Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

Text from Olive to Birdie: Did you get my text, Bird? Where youat?!

Three glassesof old cognac later and I am quite tipsy. It’s only early evening, though, so I can drink plenty of water and get the early night I had planned.

I text Birdie again and am a little surprised when she doesn’t text back immediately as she usually does. I realise that she didn’t respond this morning either. My stomach kerplunks as I consider how this morning’s text might have seemed to her. She’s stuck in hospital feeling downright rotten and here I am gloating about amazing oyster dinners, sneaking dances in beautiful parks and having the kind of sex that can make a person feel brandnew.

Way to rub it in, Olive.I mentally slap myself around the face and try calling Birdie’s phone but it rings out. Looking at my watch, I realise that it’s about midnight in England and she’s probably tucked up in bed. I’ll let her get a good night’s rest and call her in the morning to apologise for being a self-absorbedgoon.

As Anders and Mrs Ramirez chatter away about all the far-flung places they’ve visited in the world, I scroll through my recent texts and see Seth’s name there.

He was so weird this morning. He seemed super into me last night. We got on so well. And got it on so well! But this morning he looked really uncomfortable as we said goodbye. Like he just wanted me out of there.

Before I can stop myself, I text him. All I put is, HI!!! I immediately regret it. The capital letters and the exclamation marks make it look like I’m being passive-aggressive. HI!!! is a text Donna would send. Hell, HI!!! is a text Donna has sent to me in the past when I haven’t replied speedily enough!

Well, there’s nothing I can do about itnow.

I take a sip of my drink and ten minutes later, when there is zero response from Seth, something horrifying occurs to me. What if I was the only one who had a good time last night? Oh shit. What… what if Seth didn’t enjoy our sexy times as much as I did. He seemed to, but… he’s amazing at improv. What if he was… improvising his enjoyment? What if he thought I was lacklustre or freaky or selfish in bed? I’ve not had any real experience, so I can’t exactly compare.

Shit, what if, when I was rocking away on top of him having such a lovely time, I leaned back too much in my rapture and hurt his penis? Maybe bruised it a little? And he felt too embarrassed to tell me? Or he did try to tell me but I was so caught up in getting off that I didn’t hear him! The terrible possibilities are endless!

Oh god. Maybe Seth was trying to let me down gently this morning. Maybe those Sunday Night Live tickets were a pity gift. A ‘thanks but no thanks’ payoff. I’m not even sure how I would find out the answer to these questions. I can’t exactly text him again. HI!!! Hope all well. Did I bruise your dick last night? Sorry if so! Best wishes!

Argh.

My brain starts to go off into one of its overthinking spirals and with great effort I use Phyllis’s belly breathing technique to bring me back to the present moment where I am cosy and warm and mellow in Anders’ house.

At the sound of my phone ringing, my heart lifts. I hope it’s Birdie. It’s rubbish going a whole day without speaking to her! I pick up my phone from where it’s resting on the arm of my chair.

Oh! It’s a New York number.

Maybe it’s Seth? Calling to tell me that he is at the hospital with a peen bruise.

I hope not. I really really hopenot.

With a deep breath, I answer the phone.

‘Hi, is this Olive Brewster?’ asks a forthright female voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello! This is Terri Wyatt from Perry Media. I got your details from Sharon at Sunday NightLive?’

‘Oh!’ I say excitedly, immediately putting the mobile on speakerphone so that Anders and Mrs Ramirez can listen in. ‘Yes! Hello!’

‘Hi! So, I was planning on emailing you to let you know that we weren’t gonna be able to fit you in within the next week, but as it happens we’ve just had a guest cancel and we need a fillin.’

‘Yes, YES!’ I yell, standing up from the chair while Anders starts excitedly pacing the large room and Mrs Ramirez does a shoulder jig. ‘We haven’t had much of a response from anyone else, so this is great news! When—’

I trail off as Mrs Ramirez and Anders immediately start frowning and shaking their heads ‘no’.

‘One moment, please,’ I say, interrupting myself and pressing the ‘mute’ button. ‘What isit?’

‘Never let them know that no one else is interested!’ Mrs Ramirez admonishes, wagging her finger atme.

