The Out of Office Girl

by Nicola Doherty

  Annabel roots around, and produces what looks, at first, like a bikini, but what I then realise is a swimsuit: one of those scary ones that plunge right to the navel with huge cut-outs at the side. It’s a neon lime-green colour that would look fantastic on someone very skinny with a tan, and I absolutely know, without even trying it on, that it will look horrendous on me, with my pale skin and chunky thighs.

  ‘Now this is cute! The straps are adjustable, so it should fit,’ she says, sounding dubious.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say helplessly.

  ‘No problem!’ She turns away and sits down at her dressing table, and starts slapping on some expensive-looking lotion.

  ‘Um . . .’ I hate to ask her another favour, but for the moment I don’t see the alternative. ‘I don’t suppose you could lend me – a T-shirt or something? Just to have something spare, until I can sort out getting my suitcase back, or buy something . . .’

  ‘Oh.’ She gets up reluctantly. ‘Oh, dear, oh dear.’ She sighs and flicks through some rails. ‘I’m not too sure what I have that will fit you . . .’

  Is she for real? We’re not that different in size, surely. I have never met anyone as breathtakingly rude in real life – not since my all-girls school, anyway.

  ‘You could try this . . . it’s elasticated so it might work.’ She hands me a wrinkled linen knee-length brown dress, with cap sleeves and a white frill around the neck. It’s pretty hideous, but the look in her eyes tells me there’s not going to be anything else on offer.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. And then I remember about my Factor 45; that’s the only thing I definitely can’t do without. ‘I hate to be a pain, but do you have any spare suntan lotion? Don’t worry if you don’t . . .’

  ‘No,’ says Annabel. ‘I mean, I have this Sisley stuff but it’s extremely expensive.’ She just looks at me as if no further explanation is needed. Which it isn’t.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll manage. Thanks again,’ and I make an exit.

  What a cow. I know it must be annoying to have a stranger ask to borrow things, but still. Thankfully, Brian has some waterproof Factor 50 for kids. It’s very white and gloopy, and difficult to rub in, but at least I won’t get burned. He won’t need it, he says, because he’s not going on the yacht.

  ‘I don’t want to get sunburnt again,’ he says. ‘My head got burnt the other day and it was terrible. I am going to reread this draft, and see if there is anything remotely salvageable in it. Could we just make it all up, Alice, do you think?’

  I leave him setting up his laptop in the shade, under the canopy. Maria Santa has brought him more tea and some little lemon biscuits, and I’m consoled to think that, even if he is having a terrible time, he has a nice place to have it in.

  I stand for a minute on the terrace, drinking in the scenery. It’s like being on the prow of a ship. I’ve never seen anything so blue. To the left I can see a town high up on the cliff-top – that must be Taormina. In the terraced garden below, I can see chickens scratching among the olive and lemon trees. Aside from the chickens clucking, the only noise is the hypnotic sound of the sea. I’m picturing how lovely it will be on the yacht when I remember, to my horror, that I still need to ring Poppy and find out about the clause. I hurry back to my bedroom and close the door and the window so nobody can hear me: I can just picture Sam lurking outside in the bushes.

  Thankfully, Poppy answers her phone after a few rings.

  ‘Alice!’ she says. ‘Ciao, bella! How is Italy? What’s going on? It is such a miserable rainy day here! You’re so lucky to be—’

  I’ve just noticed I only have one bar of battery left, so I cut her short.

  ‘Poppy. I think I’m having a disaster. I need you to check something for me . . .’ I explain as quickly as I can. Poppy says, ‘Give me five minutes. I’ll go and look.’

  As I wait for her to get back to me, I fan myself with my passport. It’s a little cooler inside, but I’m still melting. I’d love a dip, but can I really brave Annabel’s neon horror suit? I think longingly of my faithful black M&S swimsuit, which is now having a holiday of its own somewhere . . . But then I reproach myself. This isn’t a holiday. If this clause is missing, I’ll have a lot more to worry about than unflattering beach wear.

