The Out of Office Girl

by Nicola Doherty

  My emails have loaded now. I can feel the stress rising in my chest as I see them queue up relentlessly. Olivia tends to copy me in on her emails, and then people copy me in to their replies, so it all adds up. My title is assistant editor, which means that I edit a lot of Olivia’s books, and then I’m also her assistant, which means a lot of juggling. It’s all good experience, though. I hope so, anyway.

  ‘Cup of ambition?’ says Poppy, waving her coffee mug.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Come to think of it, where is Olivia? She’s normally in by now. And what was she calling about last night? I have had my fair share of disasters over the years, but I thought I’d done quite well lately. None of her emails look too serious – there’s an agent complaining about a cover, and an author who’s upset about his Amazon ranking, but nothing catastrophic.

  It must be something to do with Luther’s book. That is a code orange situation: it’s running very late and everyone is getting panicked about it. We’ve just had the first draft in, and it’s terrible. It skips over all the interesting parts – such as his relationship with his father; the drugs and rehab; his whirlwind marriage and divorce; the time he disappeared for a year . . . I think Olivia’s been slightly taken aback by how much I know about Luther Carson. It’s not that I have a crush on him exactly. Well, OK, of course I do – who doesn’t? – but I also think he’s a very intriguing character. In fact, I was the one who suggested him as a subject for an autobiography.

  I decide to try Olivia again. There’s still no answer: that’s strange. Just after I hang up, my phone rings. I wonder if this is her now, but the display says Daphne Totnall – our managing director’s PA.

  ‘What does she want?’ I ask aloud.

  ‘Who?’ Poppy asks, coming back from the kitchen.

  ‘Hello,’ says Daphne. ‘Can you come up and see Alasdair please?’

  ‘Of course.’ I hang up. What the hell is happening this morning?

  Poppy hands me my coffee. ‘What’s up?’ she asks curiously.

  ‘The MD wants to see me,’ I say. I’m already walking towards the lift. More people have arrived by now, including the horrible Claudine, who is channelling Audrey Hepburn today in skinny black trousers and pearls. They all hear Poppy call after me, ‘Good luck! Don’t jump!’

  As I ride the lift up to Alasdair’s office, I wipe my clammy palms on my skirt and examine myself in the mirrored wall. What possessed me to wear a black skirt with a white shirt? I look like a waitress. Otherwise, I look the same as ever: straight, long blond hair, embarrassingly pink cheeks, anxious expression. Daphne barely looks up from her spreadsheets as she tells me to go straight inside.

  I’ve never actually been in here before. The office is enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a panoramic view over the Thames. There is Alasdair’s spaniel, asleep in a basket beside the window. And there is Alasdair himself getting up from his desk.

  ‘Alice. Thanks very much for coming up,’ he says smoothly, shaking my hand and motioning me to sit down, just as if I was a powerful old buddy of his. He is about my dad’s age, with badgery grey hair, twinkly dark eyes and a deep tan from his frequent sailing and shooting holidays.

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he says.

  What bad news? Am I being fired? But if I am, there should be someone here from HR, surely. And shouldn’t I have had a few warnings first? I’ll have to call Erica . . .

  ‘Olivia has to have emergency surgery,’ Alasdair continues, ‘for a double hernia. She’s in hospital and they’ll operate as early as they can tomorrow. She’ll be out of action for at least two weeks, maybe more.’

  I put my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘That’s awful.’ Poor Olivia. That sounds gruesome. Though I have to say I’m also relieved that I’m not going to be fired. How did this happen? She was completely fine yesterday.

  ‘We’ve just spoken on the phone, about her various projects,’ he continues.

  ‘Of course.’ I know Olivia’s schedule by heart, so I can help him with this. It’s going to mean a lot of extra work. I imagine I’ll keep working on the books I have already, and take on most of the others – maybe we can farm some out . . .

  I suddenly find that Alasdair is talking and I haven’t been listening.

  ‘. . . Luther Carson. I believe the manuscript isn’t up to scratch?’