‘You need to act like they are getting a scoop,’ Anders adds, sipping from his glass of cognac. ‘That’s all the media wants. Scoops.’

‘Scoops?’

‘Scoops,’ Andersnods.

‘Scooooops,’ Mrs Ramirez grumbles. ‘Speak to her now! Don’t keep her waiting. The media do not like towait.’

I unmute the phone, rolling my eyes at the two sudden founts of all media-related knowledgehere.

‘Ahem. Terri. Sorry about that,’ I say. ‘I, um. I meant to say we haven’t had much of a response… from people we’d be happy to speakto…’

‘Right…?’

‘I mean… like… this is a very important story. Only for very important… media.’

Anders and Mrs Ramirez nod approvingly at my improvisation skills. I give them a thumbsup.

‘Riiiight,’ Terri Wyatt repeats, clearly not quite as impressed. ‘Look, can you come in or not? It’s a ten-minute slot, presenter asks you about the search for this Chuck character, you tell them why you’re doing it, we give the contact details out on air, everybody’s happy.’

‘Okay, yes. I will do it,’ I say, sensing that Terri is not the kind of woman you act timid around. ‘May I ask what date and time you would like me to be there and where I shouldgo?’

‘Now. It’s tonight,’ Terri says, sounding slightly exasperated. ‘We need someone here in forty minutes to go on the air atten.’

‘Now?’ I squeak.

But it’s night. It’s 8.30 p.m. I’ve had three cognacs.

‘Yes,’ Terri says. ‘It’s at Anchorage Studios on 6th Avenue. Look, we wouldn’t be calling you if we could get someone else at such short notice… Damn Ricky Martin for cancelling at the last minute.’

Ricky Martin. The Ricky Martin. This must be a really amazing radio station for them to have Ricky Martin on! But, oh god, I’m hardly Ricky Martin. Those are some big shoes tofill!

‘Um…’ I say, nerves starting to simmer up in my stomach. What if I speak too loudly into the microphone and no one can tell what I’m saying? What if I burp? What if I burp on the radio? What if a random made-up word pops out of my mouth? A word that means nothing. Like fleperty. What if I say fleperty! Fleperty.

Mrs Ramirez grabs the phone out of my hands. ‘We’ll be there,’ she declares and then hangsup.

‘Argh.’ I stare at the phone. ‘I’m not prepared. I’m tipsy. I have nothing to wear. My hair is a frizzymess.’

‘It’s radio. No one cares what you look like,’ Mrs Ramirez calls from the hall where she’s grabbing my coat from the hat stand.

I stand still and take a deep breath, remembering all of the new things I have done this week. How I’m starting to feel like a totally different person. A braver, more badass Olive. I can do this! I haveto!

Mrs Ramirez hands me my satchel. I squint at it, noting Birdie’s letter tucked inside. I don’t even like this satchel. It’s nowhere near as coolas…

‘I’m taking my bumbag,’ I say firmly, adrenaline coursing throughme.

‘That horrible pink fanny pack?’ Anders screws up his face. ‘Why? Why?’

I lift my chin. ‘Because I love it. And I’m sick of not being able to wear it in case people stop me in the street.’

‘Yes!’ Mrs Ramirez callsout.

I smile at her. ‘I mean what am I so afraid of? A few people yelling “Watch Me Piddle” at me? Pah! Worse things have happened.’

Mrs Ramirez starts clapping. ‘Yes!’

‘And it has a holographic sunshine on the front,’ Iadd.

‘Ick,’ Anders drawls, pulling on a long darkcoat.

‘It’s waterproof and has a secret pocket and did I mention the holographic sunshine? Way better than a safe, boring old satchel.’

‘YES, CHICA!’

‘And most importantly it’s the safest place for Birdie’s letter,’ I say, grabbing the bumbag from where it lies atop my suitcase in the corner of the living room. I transfer everything from my satchel into it and clasp it firmly around my waist.

I turn around to Anders and Mrs Ramirez, my hands on my hips in a total superwoman stance.

‘Let’s dothis!’

Anders sighs dramatically, smoothing his ice blonde hair back from his forehead. ‘Midtown. Ugh. The lengths besties will goto.’