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

talking to herself.
    “I gotta get, like, get something worked out. I don’t want to wait tables anymore. . . . Oh, yeah, she kept my reel and told me to call her and then she didn’t take my call. She kept me on hold for ten minutes. I mean, I listened to three songs?”
    Two men walked past, completely ignoring Kimberley’s scantily clad perfection. Women who would turn heads in London and New York scarcely seemed to warrant a second look in LA. It was p. 66 as if they had a tattoo on their foreheads saying, “Wannabe actress slash model. Will bore you with career aspirations: unstable.” The beautiful people in Miami were much more fun, Olivia thought. In LA, their beauty and seminakedness seemed to be saying, “Look at this! Now make me a film star!” In Miami they just wanted to get laid.
    “So,” Kimberley continued, “when I finally got to meet with her she was so, like, not listening to me? She said the way I looked on the tape, I’m not, like—” Kimberley’s voice trailed off miserably—“commercial enough.”
    A wire was protruding from her ear. So at least she wasn’t completely insane. But, still, Olivia was starting to feel sorry for her.
    “It’s fine,” Kimberley said bravely. “I’m thinking maybe I could do, like, body-part work? It’s like body-double work, but they just use parts of you.”
    But what about today? thought Olivia. What about Pierre’s auditions? I thought you were all lined up for a big part? Had even Kimberley sensed that Ferramo wasn’t for real? Or had she just heard “I’m going to make you a star, baby” eighteen times too often?
    She went over to Kimberley and said hi. Kimberley responded with the sort of defensive look which assumed that anyone who said hi was trying to hit on her.
    “Olivia Joules. We met in Miami. I’m a journalist on Elan .”
    Kimberley stared for a second, rasped, “Gotta go,” into the hands-free, then turned on a dazzling smile and launched into an “Oh. My. God.” routine.
    “Where’s Demi?” said Olivia, once the incredible nature of the coincidence had been dealt with. “Isn’t she auditioning for the film too?”
    A strange froideur [“chill”] seemed to enter the proceedings.
    “Has she been saying stuff about me? I mean, you know, I’m not going to say anything, like, bad about Demi. She has issues? You know? I mean, honestly? I think she’s got a problem. But I’m not the kind of person who says anything bad about anyone.”
    p. 67 Olivia was confused, trying to work out how long it was since the party when they were the best of friends. Two days.
    “I mean, she’s still in Miami, right, with that Portuguese guy?”
    “I’ve no idea.”
    But Kimberley’s attention had wandered. She had seen someone coming and started arranging her breasts in the halter top, like a bowl of fruit for a photo shoot. Olivia followed her gaze and found herself looking straight into the eyes of Pierre Ferramo.
    He was dressed as an LA film producer in shades, jeans, navy jacket and whiter-than-white T-shirt. His manner, though, was as regal as ever. He was flanked by two dark-haired, flustered boys, who were trying to deal with a growing cluster of would-be auditionees. Ignoring the entourage, he made his way directly to Olivia.
    “Ms. Joules,” he said, slipping off his shades, “you are two days late and in the wrong hotel in the wrong city, but as always it is a pleasure to see you.”
    His liquid gaze burned into hers.
    “Pierre.” Kimberley teetered over and flung her arms round his neck. A fleeting glance of disgust crossed his features. “Can we, like, go right away? I’m so, like, psyched?”
    “The auditions will be starting shortly,” he said, disentangling himself. “You may go upstairs and prepare if you wish.”
    As Kimberley wiggled off, swinging her bag on her hip, Ferramo waved his aides away and spoke to Olivia in a low, urgent voice. “You did not make our appointment.”
    “I went for a jog