“Come home,” Kate said from London. “Come home now. Call the FBI and get on the next plane.”
Olivia sat trembling on the silver beanbag, pushed up hard against the door to the room. “But last time we spoke, you said I was jumping to conclusions.”
“The only evidence you offered was that he was ‘languid.’ You somehow overlooked the fact that he tried to persuade you not to go to the OceansApart the night before it blew up.”
“I thought it was part of a crappy pick-up line about asking me to breakfast. You know: ‘Shall I phone you or nudge you?’ kind of thing.”
“You are literally unbelievable. Listen. He lied. He told you he was French and then he starts talking Arabic.”
“He only said one word. He still could be French. Anyway, even if he is an Arab doesn’t mean he’s a terrorist. It might be just that sort of prejudice he was trying to avoid. I’m doing a story. Elan is paying my expenses.”
“They’ll understand. You can always pay them back. Come home.”
“Kate,” said Olivia quietly. “This is my story.”
There was silence for a second. “Oh God. It’s that byline thing, isn’t it? That was Barry. He said it would be a joint byline. I called him when I saw it and bawled him out.”
Then why didn’t you call me too?
“He said they took your name out to save space. You’re not on staff. I’m not trying to nick your story. Just come home and be safe.”
“I’ve got to go,” said Olivia. “I’m supposed to be at the auditions.”
She clicked off the phone and started feverishly to type a list on her laptop which fell under two headings:
Then she paused, frowning, staring straight ahead. Olivia thought of herself as a liberal-egalitarian humanitarian. But was she actually just a common garden racist?