Read Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination for Free Online Page A

happened. They were doing a story about a time capsule from fifty years ago being discovered in a school.
    “ A message from the past ”—dramatic pause—“ from those who lived in it ,” concluded the presenter sententiously. Olivia loved the CNN riddle-me-ree phraseology: “ He’s tall, he’s bad and he hid in a hole — Saddam Hussein !” “ It’s wet, it’s see-through, but without it we’d die: p. 33 waterrrrr !” Then her eye was caught by the text strip running underneath the pictures: alongside “ Yankees 11 , Red Sox 6” it read: “ Osama bin Laden sighted in southern Yemen. Sources call sighting ‘conclusive.’ ”
    She stared at it, blinking. “Oh,” she said eventually. “Oh dear. Though, obviously, that’s good.”

Chapter 7
     
    p. 34 O livia’s feelings of sheepishness escalated as she arrived at Ferramo’s apartment block and realized she had been expecting a cross between an overpriced Knightsbridge hotel and the interiors favored by Saddam Hussein in his early promotional videos: fitted carpets, square beige sofas, stilted flower arrangements in front of long net curtains, curly gilt chairs and bulbous lamps. In her fevered mind, Ferramo had sprouted a beard, a turban, flowing robes and a Kalashnikov. She was expecting sweet Middle Eastern musks and perfumes, Turkish (for some reason) delight and Ferramo sitting cross-legged on a prayer mat next to one of the bulbous lamps.
    But the block was an ultramodern building, the public areas designed in a ruthlessly minimalist style with a nod in the direction of the nautical—everything was white or blue and dotted with porthole accents, i.e., round things. There were no bulbous lamps or curly chairs. Pierre Ferramo’s penthouse occupied the entire nineteenth and twentieth floors. As she stepped out of the white metallic be-portholed elevator, she gazed awestruck at the spectacle in front of her.
    The twentieth floor was one vast, glass-walled room, leading out onto a terrace which overlooked the sea. An illuminated lap pool—bright electric blue—stretched the entire length of the terrace. At the back of the room, through one of the walls of glass, the sun was setting behind the Miami skyline in a flamboyant burst of oranges and salmon pinks.
    p. 35 Ferramo was seated at the head of a vast white table, where a card game was in play, an almost palpable air of gravitas and power emanating from his dark, elegant figure. Behind him, the tall Indian model was resting a hand, consortlike, on his shoulder. Her long black hair shone against a pure white evening dress, the whole effect set off by a dazzling array of diamonds.
    Olivia looked away, ashamed, afraid that Ferramo somehow knew what lunacies had been running round in her brain. He looked like a clever, dignified businessman: a rich man, a powerful man certainly, but not a terrorist. Thank God she hadn’t said anything specific to Barry.
    “Your name?” said the boy at the entrance, holding out a list.
    “Olivia Joules,” she said, fighting the urge to apologize, just in general.
    “Ah yes, come this way.”
    The young man led her to a waiter holding a tray. She carefully selected a glass of sparkling water—no drunken fuck-ups for her tonight—and looked round the room, reminding herself: No one is thinking about you; they’re thinking about themselves, just like you.
    Two young girls in T-shirts and tight jeans, the waistbands almost indecently low, were exchanging air kisses. She recognized them as the girls who’d been posing, S -shaped, on the red carpet the night before.
    “Oh. My. God.” One girl’s hand shot to her mouth. “I have that T-shirt.”
    “You’re kidding me.”
    “The exact same T-shirt.”
    “Where did you get it?”
    “The Gap.”
    “So did I! I got it in the Gap.”
    “Oh. My. God.”
    The two girls stared at each other, overcome by this almost magical coincidence.
    “Hi. How do you two know each other?” Olivia ventured with a p. 36