The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away

  THE IMPLAUSIBLE STORY OF OLIVE FAR FAR AWAY

  TONYA ALEXANDRA

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  For Jock

  A terrible and brilliant influence

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER

  1

  Jordan is dragging my duffel bag through the sand like a dead body; her shirt is dark with sweat (not a good look). I consider complaining that she must be dripping sweat on my bag or getting sand in my things but I decide I’d better not. My invisibility radiates around me like an aura. It conceals my clothes and anything small I touch, like my phone, but bulky things like a bag, no way. I can’t even carry a regular bottle of water without it looking like it’s floating through the air. It sucks. It’s why I need Jordan. She’s my golden-haired Sherpa.

  The thought makes me chuckle. Do not call Jordan a Sherpa to her face, I tell myself. She won’t like it.

  Jordan and I have been friends since we were five.

  Her parents tolerated me at first, they considered me an amusing ‘imaginary friend’, but when Jordan turned twelve and still insisted her invisible best friend was real, they started worrying about her sanity. I had to stop seeing her before they sent her to a psychiatrist. Being away from Jordan ruined me. Left my heart rasping like a fish in a bucket. I’m not religious or anything, but when we reconnected last year it felt so huge and holy, it was like Jesus had risen or something.

  Cac. Do not tell her I said that. She’s not that great.

  ‘Olive. Can you just pick one?’

  Jordan and I have trudged along this Vietnamese beach for the last half hour. We’ve passed a dozen hotels but none of them have been right. I’m searching for something …

  ‘Perfect,’ I mutter, catching sight of a string of luxurious cabanas. You can smell the money from here; fragrant gluttony, aromatic excess. ‘What do you think?’ I ask Jordan, drawing an arrow in the sand with my toe.

  Her eyes shine. ‘Brilliant.’

  There are quite a few holidaymakers lying on the sand. One guy (square jaw, man-bun, shoulders-a-girl-could-perch-upon) is watching Jordan. He’s careful to flex his biceps as he pushes himself up from his towel and approaches.

  There’s no grand prize for guessing who he wants to talk to. It’s not going to be the invisible girl, is it?

  I sigh.

  Jordan and I have been travelling for almost six months now—first in Africa and now South-East Asia—but everywhere we go it’s the same: cute boy targets cute girl who looks like she’s alone. Girl who is actually alone is ignored. Always.

  I try not to let it get me down. I try to focus on the positives of travel—broadening my mind and all that crap. And I have changed. Before I left home, I was kind of intolerable. I thought I knew everything. I had my big, profound, heroic ideas about the world, life, the futility of existence yada, yada, yada … But now my privileged ass has left Australia and I’ve seen what others endure, I know I’m lucky.

  You’d think that would help—and it does, sometimes.

  But not now.

  The guy moves to take my bag from Jordan. ‘Want me to carry this for you?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’

  He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. ‘You thirsty? I’ve got some water …’

  ‘No. I’m good.’ Jordan hoists my bag higher onto her shoulder and walks to an empty banana bed and beach umbrella as the boy shrugs and lopes away.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ I say, following her.

  ‘Eh.’ Jordan drops my bag and lets her backpack fall to the sand, collapsing onto the banana bed. ‘I’m too hot to deal with it.’

  It’s 5 pm and the humidity is crushing but it’s an excuse—of course it is. Jordan feels bad that I’m a hopeless loser, destined to spend my life alone since I am invisible to everyone—except, according to the terms of my curse, my one true love.

  I appreciate Jordan’s compassion but it’s a whole swag of patronising.

  ‘Would you please stop feeling sorry for me?’ I tell her. ‘It’s really annoying.’

  She reclines on the banana bed, shutting her eyes and fanning herself.

  ‘I’m invisible, okay? No one is ever going to come over and say, “Want me to carry this for you?”’

  Jordan’s eyes remain closed. ‘Nice impression.’

