Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination Read online

  “Weesh airline?”

  Oh shut up, she felt like saying. I haven’t bloody well decided yet.

  * * *

  She tried to think clearly and sensibly, which was proving very difficult that morning. It was a perfectly simple problem: she told herself she had fallen in love with a man. It was the sort of thing that could happen to anyone—apart from his being an international terrorist.

  Something about the combination of glamour, fear, and sexual promise last night had tipped her over the edge. The symptoms were familiar: only thirty percent of her brain was operational. The rest was taken up with a combination of fantasy and flashback. Every time she tried calmly to evaluate her situation and make a plan, her mind was overwhelmed by images of an entire future with Feramo, beginning with scuba diving in crystalline Caribbean waters, followed by shagging in Bedouin tents in the Sudanese desert, concluding with Grace Kelly–Prince Rainier-style married life in yachts and palaces with a Feramo who, in an astonishing feat of mental gymanstics, had been transformed form a terrorist into a major movie director/philanthropist, and also possibly a doctor/ scientist/other unspecified manly professional, who could also fix cars. She should never have gone on the Catalina date.

  She tried to pull herself together, struggling to separate logic and desire. I am not, she told herself, ever going to go stupid over a man again. We women have evolved and learnt to do everything that used to be men’s work, and they have responded by regressing. They cannot even mend things anymore. She tried to focus on the pressing question of where exactly she was going once she got to the airport. But by now, Feramo, dressed in a rather fetching boiler suit, was tinkering with the engine of his helicopter, watched by an admiring crew. With a final twist of his spanner, the engine roared into life, while the crew clapped and cheered. Feramo grabbed her by the waist, flung her head back and kissed her passionately, before sweeping her aboard his chopper.

  Her mobile started ringing. The screen said OUT OF AREA. Feramo! Had to be.

  “It’s me,” said Kate. “I was woken by transatlantic thought vibes. You’re about to do something bad, aren’t you?”

  “No, no. Just, er, Pierre has a dive hotel down in Honduras and—”

  “Don’t you dare follow that man to Honduras. It’s insane. What have you been working for all these years if you’re just going to succumb to the charms of some ridiculous Dodi al-Fayed–style playboy? He’s probably got a hairy back. Four years down the line he’ll be forcing you to stay at home in a burka while he travels all over the world shagging wannabe actresses.”

  “It’s not like that. You don’t know him.”

  “Oh please. Neither do you. Just come home, Olivia. Mend your fences at the Sunday Times. Get on with building a career and a life that no one can take away from you.”

  “But what if it’s real? What if he is al-Qaeda?”

  “Come home even quicker. You’ll end up minus a head, let alone a career. And no, I’m not trying to nick your story.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Olivia, sheepishly.

  “It’s all right.”

  “I’m not planning to spend the rest of my life with him. I just thought I’d have a little—”

  “You don’t need to go to fucking Honduras to have ‘a little . . .’ Get on a Heathrow flight tonight, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The cab was rounding the concrete curve towards the departure bays.

  “Okay, we here. International tuminall,” the driver cut in. “Weesh airline?”

  “Just here.”

  “You’re too susceptible to men.”

  “Well, at least I haven’t been married twice,” said Olivia, trying simultaneously to get out of the cab, tip the driver, get her carry-on and wedge the mobile under her ear.

  “That’s because you were startled into premature clarity by what happened to your family. Otherwise you’d have got married by the time you were twenty like everyone else in your school.”

  Olivia had a sudden intuition. “Have you had a row with Dominic?” she said, trying to indicate to the taxi driver that she hadn’t actually intended to give him a twenty-dollar tip on a thirty-dollar fare.

  “I hate him.”

  “Oh, you mean it’s still on.”

  “Shut up. I hate him. So you’ll be landing about three tomorrow, right? Come straight round.”

  “Yes, er, I’ll call,” said Olivia doubtfully, heading into the terminal.