  ‘OK, I’m back,’ says Poppy. ‘Look, it’s not there.’

  ‘What’s not there – the contract?’

  ‘No. The clause. I’ve read it through twice. I’m sorry.’

  I close my eyes and sit down heavily on the bed. I knew it. I remember now. Olivia emailed me at the last minute, asking me to do a whole load of things and at the very end was the clause. And I forgot.

  ‘Alice? Are you still there?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Look, it’s not necessarily the end of the world. He could end up telling you about these things in the clause anyway.’

  ‘But he doesn’t have to. It means we can’t hold it over him as a threat. And if the book goes wrong we have no legal redress, and it will be my fault and I’ll be fired.’ I feel so sick, I can barely talk.

  ‘You won’t be fired. People make mistakes. It’s not ideal but it happens. I think you should just tell Olivia, or Alasdair, so then at least they know, and they’re prepared if there’s a hitch.’

  I knew she was going to say this. Poppy is so straightforward. I don’t know if she’s confident because she’s straightforward, or straightforward because she’s confident, but she’s both, and the truth is I’m neither.

  ‘I can’t.’ I add miserably, ‘Olivia already thinks I’m not up to it.’

  ‘What?’

  I hadn’t planned on telling her about my deathbed conversation with Olivia, but it all comes out.

  ‘Well, that’s Olivia for you,’ Poppy says bluntly. ‘She’s not exactly supportive. Look, you won’t get Luther’s story out of him with legal threats anyway. You’ll just have to get him onside another way.’

  ‘I suppose,’ I say unhappily. ‘Listen, I’d better go. We’re about to go on the yacht and I think everyone’s waiting for me.’

  ‘There you go! You’re already bonding with him. Just be your charming self and get to know him properly, and you’ll have him eating out of your hand.’

  My despair gets even worse once I climb into Annabel’s horror suit. It looks every bit as horrific as I’d imagined; the green colour makes me look like a plague victim and I’m falling out of it, too: the straps give me a hideous side cleavage. Maybe I should just wear the linen dress instead? Unable to decide, I get back into my own clothes, and go back to the terrace to try and calm myself down by admiring the view.

  ‘Did Annabel lend you something to wear?’ a voice behind me asks.

  It’s Sam. Looming behind him is a huge, snow-capped mountain, seemingly right behind the house, though I know it’s miles away. This must be Mount Etna: I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it before. It looks sort of ominous, actually.

  ‘Oh – yes. I mean – she did, but I think I’ll still try and get my bag back.’

  ‘Don’t bother. It’s probably halfway to Beijing by now. You should just borrow more stuff from her; she arrived with about eight suitcases.’

  I can tell he doesn’t like her either, but I don’t care. Why this sudden interest in my clothes? I’m not a child. I can look after my own wardrobe, for God’s sake.

  ‘It’s fine. I don’t need a huge wardrobe to edit Luther’s book,’ I say shortly.

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But if you get tired of wearing your pyjamas all day, let me know.’ And he walks off.

  I no longer think he’s being helpful about my clothes: he is horrible. Do my trousers really look like pyjamas? I thought they were fairly smart, but then I didn’t envisage them having to last for the entire trip. I suddenly wish I was here with Simon, on a romantic holiday instead of on a stressful work trip. But before I go into another slump over Simon, I remind myself: I’m about to go on a yacht with Luther Carson! I’m not going to let a hitch with the contract, or
his nasty agent, stop me from getting to know him.

  SIX

  ‘. . . So I don’t know if you knew this, but it came down to me or – guess who? Rosamund Pike. And the director doesn’t like Rosamund Pike. He hates her! He thinks she’s awful! He can’t stand her! But he was forced to have her because she’s a big name. He would have much preferred me though. It’s a real shame for him.’

  As I listen to Annabel ranting on, it occurs to me that things would be much easier if we were doing her life story: she’s certainly very ready with information.

