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

OceansApart. He offered to show her round the ship the following afternoon, maybe even take her out for a dive. “I kinda get the feeling I won’t be busy. I’ve only had one client so far, and I had to bring him back because he had a pacemaker.”
    Unfortunately, she was interrupted yet again by Melissa bearing a press release and a barrage of autowitter about Ferramo’s new movie, including the news that Winston was going to be underwater consultant. Eventually, Olivia was forced to conclude that the reason she was there was not that Pierre Ferramo had noticed her, but because she was supposed to write an article promoting his new movie.
     
    She left the throng and stepped out onto the terrace. There was nothing but blackness now towards the sea. She couldn’t make out where the dunes ended and the beach began, but she could hear the waves pounding the shore. She noticed a metal staircase winding up from the balcony to a higher level and headed up, finding herself on a small private deck. She sat down, out of the wind, pulling her wrap around her, feeling disgusted with herself. It was p. 43 insane to have let herself be manipulated by a publicist, to imagine that some ridiculous playboy was interested in her and then care enough to actually mind when it turned out he simply saw her as a marketing opportunity—and an overopinionated one at that. Worse, she realized, a part of her she wouldn’t admit to anyone else was frankly disappointed that Ferramo wasn’t a terrorist. She was just as bad as those fame-driven journalists she despised, always trying to make their names out of other people’s misfortunes. Pull yourself together, she told herself. You’re Olivia Joules now. You need to get out of this daft party and get on.
    There was a sound on the metal staircase. Someone was coming up.
    “Why, Ms. Joules. You are roosting up here like a little bird.”
    Ferramo was carrying champagne and two glasses. “Now you will join me, surely, in one glass of Cristal.”
    He was very attractive. It had been a very long day. She took a sip of the exquisite, ice-cold champagne and thought, Rules for Living number seven: sometimes you just have to go with the flow.
    “Now tell me,” he said, raising his glass to hers. “Can you relax? Is your work complete? Do you have your story?”
    “Yes,” she said. “But I’ve moved on to another. The OceansApart. You know? The giant apartment ship?”
    “Oh really? How interesting.” His face said the opposite. “And with the OceansApart you will do what? Interviews perhaps? A visit to the ship?”
    “Yes. Actually I met a couple of passengers who come from very near my home town. I’m going to go see them tomorrow and . . .”
    “At what time?”
    “Um, in the morning at—”
    “I really do not think that is a good idea,” he murmured, taking her glass away and drawing her closer.
    “Why not?” He was so close she could feel his breath against her cheek.
    p. 44 “Because,” he said, “I hope that tomorrow morning you will be having breakfast . . . with me.”
    He reached out and touched her face, masterfully raising it to his, his eyes melting into hers. He kissed her, hesitantly at first, his lips dry against her mouth, then passionately, so that her body pulsed into life and she was kissing him passionately in return.
    “No, no,” she said, suddenly pulling away. What was she doing? Snogging a playboy with a roomful of his other snoggees downstairs.
    He looked down, composing himself, steadying his breathing. “There is something wrong?” he murmured.
    “I’ve only just met you. I don’t know you.”
    “I see,” he said, nodding, thoughtful. “You are right. Then we will meet, tomorrow, at nine. I will come to the Delano. And we will begin to get to know each other. You will be there?”
    She nodded.
    “You are true to your word? You can delay your interview?”
    “Yes.” She didn’t need to. It wasn’t until eleven.
    “Then good.” He