  * * *

  Olivia loved traveling alone: on the move, one small carry-on, responsible only for herself. She smirked as the automatic doors slid apart to receive her. How did they know to open? It made her feel so important.

  She sat down on one of a row of plastic seats and watched the airport world go by: a worried family dressed in the comfy shoes, pastel jackets and bum-bag uniform of tourists, clutching their bags, looking around fearfully, huddled together against an alien world. A fat Mexican girl with a baby, following an angry-looking boy. She thought about what Kate had said. Would she have stayed Rachel Pixley and had an ordinary life if it hadn’t been for the accident? Naaah, she thought. There was no ordinary life. Life was fragile and bizarre and turned on a sixpence. It was up to you to snuffle out the fun.

  She pulled out a crumpled printout of an e-mail and read it again.

  Sender: [email protected]

  Subj: Pierre Feramo

  My dear Olivia,

  We were contacted this morning personally by Pierre Feramo. M. Feramo explained that his people had made an unforgivable mistake which was not in any sense of your doing. He spoke of you in the highest terms and asked that we reinstate you on the story immediately.

  I cannot apologize enough for misjudging you. We have received the copy you sent, which is excellent. There is enough there already, I think, to make the piece. Would you like to continue the piece yourself, or would you prefer to move on to the Honduras diving story M. Feramo mentioned? We could, if you wish, have the “wannabe” copy cleaned up by the subs and you could retain your byline. Let us know.

  Apologies again, and looking forward to many more superb pieces from you in the future.

  Sally Hawkins

  Editor, Elan

  She put it back in her bag and pulled out the Expedia flight-detail printouts. There was a Virgin flight at 20:50 to London, and an AeroMexico flight to La Ceiba in Honduras at 20:40, connecting in Mexico City. All she had to do was decide.

  23

  Unfortunately, however, Olivia could not decide. She was plunged into the Land of Indecision, which she knew was a treacherous place where she could wander for days, increasingly lost in a maze of pros and cons and possibilities. The only way to escape was to make a decision—any decision—and then at least she could get out and see straight.

  Brow furrowed with earnest resolve, she ran her eye down the departures board to check for the London flight: Acapulco, Belize, Bogotá, Cancún, Caracas, Guadalajara, Guatemala, La Paz. What am I doing? she thought. If I go back to London, I’ll be sitting in the pissing rain writing articles about dining rooms.

  She opened the guidebook to Honduras. “A paradise of white-sanded beaches and rain-forested peaks, surrounded by crystalline Caribbean waters. The Bay Islands offer the most spectacular diving in the Caribbean.”

  Mmm, she thought, flicking through to find Popayan, the island which housed Feramo’s ecodiving resort.

  “The smallest island in the archipelago, Popayan offers a flashback to the Caribbean of the 1950s. Many of the population are a mixture of black, Carib, Hispanic and white settlers—the direct descendants of shipwrecked Irish pirates. The village’s only bar, the Bucket of Blood, is the center of all gossip and social life.”

  Her eyes lit up. It sounded like major fun. Then, remembering her mother’s remarks about excitement and danger, she took out her book about al-Qaeda and opened it at the turned-down page headed “Takfiri.”

  Olivia had made her decision. She headed for the mailbox and dropped in an
envelope addressed to her flat in London. It contained a CD copy of her hard drive, including the photos she had taken in Feramo’s “panic room.”

  “One seat to La Ceiba, Honduras,” she said to the lady on the desk.

  “Would that be single or return?”

  “One way.”

  24 CENTRAL AMERICA

  The journey progressed from the anesthetic cleanliness of LAX to the craziness of Central America at a dizzying pace. Olivia thought it was like a speeded-up version of a Victorian exploration: Burton or Speke setting out from London to Cairo in starched wing collars, then plunging deeper and deeper into the African continent, losing their sanity, possessions and teeth.

  Mexico City’s airport was wild: the seats were of worn cowhide; men walked past in cowboy boots, sombreros and big mustaches; women sashayed in tight jeans and stilettos, bulging from sequined tops like game-show hostesses; while the game shows and music videos on the big screens teetered on the wrong side of soft porn.

