The indoor bar area of the Standard had a loosely desert theme: the walls were papered with a floor-to-ceiling frieze of Joshua trees, the floor was cork, the lamps like giant desert flowers. There were two—for some reason—fish suspended from the ceiling. Olivia sat enjoying her morning coffee and the sunlight blasting in from the pool area. Auditions were plainly about to start. A youth, sweating in the heat in thick camouflage trousers and a woolly hat, was wandering among the girls, sporting a clipboard and a rather confused expression.
Olivia saw Kimberley before Kimberley saw Olivia. Her unfeasibly large and perky breasts were bouncing in a thin white halter-neck above her nonexistent hips, which were swathed in a miniature version of an ecru cheerleader’s skirt. Horribly aware of how attractive she looked, she was sliding her finger in and out of her mouth like a cross between a five-year-old and a porn queen. Suddenly she started 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 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 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.”
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 first, down to the harbor . . .”
He sat down opposite her. “You were there?”
“Directly across the water.”
“You are hurt?” He took her hand and examined the dressing. “You have had medical attention? Is there anything you need?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
“And how did you come to be in the vicinity of the explosion?”
“I was jogging. I often jog in the mornings. I was trying to get a good look at the ship. Did you know anyone aboard?”
She watched his face, like a detective watching a grieving husband make an appeal to his missing wife’s abductor. Ferramo didn’t miss a beat.
“No, thankfully I did not.”
What about Winston, your underwater consultant?
“I did.”
“You did?” He lowered his voice, leaning closer to her. “I am so very sorry. They were people you knew well?”
“No. But they were people I very much liked. Do you know who did it?”
Was there a glimmer of a reaction to the oddness of her question?
“As you will have heard, the investigation is only just beginning. It has the marks of al-Qaeda, of course, but we shall see.” He glanced around. “This is not the time or place for this discussion. You are here for some days?”
One of the boys appeared behind him, hovering with papers. “Mr. Ferramo . . .”
“Yes, yes.” Different voice, harsh, authoritarian, dismissive. “One moment. I am in conversation, as you can see.”
He turned back to Olivia. “We can reschedule our meeting perhaps?” A-rrreeeeshedull owah meeting. It was a harsh, staccato intonation.
“I’m here for a few days.”
“You will join me for dinner? Tomorrow evening, perhaps?”
“Er, yes, I . . .”
“Good. You are staying here? I will call you and make the necessary arrangements. Until then. It is a pleasure to have you here. Yes . . . yes.” He turned to the boy, who was holding out a document apologetically.
Olivia watched as he looked at the document and rose to his feet, heading back to the wannabes. “Actually, we should be through by four.” He handed back the paper. “Shukran. And then we can reconvene to discuss the call-backs.”
Shukran. Olivia looked down, trying not to betray any reaction. Shukran was Arabic for “thank you.”