  ‘Oh! Well—’ Now I realise I have my arms folded, and my legs crossed and folded round the chair legs, like a pretzel. Slowly, so it doesn’t seem too obvious, I rearrange myself into a more confident-looking posture. ‘No, it’s not. It’s just not personal enough. It leaves out all the most interesting parts. Brian’s very good, so I’m sure he’s done his best,’ I add quickly. Brian is the ghostwriter. ‘It just looks as though he hasn’t had any proper input from Luther yet.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to fix that,’ Alasdair says. ‘I’m not expecting The Moon’s a Balloon. But it’s got to be readable. It’s got to have drama; it’s got to have a bit of misery – not too much, but we have to have his lows as well as his highs. He knows that. It’s in the contract. We put in a specific clause stipulating that there would be significant content relating to his childhood, the drugs and the divorce, and the time he disappeared for a year.’

  I nod. The mention of this clause gives me a strange, uneasy feeling – I can’t quite put my finger on it though.

  ‘So, as you know, we need a finished manuscript in about . . .?’ He looks at me expectantly. Get it right.

  ‘Four weeks.’

  ‘Four weeks at the latest, in time to have copies in early September. We need this book to turn over a million pounds this Christmas, or we won’t make budget.’

  I do know all this, but it sounds extra scary when Alasdair says it.

  ‘So, as you know, we’ve provided Luther with somewhere to stay in Sicily – a very nice place, near Taormina, at our expense, to sort the book out. The ghostwriter is there with him. Before Olivia got ill, she and I talked about her going over there to help him, to apply some pressure, edit the book as it comes out. I think you should go.’

  What? Me go to Sicily? Has he lost his mind?

  ‘Well, of course, if you think that’s the best thing,’ I hear myself saying. ‘And work with Brian?’

  ‘No, work with Luther. Sit him down and exercise your influence and generally sit on him until he finishes this book.’

  I boggle at the picture he’s just created – for a number of reasons. Is he serious? How on earth am I going to exert my influence on Luther Carson? I don’t have any influence.

  ‘Alice, we have given this some thought, and I do think it’s the best option. Normally we would prefer to send someone more senior, but you’re the most familiar with the project. Olivia tells me you know everything there is to know about him. And I hear great things about your editing. She was very impressed with your work on the pet rescue memoir.’

  The pet rescue memoir: what a nightmare. Three horses, twenty cats, twelve dogs and assorted birds and reptiles, and one author who loved animals as much as she hated humans. A batty pet lady, though, is not the same as an A-list film star. I’m about to try to phrase this in a more tactful way, but Alasdair is still speaking.

  ‘I suggest you spend a day or so wrapping up here and as soon as you can, book yourself an open return to Sicily. Daphne will help you with the details, flights and so on. Have a word with Ellen and the team downstairs to reallocate all your other work, but this takes priority.’

  This is all happening way too fast. An hour ago I was Olivia’s assistant and now she’s in hospital and I’m on my way to – to work with Luther Carson. To handle a book more important than any I’ve ever worked on before, with an author who, gorgeous as he is, is probably pretty bloody difficult. I can’t do it. I’m not senior enough, and I don’t have enough experience. I’ll have to tell him I need time to think about it, or something.

  Alasdair looks up and says, ‘Is there anything else?’

  I o
pen my mouth to say yes, but something stops me.

  I’ve just realised something blindingly obvious. This might be scary, but it’s a huge opportunity. He’s giving me the keys to the kingdom. What am I doing, second-guessing and dragging my heels like this? I should be flattered that they’re even asking me. I need to stop wimping-out, right now, and step up.

  ‘No,’ I say as firmly as I can. ‘That’s all very clear. I’ll handle it.’

  Alasdair smiles and stands up to shake my hand.

  ‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Keep in touch and let me know if you need anything.’

  I’m halfway to the door when he calls me back.

  ‘Alice,’ he says, ‘your current title is assistant editor, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, turning round. Is he going to rethink because I’m too junior? Don’t change your mind, I think frantically. I want to go! I can do it!

  ‘Well, we’ll have to see about changing that when you come back with the book in your bag,’ he says. ‘Editor, or senior editor, even.’

  I force myself not to let out a shriek of joy. ‘That sounds – good,’ I say in a measured tone. ‘Thanks.’