  Olivia was busy. She called Sally Hawkins, said she’d like to do the diving story, but stalled her for a few days. She decided to snuffle round the Bay Islands incognito and find out what she could before alerting anyone to her presence. She bought cheap jeans and a sweatshirt, found a drugstore and a shower and dyed her hair red and then switched to her old passport (which she’d rather fraudulently claimed to have lost when she changed her name) and became Rachel Pixley. The thought of airport food usually repulsed her, but here she was seduced by the smells and ate a giant plate of burritos with refried beans, salsa, guacamole and chocolate sauce.

  * * *

  The ATAPA connection to La Ceiba in Honduras was five hours late, the atmosphere at the gate increasingly festive. By the time the motley bunch of passengers boarded the tatty plane, the delay had turned into a full-scale party with free Styrofoam sandwiches and tequila-laced lurid green drinks all round. The man beside Olivia kept offering her swigs of tequila from a bottle, but, as she explained, she was too full of refried beans au chocolat to fit in anything else at all. Forty minutes into the flight, the mindless movie, which had been raucously ridiculed by the passengers, disappeared from the screen and the captain’s voice came over the address system—first in Spanish, then in English.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Is your captain talking. I regret to announce you that this plane is problem and no landing in La Ceiba anymore. We go another place. We let you know. Bye.”

  Fear set all her senses on high alert. As she reached into her bag for the pepper-spray pen, keeping her eyes on the cockpit door, her mind was racing. As her thought activity increased, time seemed to slow as people said it did when they were drowning. It was a hijacking, clearly. Since 9/11, she knew, everything in this situation had changed. The important thing now was not to lie low but to act and act decisively.

  25 TEGUCIGALPA,

  HONDURAS

  The most effective way to overpower a hijacker was to work as a team. As Olivia looked aorund the cabin for suitable teammates, the man next to her held out the tequila bottle. This time she gratefully took an enormous swig. She handed it back to him and was puzzled to see him grab it with a cheerful grin. Glancing around the plane, she realized that no one was behaving appropriately for those on the verge of death. The air hostess was making her way down the aisle with another tray of lurid drinks and a fresh bottle of tequila.

  “Is okay,” said the man beside her. “Is no worry. ATAPA Airlines is never know where they go. Is stand for Always Take a Parachute.” He roared with laughter.

  * * *

  The landing in Tegucigalpa was rather like a tractor hitting a corrugated-iron roof. But the assembled passengers clapped and cheered the pilot regardless. The first drops of rain were falling as they climbed onto a rickety bus, and soon, as they rattled through the scruffy streets of the town past crumbling colonial buildings and wooden shacks, a full tropical rainstorm was hammering on the roof. It was kind of cozy.

  Olivia considered the El Parador hotel to be of the highest standard. The point on the toilet paper was faultless in terms of both sharpness and neatness. The only problem was that the bathroom floor was under two inches of water. The phone, when she tried to reach Reception, gurgled in reply. She headed down herself, requested the speedy dispatch of a mop and bucket and returned to the room, where she sat cross-legged on the brightly colored bedspread and started to organize her possessions.

  She spread out her stuff in front of her and started two lists: Essentials for Rest of Trip and Items Surplus to Requirements. Items Surplus to Requirements now included the sweatshirt and ugly jeans (far too hot) and the beautiful this-year’s Marc Jacobs tan-leather tote (too heavy, too identifiable and too posh).

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Un momento, por favor,” she said, concealing her research materials and spy equipment under the blanket.

  “Pase adelante.”

  The door opened, followed by a mop and a smiling Hispanic girl holding a bucket. Olivia made as if to take the mop, but the woman shook her head, and so the two of them did the floor together, Olivia emptying the bucket and the girl keeping up a steady stream of Spanish, mainly about what fun was to be had in the bar downstairs. When the floor was dry, the two of them stood back, admiring their handiwork. Olivia felt it was her honor—and hoped it wasn’t neocolonialist—to replace the tip for this happy spirit with the leather tote, as well as some clothes and other Items Surplus to Requirements. The woman was very pleased, though not quite pleased enough to suggest she realized it was actually this season’s Marc Jacobs, or maybe she was just a spiritual person who eschewed labels. She embraced Olivia and nodded down at the bar.