  I thought so too, but I don’t want her to interrupt. ‘I know. But this is it! This is me! I’ll be alone until I die. So you need to get used to that and be normal. Okay?’

  Jordan opens her eyes, her eyebrows raised in an ‘are you finished’ kind of expression.

  ‘Okay?’ I insist again, slightly softer now that I realise my rant has achieved zip.

  ‘Okay,’ Jordan says, shutting her eyes again. ‘But I really was too hot to deal.’

  I sigh and crumple onto the sand beside her. ‘You’re too much, Pins.’

  She makes a disgruntled sound in the back of her throat, even though her nickname is a compliment. I wish I had legs like hers.

  ‘Is this about Tom?’ she says.

  Tom. Tom. Tom.

  I destroyed my relationship with Tom in a series of typical calamitous Olive moves almost a year ago. But Tom didn’t help the situation. He dumped me. That’s right. The one person in the world who had ever seen me dumped me.

  The pickle is, if he walked up to me on this beach today my heart would pretty much conduct open-heart surgery on itself to hand itself over to him. He is honestly the kindest person I’ve ever met. Not to mention so gorgeous I turn deranged in his presence.

  No. I’m not over Tom. I want to be. But I’m not.

  ‘It’s not about Tom,’ I snap.

  ‘The curse then?’

  I swear Jordan relishes bringing up the curse thing. Decades ago, back in Ireland, my grandmother, Muirgheal, fell in love with a gypsy boy, Derry, and became pregnant. She didn’t know Derry was promised to his cousin Branna, so when an old gypsy woman approached her, she didn’t realise the old woman’s ‘blessing’ for the baby in her stomach was in fact a curse.

  Only her true love will see her. They will see no one else.

  When the baby (my Ma) was born, she was invisible. And, somehow, that curse passed down to me. The only person who ever saw my Ma was my dad (but that’s a whole other story). And the only person who has ever seen me is … Tom.

  ‘The curse and Tom—it’s the same thing,’ I say, annoyed. ‘I have one true love and I screwed it up.’

  ‘Or maybe the curse is bullcac,’ Jordan says with her eyes still clo
sed. ‘Maybe Tom was never your true love and there are other people who can see you.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I scoff. ‘And maybe I should start up a backpacker hostel for bananas in pyjamas.’

  ‘Could work,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I thought we agreed not to worry about boys. It’s way better being single.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, dumb and brave. Jordan has always been fearless, independent, kick-ass. I’m a pathetic shadow trying to imitate her. The truth is, I’m scared of being alone. The truth is, I’m pretty sure I’m unlovable.

  Jordan feels around and finds my head. She pats me like an obedient seeing-eye dog. ‘You’ll be okay, babe.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘You’ve got me, don’t you?’

  For now, I think.

  ‘Go inside and do your stuff.’ Jordan waves me away. ‘I need AC like yesterday.’

  I jump to my feet. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  I stroll up the path between the cabanas to the hotel office. Rose would have a problem with me ‘doing my stuff’ but as an invisible person it’s almost an obligation. I’m good at sneaking around. It’s my natural god-given (or should I say gypsy-given?) talent. It’s wrong to deny one’s gifts.

  Borrowing hotel rooms has been a great way for paupers like Jordan and me to extend our travels. We both agree the more expensive the establishment, the more they have to spare. So it’s been five star all the way. Quite the excuse, I know, but it would be unethical for us to rip off family operations.

  We are virtuous thieves.

  At reception, I praise the gods of air conditioning as I assess the situation. Two pretty Vietnamese women in traditional dress are typing at screens behind the counter. A professional operation, no doubt.

  I stand behind them to see what booking system they’re using. I’ve learned a few systems by now. Ideally, I would wait for them to leave and add Jordan into the computer under ‘paid in advance’ so she can stroll right in. But this system is unfamiliar. It’s also in Vietnamese.