  I head out the door in a total daze. I forget to say goodbye to Daphne, and I walk straight into a big pot plant on the way to the lift. My cheeks are flushed and I feel sick and elated at the same time. My big break. That thought keeps repeating itself in my mind, but at the same time there’s another one, that’s even more insistent: I’m going to meet Luther Carson.

  THREE

  ‘Did he really say: I want you to sit on him until he writes his book?’ asks Ruth, almost crying with laughter.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ I say happily. We’re sitting at a tiny table outside The Cow on Westbourne Park Road, near where Ruth lives. It’s not especially handy for me, but much as I love her, Ruth is one of those friends whom you travel to see, not the other way around. Beautiful people are swarming all around us, but Ruth cleverly arrived early and bagged us a table outside. This was meant to be a commiseration-about-Simon drink but it’s turned into a celebration. It’s a lovely July evening, the summer is finally here. Life is good. Actually, life is great.

  ‘Well, I can’t get over it,’ says Ruth, which I’m not sure is flattering. ‘Not that you don’t deserve it,’ she adds quickly. ‘It’s just so surreal. My best friend from school is going on holiday with Luther Carson. What next? Is Mike going to start playing basketball with Leonardo DiCaprio?’

  Mike is Ruth’s current boyfriend, an Irish banker she met through work. Before Mike there was Jonny, and before Jonny – was it James or Chris? I can’t remember. Ruth is one of those people who just skips effortlessly from one man to the next. There is never a gap of longer than a few weeks, and sometimes there’s an overlap. I don’t know how she does it. Of course, she’s very pretty, with big brown eyes and a sort of tomboy look, and she also works in financial PR which seems to be a better source of men than publishing. In contrast, before Simon, I was single for about nine months – total tumbleweed except for a couple of awkward dates. But who cares about Simon when I have Luther Carson?

  ‘I’m not going on holiday with him,’ I remind her. ‘I’m going to work and I’m terrified. I’ve never handled an author as big as him before. Stop laughing!’

  Eventually Ruth calms down. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she says, wiping her eyes. ‘You’ll get over there, worm all his dark secrets out of him, and he’ll cry on your shoulder and fall madly in love with you.’

  ‘You think?’ I’m laughing, because it’s so ridiculous, but secretly I quite like that idea – strictly as a fantasy, of course.

  ‘Totally! He’ll find your down-to-earth English charm so refreshing after all the Hollywood bullshit. He’ll say, “Alice, I’m tired of these Botoxed bimbos. All they want is to be photographed on my arm. I need you.”’

  ‘Hah.’ I wish I had Ruth’s confidence. ‘That’s a nice idea. But it’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I look at her to see if she’s serious. ‘Because – he’s a major star. He works with the most beautiful women in the world on a daily basis. He was married to Dominique Rice. I’m not even going to be on his radar.’

  ‘You never know,’ says Ruth.

  ‘I do know. But even if he did have some sort of interest in me, which he won’t, there’s no way we could ever have a – a romance.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘Because the book is too important. If I don’t do a good job with it, it will be a disaster for the company. It’s a major part of our budget.’

  ‘So why don’t you have a fling with him and do a great job on the book?’ Ruth asks. ‘Simples.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I start counting reasons on my fingers. ‘First: I have to be able to tell him what to do and I can’t if I’m – you know. Second: it would be totally unprofessional. And third, I would be fired and my career would be over.’

  ‘But you won’t need a career once you’re married to Luther Carson. Joking! I’m joking, Alice! You shouldn’t take things so seriously.’ She pats my arm. ‘It’s about time Olivia gave you a fun job like this. You’ve edited enough nightmare books for her. I’m glad she’s finally recognising what you can do.’

  I’m about to say that I haven’t actually had a chance to talk to Olivia about it all yet, but Ruth is taking a call.