  “Sí, sí, más tarde,” said Olivia.

  * * *

  Better stay off the margaritas, Olivia told herself as she stashed her valuables in the safe and zipped her Essentials for Rest of Trip firmly in the tan and olive case. But hang it all, she thought when she reached the festive courtyard. Everyone else is as pissed as a fart. She took a sip of her first sensational margarita. Salud!

  A handsome, white-haired man with a mustache, dazzlingly drunk, crooned along to his guitar as the shambolic crowd of hippie travelers, businessmen and locals joined in. When the inebriated mariachi started to lose the plot, he was abruptly replaced by blaring salsa. Within moments the dance floor was filled with locals dancing intricate, detailed steps exquisitely, and the indeterminate writhings of the tie-dye-clad gringos. Olivia, who had briefly gone out with a Venezuelan Reuters correspondent and developed a penchant for salsa, was mesmerized by the sight of dancers brought up on its rhythms doing the real thing. Through the mass of bodies, a guy with cropped, bleached-blond hair caught her attention. In the middle of all the festivity and mindless drinking, he sat at a table, leaning forward, chin on hands, watching the crowd intently. He was dressed in baggy hip-hop clothes, but he was too cool-looking and focused to be a backpacker. He reappeared a few minutes later, directly in front of her. He didn’t smile; he just raised an eyebrow towards the dance floor and held out his hand. Sexy boy, cocky too; he reminded her of someone. He was a great dancer. He didn’t move much, but he knew what he was doing, and all she had to do was follow. Neither of them spoke, they just danced, bodies close, his arm leading her where he wanted her to go. After a couple of numbers, an elderly local man cut in with immense courtesy. The blond guy ceded his position graciously. The next time she looked, he was gone. Eventually she took a break from the dancing; as she stood there, wiping her forehead, she felt a hand on her arm. It was the maid to whom she had given the tote bag.

  “Go back to your room,” said the girl quietly in Spanish.

  “Why?” said Olivia.

  “Someone was in there.”

  “What? Did you see someone?”

  “No. I have to go,” she said nervously. “You go and have a look. Go quickly.”

  * * *

  Sobering up fast, Olivia made her way to the room, taking the stairs, not the elevat
or. She slipped the key in the lock, paused and flung the door open. The room was a mass of strange shadows thrown by the streetlights shining through the palm trees and the mosquito screens against her window. Still in the doorway, she reached for the light and clicked it on: nothing. She listened again, shut the door behind her and checked the bathroom: again, nothing. She went to the safe. It was untouched. Then her eye fell on her case. It was partly open; she knew she had left it zipped up. The clothes she had left folded inside were messed up. She slipped her hand underneath them and came across what felt like a polythene bag full of flour. She pulled it out, frantic, saw it was full of white powder and at the same moment heard footsteps in the corridor. She ripped open the bag, dipped in a finger and ran it along her gum, confirming her suspicion, with a not-unpleasant frisson, that it contained cocaine, and a sizable stash of cocaine. Just then, the footsteps stopped outside her room, and there was loud shouting and banging on the door.

  “La policia! Abra la puerta!”

  “Un momento, por favor.”

  It was a simple choice: open the door to the police with a large bag of cocaine in her hand, or take a jump straight down from the fifth floor.

  26

  Stop, breathe, think. She stepped into the bathroom and flushed the loo. With the flush masking the sound, she gently lifted the mosquito screen away from the window and stood back. Taking as long a run at it as possible, she hurled the plastic bag out of the window with all her might, thinking: Someone over there is going to find their evening just looked up. Then—hearing a distant splash—she replaced the screen and calmly opened the door.