  I should probably go and try one of the other hotels but I really, really like this one. It’s the sort of place I can imagine Taylor Swift rolling into for a secret vay-cay. So instead of leaving I turn to the board behind the women, where lines of keys hang on quaint wooden keyrings. Rich people like rustic knick-knacks like this to remind them they are somewhere near a beach. They don’t necessarily want to swim in the water with the sea fleas or trek the grey sand back into their rooms—temperature-controlled swimming pools with cocktail-touting pool boys are far more convenient—but the odd traditional Vietnamese artwork or string of paper lanterns makes them feel like they’ve had an authentic Vietnamese stay. Idiots.

  My eyes run over the available villa keys and pause at ‘penthouse’. Damn it. Taylor’s not here. I’m proud of the fact that I hesitate for at least thirty seconds before I snatch it up.

  Out on the sand, Jordan has piled her hair into a top knot. ‘Did you get a room?’

  ‘Oh, I got a room.’

  She gets to her feet, hauling her backpack onto her shoulders. ‘I wish you could carry your own damn bag.’

  ‘We’ve been through this, darling. I am the magic maker and you …’

  ‘Are the cart horse,’ she finishes for me. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re a magic pain in the ass.’

  I smile at her. ‘Just wait till you see what I got you. Follow my footprints.’

  We start up the beach. ‘How long did you book me in for?’ she asks.

  Jordan doesn’t need to hear the truth about this. It will just stress her out. ‘I booked a week,’ I lie. ‘But you don’t need to check in. It’s a remote system.’

  The penthouse is actually a double story cabana at the far end of the property with a private plunge pool, garden and its own entrance to the beach.

  Jordan’s eyes go huge. ‘Olive!’

  ‘Winner! Winner! Chicken dinner!’ I say, running to the door.

  I unlock the double glass doors expecting bliss but it’s just as hot inside.

  ‘Cac.’ (FYI, Gaelic is the only way to swear.) ‘Need to find the AC.’

  Jordan has dumped the bags and is walking around in a state of ecstasy. ‘Your best work ever, Ol. This is phenomenal.’

  I take the compliment. I’m somewhat of a collector. I wave a tiny bottle at her from the mini bar. ‘Drinkie?’

  Her grin is broad as the horizon back home. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  I hear the shower turn on so I slip out to look for food. In the kitchen, room service trolleys with white tablecloths are lined up. A chef is loading steaming plates onto them which are quickly covered by stainless steel lids. I wait until nobody is looking then pull the closest trolley out the door behind me. I hurry down the corridor and outside. I keep expecting someone to follow me out of the kitchen yelling. But nobody does. A family appear around the corner and I freeze.

  ‘That trolley was moving by itself!’ the daughter says.

  ‘Oooooh! It’s a ghost!’ her brother teases her.

  I stick out my foot and trip him. Nobody calls me a ghost.

  Jordan is sitting on the deck with a drink in her hand when I return. ‘You’ve been hunting.’

  ‘I have.’ I push the trolley to her side and unveil the food. ‘Oysters!’ I take off another lid. ‘And chips!’

  ‘Oh my god. Yum.’ She pats the seat next to her. ‘And this is for you,’ she says, handing me a drink.

  And like that, we begin.

  It’s a brilliant night; there’s a K-Pop marathon on MTV Asia and we dance and sing, howling at the moon. The AC takes a while to kick in so we jump in and out of the plunge pool, trying to outdo each other in handstand competitions. I challenge Jordan to a Bring It On dance battle and we spend an epic hour busting moves. I’m easily the winner but Jordan won’t concede.

  ‘You could be sitting on your ass the whole song as far as I can tell,’ she says.

  I splash some pool water at her. ‘You should be more gracious in defeat, Pins. It sucks you can’t witness my talent but I guarantee I’m better. I’ve got that X factor.’

  Jordan snorts. ‘You sure do.’