  ‘Hi honey! Yes, fine . . . I’m here in The Cow with Alice. Really? Why don’t you come along?’ She looks at me with an ‘Is that OK?’ expression. I mime back, ‘Of course.’ She continues to chat – it’s obviously Mike – and I check my own phone. Two texts. One is from a friend asking if there is any news on Simon. Oh God, I wish I hadn’t told so many people about my problems with him. And one from my flatmate, Ciara: ‘Great news! R u celebrating? Where r u?’ I text back: ‘At The Cow Westbourne Pk Rd. Come!’

  Ruth is off the phone now. ‘That was Mike,’ she says, blissfully and unnecessarily. ‘He’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say, swallowing my disappointment. Mike’s nice. It’s just that I haven’t seen Ruth on her own in ages . . . and this was meant to be our commiseration-turned-celebration drink . . . oh well.

  ‘Anyway.’ She tops up my glass. ‘Listen, Alice. You’ll be completely fine. You can handle this guy. Just don’t rule anything out. A fling with him could be just the thing to help you get your confidence back after Simon.’

  I’m about to ask if she’s still joking when Mike arrives. He’s come in a black cab, which tells me that a) he’s dying to see Ruth and b) he’s pretty rich. I approve of a) and I’m not that bothered about b). I’ve never been into rich City types. I prefer creative people, which Ruth would say is part of my problem.

  Mike gives Ruth a quick but enthusiastic kiss, and nods pleasantly at me. They make a nice couple. She’s petite and dark, and he’s short, too, but built for rugby, with sandy hair and freckles. As soon as he’s got back from the bar with his pint, Ruth fills him in discreetly.

  ‘GUESS WHAT? Alice is going on holiday with LUTHER CARSON!!!’

  ‘Who?’ says Mike. I make frantic ‘shushing’ sounds to Ruth – even in this achingly cool spot, one or two people have looked around curiously.

  ‘The actor? He was in The Last Legionnaire, you know, and Stars on the Water, about the man whose wife dies—’

  ‘Oh, your man. He was in that other film, wasn’t he, about the two cowboys?’ Mike surprises us by saying. ‘That was a good film.’

  ‘Brokeback Mountain. Um, that was Jake Gyllenhaal,’ I say tactfully.

  ‘I didn’t know you liked that film.’ Ruth gazes at Mike in wonder, as if he’s just saved a child from drowning or discovered a cure for cancer.

  ‘There’s more to me than multiplexes,’ Mike says. ‘So how come you’re going on holiday with him?’

  I explain. Mike nods thoughtfully, then says, ‘Is he not a bit young to be writing his autobiography?’

  ‘Well, he is,’ I say
. ‘But he has quite a story to tell. He was a star at twenty-four, when he did Fever—’

  ‘Then he was incredibly successful, and then he went off the rails and disappeared for a year,’ Ruth adds. ‘Nobody knows where he went.’

  ‘And then he had a big comeback with The Last Legionnaire. And his upbringing was crazy. He and his family were homeless for a while.’

  ‘And, and, he was married to Dominique Rice – you’ve got to get him to do lots on that,’ says Ruth to me. ‘Honestly, how can you not know all this?’ she asks, turning to Mike.

  ‘OK, fair enough,’ says Mike, holding up his hands. ‘You two are well informed. It’s your job, Alice, but how do you know so much about this guy?’ he asks Ruth.

  ‘Well, duh,’ she says. ‘It’s general knowledge.’

  ‘Is it,’ says Mike, raising one eyebrow. ‘So what’s he got that I haven’t, for example?’

  Ruth and I exchange looks.

  ‘Aside from being a multimillion-dollar-earning, good-looking film star,’ Mike concedes. ‘What’s the big fascination?’

  ‘I suppose . . . it’s the bad boy thing,’ I say shyly.

  ‘Completely,’ says Ruth. ‘He’s always out on the tiles and getting into trouble . . .’

  ‘Not so much now, that was a few years ago,’ I say.

  ‘But you just know it’s because of some kind of pain in his past . . . his crazy childhood . . . the divorce . . . and he’s so talented . . .’ Ruth looks dreamy; Mike looks sceptical.

  ‘I’d say you’ll have your hands full with him, all right,’ he says.

  ‘I’d love to have my hands full with—’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I chip in hastily, before Ruth gets herself into more trouble. ‘He probably is difficult, but I’ll just have to do my best.’