Free Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination by Helen Fielding

magnetic sketch pad, the sort where you add beards and mustaches p. 61 to a face using metal filings. The boy, or rather man, had dyed black hair, a goatee beard, long sideburns and black-rimmed narrow glasses. It was a ridiculous look. His shirt was open almost to his waist, showing an Action Man-like chest.
    He opened the door to the room. There was a low bed, an orange-tiled bathroom, a bright blue floor and a silver beanbag.
    “How do you like the room?” asked the bellboy.
    “It’s like being on the set of Barbarella ,” she murmured.
    “I think that was before I was born,” he said.
    Cheeky sod. He was definitely in his thirties. He had intelligent bright blue eyes, which didn’t fit with his fashion-victim facial hair. He lifted her case onto the bed as if it was a paper bag. His body didn’t fit with his facial hair either. But, hey, this was LA: bellboy slash actor slash bodybuilder slash brainbox: whatever.
    “So,” he said, pulling open the plate-glass window as if it was a net curtain. A blast of sound hit them. Below, the pool area was in full party mode, heat lamps were blazing, music pounding. Beyond was the LA skyline: a palm tree illuminated, a neon sign saying EL MIRADOR APARTMENTS , a jewel box of lights.
    “Looks like I’m going to get a lot of rest,” she said.
    “Where did you just come in from?”
    “Miami.”
    He took hold of her hand, firmly, authoritatively, like a professional, looking at the burns.
    “Been making fondue?”
    “Yorkshire pudding.”
    “What happened?”
    “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “What brings you to LA?”
    “Do the words ‘air of mystery’ mean nothing to you?”
    He let out a short laugh. “I like your accent.”
    “They all talk like this where I come from.”
    “You working here? You an actress?”
    “No. What are you doing here?”
    p. 62 “Being a bellboy. How about a drink later?”
    “No.”
    “Okay. Anything else I can do for you at all?”
    Yes, rub sweet oils into my aching bones and change the dressings on my poor burnt hand, you wonderful, wildly strong, intellectual-looking beefcake.
    “I’m fine.”
    “Okay now. Take it easy.”
    She watched him go, then shut the door behind him, locked it and put the chain on. She unpacked her things, colonizing the room.
    Then she turned on CNN.
     
    “ And the main headlines again. As the death toll continues to rise, it’s believed that yesterday’s explosion in Miami on the OceansApart, which claimed the lives of over two hundred people, was in fact the work of al-Qaeda terrorists. The toll currently stands at 215 dead, 475 injured and over 250 missing .”
    She called down and asked if the London Sunday Times was in yet: not until the following afternoon. She opened the laptop to look for it online.
    There was a huge headline: OCEANS RIPPED APART. The byline at the top was Dave Rufford and Kate O’Neill. Kate! There were lots of Olivia’s quotes in there and whole paragraphs of her description. Maybe her byline would be at the bottom. It said, “Additional reporting by Sunday Times writers.” She ran a search for Olivia Joules. She wasn’t credited anywhere at all.
    “Fuck it,” she said after a moment. “It’s just bullshit. The main thing is, I’m not dead.” She opened the French doors, so that the sound of fun rose up from the pool deck, and sat down at the desk. It was the northern Protestant work ethic which had helped her escape from the land of the northern Protestant work ethic. Olivia clung to work to keep her safe, like her survival tin.
     
    p. 63 At midnight she leaned back, stretched and decided to call it a day. The desk was covered with the spoils from Miami: the party list, business cards, scribbled phone numbers on the backs of credit-card slips, a diagram trying to draw some meaning from connections which made no sense.
    She looked up at shots of Bagdhad on CNN and turned up the sound.
    “Do you suffer from reduced bladder control?” The shot