fielding Read Free Book Online Page A

Los Angeles, expecting to be actresses, flocking after fame and wealth like so many locusts? There is nothing else of value in their lives.”
    “You seem to have taken rather a lot of them under your wing.”
    “I wish to help them.”
    “Sure you do.”
    He glanced at her sharply. “It is a brutal profession.”
    “Pierre?” The tall Indian beauty came out onto the balcony and touched him possessively on the arm. She was accompanied by a good-looking, well-toned man of maybe forty with a wide smile which turned up at the edges—a cross between that of Jack Nicholson and Felix the Cat. “Can I introduce you to Michael Monteroso? You remember, the genius facial technician who’s been helping us? He’s the toast of Hollywood,” she added, wrinkling her nose at Olivia in an attempt to be girlishly conspiratorial. “Backstage at everything.”
    For a fleeting second a look of contempt crossed Ferramo’s fine features, then he composed his face into a gracious smile.
    “But of course, Michael. A pleasure. I am delighted to meet the maestro at last.” Monteroso and he shook hands.
    “And may I introduce my friend from London, Olivia Joules,” said Ferramo. “A writer of great distinction.” He pressed her arm as if to suggest a shared joke. “And, Olivia, this is Suraya Steele.”
    “Hi,” Suraya said coolly, running her hand through her hair at p. 41 one temple and flicking back the long shiny curtain so that it cascaded over her shoulders. Olivia stiffened. She hated women who did hair-flicking. It seemed so sneakily vain: disguising hair smugness and “everybody look at me and my lovely hair” attention-seeking as hair tidiness, as if they were flicking their hair back simply to keep it off their faces. In which case why not use a kirby grip or a sensible Alice band?
    “Don’t you write about beauty for Elan ?” Suraya purred, slightly pitying.
    “Really?” said Michael Monteroso. “Let me give you my card and my Web site. What I do is a special microdermabrasic instant-lift technique. I gave it to Devorée three minutes before the MTV awards.”
    “Didn’t she look great?” said Suraya.
    “Will you excuse me?” murmured Pierre. “I must return to the game. There is nothing worse than a host who wins, apart from a host who wins and then slides off.”
    “Yeah, we should definitely get back there.” Suraya’s accent was odd. It was a fluid mixture of drawling West Coast American and bookish Bombay. “Don’t want rumblings of discontent.”
     
    As Michael Monteroso watched Ferramo’s retreating back with evident disappointment, there was no need for Olivia to remind herself that no one was thinking about her. Monteroso looked like a man who had clawed his way to success late in life and was hanging on to it for all he was worth. He nodded at her vaguely, turned to see if there was anyone more interesting to talk to and broke into a white-toothed smile.
    “Hey, Travis! How you doing, man?”
    “Good, good. Good to see you.”
    The guy sharing a high five with Monteroso was one of the most overtly good-looking men Olivia had ever seen, with ice-blue, wolflike eyes, but she sensed desperation.
    p. 42 “How’s it going?” said Monteroso. “How’s the acting?”
    “Good, good, you know. I’m doing like a little writing, and, you know, lifestyle management, and I’m making these kind of lifeline boxes, and, you know . . .”
    So that would be bad, then, on the acting front, thought Olivia, trying not to smile.
    “Olivia, I see you’ve met Travis Brancato! Do you know he’s writing the script for Pierre’s new movie?”
    Olivia listened politely to Melissa’s shtick, then escaped to find the giggly Beavis and Butthead guys from Break, who told her excitedly that they were going to be extras playing surfers on Ferramo’s movie and introduced her to Winston, a beautiful black diving instructor who worked for various hotels on the Keys and was in town to take out clients on the