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Olivia
Joules and the Overactive Imagination by Helen Fielding Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Romp Helen
Fielding’s new novel, Olivia Joules
and the Overactive Imagination, provides readers with an
interesting title character who takes over the 007 role in international
espionage with more wit than James Bond usually delivered. The plot moves
quickly and unexpectedly, encouraging readers to flip pages quickly. There
are times when a reader can pause to laugh, and then pick up on the latest
twisting trail. Olivia Joules romps around the world bumping into Al Queda, an Osama bin Laden look-alike, and terrorist acts.
If you’re prepared to laugh at some of those things, you’ll enjoy reading Olivia Joules
and the Overactive Imagination. Here’s an excerpt, all of Chapter
5, pp. 22-30: She sat
outside a café on the South Shore Strip waiting for Barry’s morning call and
wishing it would stop being so windy. It was sunny and humid, but the wind
was a roaring, flapping constant in the background. Breakfast was Olivia’s
favorite meal: coffee and something piggy like a muffin. Or a
smoked-salmon-and-cream—cheese bagel. Or banana pancakes. And as many
newspapers as possible spread before her. But this morning the New York
Times, the Miami Herald, USA Today and two British tabloids had to
be restrained under the salt and pepper. She had ordered cinnamon-apple
French toast in order to eradicate the remnants of last night’s apple
martinis. Treat apple with apple—like snake bite with snake venom. She poured maple syrup onto the
cinnamon-apple French toast triangle, stuck her knife in and watched the
pureed apple ooze out, imagining confronting Osama bin Ferramo
at his party that night: “Killing is so very wrong. We, as nations, must
learn to honor our differences and live in peace.” Osama bin Ferramo, breaking down, would sobbingly agree that his
Holy War must end and that he would work tirelessly in future for world peace
alongside President Carter, Ginger Spice, et al. Olivia would be
internationally feted, elevated to foreign correspondent, awarded an honorary
Pulitzer … her mobile rang. “Hi,” she answered, in a tense, urgent
voice, glancing behind her to check for al-Qaeda spies. It was Barry. “Okay, numero
uno: this floating apartment—ship story …” “Yes!” said Olivia, excitedly. “It’s a
really good story. It’s huge. Arid the people live on it all year round and
just fly in by helicopter. I could do it in a couple of extra days.” Olivia
had the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder while she tucked into the
apple French toast. Oh, I agree it’s a good story. So good,
in fact, that, as you apparently failed to notice, we covered it in a
full-page spread in the Style section last week.” Olivia paused with her toast halfway to
her mouth. “That’s a section of the Sunday
Times, the newspaper you’re supposed to be working for. Indeed, the very
section of the Sunday Times you
are supposed to be working for. You do, I assume, read the Sunday Times occasionally,
are familiar with it, at least?” “Yes,” she said, brows lowered. “And this other ‘fantastic news story’
you’ve found. What might that be? Thank God she hadn’t c-mailed him after
all. “Well, actually it’s something I’ve
just started working on. I’ll tell you more in a couple of—” “Shut up. How are we getting along with
the story we are supposed to be doing? The story we’ve been sent out to “Oh yes, yes. I’m doing that. It’s all
fine. But I’m onto some really good leads for another story. I promise you,
it’s really good. If I could just stay one more night and go to this party,
then…” “No. En. Oh. No. You file ‘Cool Miami’
by six o’clock your time tonight. Fifteen hundred words. Spelled correctly.
With normal punctuation, not an assortment of strange markings put in ran—
dowdy, to help. And then you do not go to parties, go shopping, or get
waylaid by any other form of irrelevant entertainment. You go to the airport,
get the night flight and conic home. Got it?” By a supreme effort of will, she
refrained from telling him that: 1. He
was missing the biggest story of the twenty—first century. 2. One
day he would be sorry. 3. Re
his punctuation slur: language was a beautiful free-flowing, evolving thing
which should not he fettered by artificial rules, regulations and strange
markings imposed from without rather than within. “Okay, Bazzer,”
she said instead. “I’ll do it by six o’clock.” Elan had not yet called to nix the OceansApart
story, so she thought it wouldn’t do any harm to nip quickly down
to the harbor to take a look, just in case, so that if Elan
did happen to call and say yes, then she would have some more material.
Plus, she could be picking up more local color for the Sunday Times piece
while she was at it. It was nine already, but she figured that if she got
back from the OceansApart by ten-thirty,
she’d still have seven and a half hours to write the article for Barry. And
spell—check it. And e—mail it. But it would
definitely be fine. Definitely. That was only about two hundred words an
hour. And she could run! It was, after all, vital to exercise. Unfortunately, Olivia did not have a
proper grasp of the passage of time. In fact, both Barry and Kate had noted
on several occasions that Olivia thought time was personal, that it moved at
the speed she wanted it to. Their view was that this was not a belief
compatible with being a newspaper journalist with deadlines to meet and so
on. Jogging along the South
Shore Strip, even at breakfast time, was like flipping through radio
channels: a different beat blaring out from each café. Waiters were hosing
down the pavements, gardeners blowing away leaves. The lines of hooting cars
were gone, the party people only recently tucked into bed. Olivia passed a
café playing salsa music; inside, everything—walls, tables, plates, menus—was
covered in the same lurid jungle print; the waitress, even at that hour, was
wearing a leopardskin, halter-neck catsuit. She crossed the road to get a better view of the
campy grandeur of the Versace mansion and the art deco hotels—whites, pinks,
lilacs, oranges—the Pelican, the Avalon, the Casa Grande, curves and funnels
suggesting trains and ocean liners. It was hot already, the shadows of the
fluttering palm trees crisp against the white pavement. She started working
out her piece as she ran. “Think “Suddenly there are more revamped art
deco hotels everywhere!” … “If “If “If Oh God. She couldn’t do this stuff
anymore. It was nonsense. It didn’t mean anything. She had to find a proper
story. At the south end of the
strip were huge apartment blocks, and behind them, gliding smoothly, she
could see a huge ocean liner. She must be close to the docks. She jogged
along the street, the area becoming rougher and tattier,
until she reached the water at She had stopped at the end of a traffic
bridge, trying to get her breath and pushing a damp strand of hair from her
forehead, when she suddenly realized that what she had thought was an office block
beyond the liner was in fact the OceansApart.
