Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination Read Online Free Page A

O’Neill was her friend but also the Middle East correspondent for the Sunday Times. Olivia wanted her approval more than she could quite admit to herself.
    “What? Come on.”
    “I can’t sleep. I think I’ve . . . I’ve just got a hunch there might have been some al-Qaeda at that party last night. I met this guy. He kind of reminds me of Osama bin Laden.”
    Kate started laughing. She laughed for quite a long time. Olivia’s shoulders slumped and she blinked rapidly, hurt.
    “Okay,” Kate said eventually. “How drunk are you, exactly?”
    p. 20 “I am not,” Olivia said indignantly, “drunk.”
    “You’re sure it’s not a resurrected Abraham Lincoln?”
    “Shut up,” said Olivia. “But seriously. Just think about it. Where better could they hide than in plain sight where no one’s expecting to see them?”
    “I could think of, ooh, three, maybe four hundred places, just off the top of my head. Who is the guy? Is he six foot four, late forties?”
    “No, but—” Her mind was racing again. “Look, I’m not saying it’s actually him, but people can completely alter their appearance, can’t they? He could easily have had some length taken out of each leg and his face changed.”
    “Right, right. So, if you look at it that way, Osama bin Laden could be Oprah Winfrey, Britney Spears, or Eminem. Why have you fastened upon this guy?”
    “It’s something about him. It’s his features—well, more his expression, in fact. He’s sort of languid.”
    “Oh, why didn’t you say? Languid? Well, it’s definite then. I mean, bin Laden is number one on the FBI’s Most Languid List.”
    “Shut up. He says he’s called Pierre Ferramo. He’s pretending to be French, but I don’t think he is. He kind of rolls his rs.”
    “Right, right. Was Osama bin Ferramo drinking alcohol?”
    “Yes,” she said doubtfully.
    “Did he flirt with you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Olivia, Osama bin Laden is a Muslim. Do you know what a Muslim is?”
    “Of course I know what a Muslim is,” Olivia hissed. “What I’m saying is that maybe this is a new form of hideout. They’re very clever—they’re constantly changing tactics. Maybe drinking and womanizing on the Miami South Shore makes a better hideout than a cave in Tora Bora.”
    “Hmm. I’m not sure they could pull it off.”
    “He hasn’t. I’ve rumbled him. Anyway, the bin Ladens are a p. 21 really posh, rich international family. Don’t you remember that guy from the FT who used to date one of bin Laden’s sisters?”
    “Oh yeah, right before he’d done any atrocities.”
    “And he asked her about her brother’s reputation as a black sheep and she said, ‘Oh, honestly, the worst one can say about Osama is that he’s rather socially difficult.’ ”
    Kate laughed. “Okay, point taken. But promise me something.”
    “What?”
    “Promise me you won’t ring up Barry and tell him you’ve found Osama bin Laden at a face-cream launch.”
    Silence.
    “Olivia, are you listening to me? You remember the Sudan locust cloud? The Surbiton Moonies who turned out to be a corporate training scheme? The Gloucestershire ghoul that turned out to be steam from an air-conditioning vent? The Sunday Times has only just started to trust you again. So, please: do your Miami story on time, to length, nicely, and don’t bugger things up for yourself. And go to sleep.”
    “Okay. Thanks, Kate. Call you in a couple of days,” she said, reaching for her laptop.
    She e-mailed Barry. She didn’t tell him what the story was, she just asked to stay on and check out a lead. She had to do something, otherwise she’d be back in London writing articles that began, “Suddenly there is more wallpaper everywhere!!” Then she clicked off the light and lay staring at the ceiling, thinking.
    Olivia believed in independent thought. Ever since the Twin Towers were hit, when the authorities told people to stay where they were and not evacuate, she kept asking herself: would she