Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination Read Online Free PDF Page B

I thought he weren’t interested, and we lived in the same town for fifty years and never said ’owt. Then my husband died, and Vera, that was Edward’s wife as was, she died, and then . . .”
    “Well, here we are. We was married two weeks ago and we’ve got a lot of missed time to make up for.”
    “That’s so sad,” said Olivia. “All that time, wasted.”
    “Aye,” said Edward.
    “Nay, lass,” said Elsie. “You can’t go regretting stuff because there wasn’t anything else that could have happened.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, you know, it’s cause and effect. Every time anything happens it’s because of all the other things happening all over the world. Any time you make a decision, there wasn’t anything else you could have done because it were who you were, like, and it was all the things that had happened up to then that made you decide that. So there’s no point regretting anything.”
    Olivia looked at her, nodding thoughtfully. “I’m going to add that to my Rules for Living,” she said. Her mobile rang, dammit.
    “You can answer it, love, we’re not bothered.”
    p. 29 It was a commissioning editor from Elan, gushing at her that they wanted the OceansApart piece, and she could stay another two nights to do it. “But we don’t want any white shoes and blue rinses, right?” Olivia flinched, hoping her new friends couldn’t hear. “We want hip people, not hip replacements.”
    Olivia said good-bye and clicked the phone off with a sigh. It rang again immediately.
    “Where are you?” bellowed Barry. “I’ve just rung the hotel and you’re not there. What the fuck are you doing?”
    “I. Am. Do. Ing. It,” she said. “I’m just doing a bit of extra research.”
    “Get the fuck on and write it,” he said. “Six o’clock, finished, fifteen hundred words. Or that’s the last time I’m sending you abroad.”
    “He sounded a bit aerated,” said Edward.
    “I don’t like men what shout, do you?” said Elsie.
    She arranged to come and talk to them the following morning at eleven. They said they’d introduce her to the residents’ manager and show her round their apartment and “all the amenities.” They dropped her off in front of the Delano. She looked at her watch and realized that, unfortunately, it was nearly quarter to twelve.
     
    “If sex is the new elevator music, then Miami is the new Manhattan. If . . .”
    It was quarter to four and she still hadn’t got an opening paragraph. She sat back from the computer with her pen in her mouth. Then, glancing behind her guiltily, as if she was in the newsroom, she brought up AOL and hit Google, typing in “Pierre Ferramo.” Still nothing there. It was definitely weird. If he was for real, there would be something at least. She typed in “Olivia Joules.” You see, even she had two hundred and ninety-three entries. She started to read them: articles from the years she’d been trying to make it as a journalist, the first one about car alarms. Crufts Dog Show. She p. 30 smiled fondly at the memories. Then she thought she’d have a little look through her clothes to think about what to wear for the party. As she stood up, she caught sight of the clock.
    OhmybloodyGodandfuck! It was four-thirty-five, and she hadn’t written a word.
     
    Olivia dived back to the desk and hit her sleek titanium iBook with a sudden frenzy.
    “In the capital of England the worlds of fashion, music, TV, theater, movies, literature, newspapers and politics combine in one small city like a writhing knot of snakes. In America these areas are separated out into capitals of their own. Traditionally, it was politics in Washington, literature, arts and fashion in New York, entertainment in LA. But within the last few years Miami—formerly the capital of guns, shady business dealings, smugglers and sun-seeking geriatrics—has exploded onto the capital-city scene in a burst of hot light, art deco and leopardskin as the center of