Here, in the harbor, it dwarfed all the other ships around it, making
them look like toys or miniatures. It was monolithic. It looked too big to he safe, as though it might topple over. Across the way, a small crowd of people
was gathered on a patch of grass, a group of taxis parked alongside. Olivia
made her way over. She counted the decks: there were fifteen of them, lines
of portholes, then layer upon layer of balconies. There were people sitting
out on white chairs at tables, eating breakfast. She glanced around at the
crowd. Sonic of them were clearly passengers, taking photographs with the OceansApart in the background, dressed in
the garish and bizarre outfits which seem to go with the cruising life.
Olivia smiled at the sight of a lady with a bright orange face and red
lipstick, which had missed her mouth, wearing a little white boxy jacket with
epaulets and a captain’s hat, and an enibarrassed
husband in pastel, infantilized cruise gear beside her, posing while a taxi
driver took their photos. “Excuse me, love.” It was a northern
English accent. Olivia turned to see an old couple, the auburn-haired lady in
an elegant green dress with a cream handbag and matching cream shoes. The
cream shoes made Olivia think of holidays in “Would you mind taking our photo in
front of the ship?” The lady held out a disposable camera. Olivia smiled. “Where are you from?” “ “I’m from Worksop,”
said Olivia, taking the camera. “Ee, ‘ecky thump,” quipped the old
man. “You look out of breath. Have you been running? Don’t you want to get
your breath back a minute?” “No, I’m fine. Closer together,” said
Olivia, peering through the viewfinder. “Ooh, hang on. I’m going to have to
move back a bit to get it all in.” “Don’t bother, love. Just get a bit in.
We know what it is, don’t we, Edward?” The lady was a charming mix of elegant
looks and broad Olivia clicked the camera, looking at
the beaming couple through the viewfinder. It suddenly felt as though all the
scariness and bad things in life had receded, and she was in a lovely
granny-and-grandpa world of biscuit tins and doilies. To her horror, she felt
tears pricking her eyelids. “There you go. Souvenir of The lady chuckled. “Running. It makes
me feel jiggered just looking at you. Do you want a cough sweet?” She began
to rummage in her bag. “So, love,” said the old man, “what are
you doing so far away from Worksop?” “I’m a journalist,” said Olivia. “I’m
trying to get my magazine to let me write something about the OceansApart.” “Eee, right
fair. A journalist. That’s grand, that is.” “We can tell you all sorts about the
ship, love.” “Do you live on it?” “Yes!” said the man proudly “Well, only part of the time,” said the
lady “That’s our cabin. Look, halfway up, in
the middle, with the pink towel,” said the man, pointing. “Oh yes, looks nice. Lovely balcony.
I’m Olivia, by the way” “Elsie, and
this is Edward. We’re on our honeymoon.” “Your honeymoon? Have you known each
other a long time?” “Fifty years,” said Edward, proudly
“She wouldn’t have me when she were eighteen.” “Well, you started courting someone
else. What did you expect?” “Only because you wouldn’t have me.” Olivia loved people’s stories. Scratch
the surface of anyone and you’d find something strange and complicated going
on. “Do you want a lift anywhere?” said the
man. “We’re taking a taxi to “Ooh, yes please,” said Olivia. “As a
matter of fact, I’ve made myself a bit late.” “So, carry on with the
story” Olivia said as the taxi pulled out onto the highway “Well,” said Elsie, “anyway, he thought
I weren’t interested, and 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.” It was a coinmissioning
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 “If sex is the new
elevator music, then 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 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 There. She would rephrase it and start
with a bit of color. The phone rang. It was Melissa, the PR girl, “just
asking” how she was getting on with the article and checking that she was
coming to Pierre Ferramo’s “little gathering:’
Olivia tried to type with one hand, the phone tucked under her chin,
desperately waiting for a gap between sentences which never came. No sooner
had she got rid of Melissa than the phone rang again. This time it was the
commissioning editor from Elan, in a
leisurely mood, wanting to talk more about the OceansApart:
the angle, the length, the style, people who might be good for
interviews. It was nearly five o’clock. It was hopeless, hopeless. Why the
fuck had she got herself into this mess? She was doomed—doomed to write
articles beginning: “Suddenly there are more hats everywhere!” She would
never be allowed out of the office again. Readers
looking for light reading and willing to put up with some underdeveloped
characters and plot threads that seem to start and stop erratically will
enjoy spending some time with Olivia
Joules and the Overactive Imagination. Steve
Hopkins, August 26, 2004 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the September
2004 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Olivia
Joules and the Overactive Imagination.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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