  It’s almost midnight when Jordan calls down to me from the upstairs balcony. I’m in the pool and she’s leaning over the banister so far I’m scared she’s going to tumble. ‘I can see a party down there.’ She points down the beach. ‘On the sand.’

  ‘Should we go?’ I call back up to her.

  ‘Hell yeah!’

  CHAPTER

  2

  The party is at a bar on the beach. Coloured bulbs are strung up around bamboo poles and cheap plastic chairs and tables are wedged into the sand. Cheesy pop is playing and a bar attendant is popping bottle tops off Saigon Specials. A youth hostel is perched above, its shacks and wooden deck looking down on the bar below.

  The crowd is cool. They’re not particularly pretty but they’re half naked because of the Vietnamese heat, they’re tanned from the Vietnamese sun and the local smiles are catching, so everyone is mellow.

  Jordan pulls me into the group dancing on the sand. She knows it’s my favourite thing to do. Dancing is as close as it gets to feeling normal when you’re invisible. Everyone is moving carelessly so I can be close to people without worrying about bumping into anyone. It’s loud too, so it doesn’t look strange if Jordan shouts something to me. I spin around in the crowd and cause some mild chaos; undoing a bikini string here, trickling sand into a drink there. After a few songs, I say to Jordan, ‘Go get one drink, two straws.’

  She gives me the thumbs up and I keep dancing as she sashays to the bar.

  A group is demanding Justin Bieber, and when the DJ switches it on, they whoop in approval and call for ‘Diebs, Diebs, Diebs,’ rather than ‘Biebs’.

  In response, a guy tugs his pants down his hipbones and slaps his cap on sideways, then he turns to the group and starts lip-syncing, baby, baby, baby … and whatever the rest of the words are.

  The crowd have circled ‘Diebs’, so I find
a spot next to Jordan, who has a coconut cup in her hands with two straws poking out.

  She snorts. ‘What a dweeb.’

  ‘Someone didn’t get enough attention in high school.’

  But as he moves closer, my heart beats with more intensity than the bass. Somehow this ‘Diebs’ has my full, undivided attention.

  It’s important to mention at this point that I’ve seen more than my fair share of good-looking guys. I’ve mingled at film premieres with A-grade movie stars and stood backstage at fashion week watching the male models pull their skinny jeans over their jocks. I know beauty.

  But this boy is something more. And he knows it.

  ‘Cac,’ I mutter.

  ‘What?’ Jordan says.

  ‘Look at him.’

  He moves closer, flirting with every girl he passes. My toes curl until they cramp. I hate guys like this. I will never fall for one. Real or imagined. Never. Ever. Ever.

  But then he steps in front of me.

  His face is all about his eyebrows. They’re dense and dark and dance like they have a life of their own. You can hardly see his eyes they’re so deep set. But they’re there; laughing at me. Deep ocean blue. Not sky blue like mine. Like Tom’s.

  Tom.

  I swallow and feel pain. But then Dieber winks at me.

  He can’t have winked at me. He can’t.

  It’s impossible to look at his face so I look down. Christ—beautiful hands! How can someone have beautiful fingers? He moves close and for one blissful instant I’m sure he’s going to kiss me—my breath cuts out—but it’s Jordan he’s going for. Of course it is.

  Tie me up and tear out my heart. There is no point to me standing here. Living this life. I’ve never felt more ripped off.

  At least he’s not kissing her either. He takes a straw of Jordan’s coconut drink between his lips and sucks, his eyes planted on Jordan the whole time. His look is so come-hither, I think my heart will rupture with jealousy.

  The hollow at the base of Jordan’s throat blushes deep pink. She’s fallen for him too. I want to take that straw and stab him in the eye. But he’s removing his lips, then he takes his thumb and finger and pinches her cheek—seriously, like a grandma would do to a two-year-old—then he turns and dances to the middle of the circle, lifting his arms above his head, beckoning everyone to join him. And they do, chanting, ‘Baby, baby, baby.’