She smirked as the automatic doors slid apart to receive her. Olivia loved traveling alone: on the move, one small carry-on, responsible only for herself.
“Yes, er, I’ll call,” said Olivia doubtfully, heading into the terminal. So you’ll be landing about three tomorrow, right? Come straight round.”
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“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. Otherwise you’d have got married by the time you were twenty like everyone else in your school.” “That’s because you were startled into premature clarity by what happened to your family. “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. International tuminall,” the driver cut in. The cab was rounding the concrete curve towards the departure bays. ’ Get on a Heathrow flight tonight, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” “You don’t need to go to fucking Honduras to have ‘a little.
“I’m not planning to spend the rest of my life with him. “Sorry about that,” said Olivia, sheepishly. And no, I’m not trying to nick your story.” You’ll end up minus a head, let alone a career. “But what if it’s real? What if he is al-Qaeda?” Get on with building a career and a life that no one can take away from you.” 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.” 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. “Don’t you dare follow that man to Honduras. Just, er, Pierre has a dive hotel down in Honduras and-” You’re about to do something bad, aren’t you?” “I was woken by transatlantic thought vibes. Feramo grabbed her by the waist, flung her head back and kissed her passionately, before sweeping her aboard his chopper. With a final twist of his spanner, the engine roared into life, while the crew clapped and cheered. But by now, Feramo, dressed in a rather fetching boiler suit, was tinkering with the engine of his helicopter, watched by an admiring crew. She tried to focus on the pressing question of where exactly she was going once she got to the airport. We women have evolved and learnt to do everything that used to be men’s work, and they have responded by regressing. I am not, she told herself, ever going to go stupid over a man again.
She tried to pull herself together, struggling to separate logic and desire. She should never have gone on the Catalina date. 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. The rest was taken up with a combination of fantasy and flashback. The symptoms were familiar: only thirty percent of her brain was operational. Something about the combination of glamour, fear, and sexual promise last night had tipped her over the edge. It was the sort of thing that could happen to anyone-apart from his being an international terrorist. It was a perfectly simple problem: she told herself she had fallen in love with a man. She tried to think clearly and sensibly, which was proving very difficult that morning.