  This yacht really is something. I’ve never known what all the fuss about yachts is, but this is wonderful. We’re going fast, but you can’t tell – it’s so smooth, it’s almost like flying. The coast looks so beautiful and green from here, and the sea is intensely blue, except where it’s foaming white behind us. The only thing that’s letting down the perfect scene is me.

  I decided not to wear the scratchy linen dress, which felt a bit like a hair shirt. Instead I’ve thrown yesterday’s navy T-shirt on over the lime-green horror suit. Annabel, of course, looks sensational in a turquoise and blue bikini, with her hair in a cute turban. This suit is so indecent I have to stay covered up in my T-shirt, probably looking like an Amish schoolgirl, with my white legs providing a lovely contrast for Annabel’s tanned, smooth limbs. To add the finishing touch to my outfit, I’m carrying my handbag with the scratchy dress tucked inside it just in case. Annabel of course has a beautiful striped cotton beach bag.

  Our host, Federico, is also extremely elegant in a natty orange polo shirt and shorts. He is about Luther’s age or a little older, and handsome in a kind of cartoon-hero way, with crisp curly black hair and bright blue eyes, and friendly enough, but with a strangely blank expression. When he and I were introduced he looked at me in a puzzled way as if he wasn’t sure what I was doing there.

  ‘This is Alison,’ Annabel told him. ‘She wants Luther to write a book.’

  ‘It’s Alice, actually. Hello,’ I put out my hand. As he shook it, he looked me up and down and I could tell he was wondering where on earth Luther found me. As far as I can make out, he and his wife are friendly with Sam and Luther, but how or why I don’t yet know.

  Federico and Sam are now doing something manly with ropes towards the front of the boat. Luther and Annabel are lounging on the white sofa area below me, drinking champagne. She’s putting her hand on his arm and laughing away at something he’s said.

  I’ve crept away to the top deck to get a few moments alone just lying in the sun. I had hoped to talk to Luther some more, but Annabel kept bringing the conversation back to Roman Holiday and also some independent film she’s been in. I get the impression she wants Luther to do something to help the film out. Sitting there with the two of them, I felt like a lime-green gooseberry. I just keep telling myself this is only a temporary hiccup, and I will get to talk to Luther properly at some stage. I decide to get some sun, horror suit and all, and take off my T-shirt.

  I’ve had my eyes closed for what feels like about five minutes, when a shadow falls across me. I look up; it’s Luther. Every time I see him, it’s as if reality bends and I have to get used to him all over again. He’s carrying two champagne flutes – chilled from the fridge – and a bottle of Moët. It’s like a daydream. My first reaction is embarrassment that he’s found me skulking up here – but of course, I’m thrilled, flattered, and amazed that he’s tracked me down. I bet Annabel’s not pleased.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Can I pour you a drink?’

  He sits down gracefully beside me, one knee propped up, the other leg stretched in front of him, and leans against the little cabin wall behind us. He looks even better with his clothes on, if possible: frayed white knee-length denim shorts and a faded blue Penguin shirt. Even his bare feet are beautiful. Most men’s feet are not their best feature, but Luther’s are lovely. I’m suddenly abashed again when I compare his lean, bronzed limbs to my pallid body. Why didn’t I get a pedicure, like Ruth suggested? I discreetly put the T-shirt back on, pulling it down over my thighs.

  ‘So what brings you up here?’ he asks. ‘Were you maxed out on movie talk?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I don’t want to sound rude. ‘I’m just enjoying the view.’

  ‘It’s so peaceful after Rome. It was a tough shoot.’ He closes his eyes briefly. ‘I mean it’s a fun romantic comedy, but you’re doing it in the shadow of a huge classic. And there were some restrictions on the locations, so we had to shoot at odd hours – it was pretty exhausting.’

  ‘Oh, gosh, of course. Did you – think it went well?’ I feel uncertain asking him about his craft.

  ‘I hope so. She’s a tough director, though. Sometimes, in the bigger scenes, we’d have to do thirty takes one after the other, without being told why, and then sometimes when it was just me and Natasha, she’d only let us have one.’

  I nod, thinking I’ll have to get a handle on all this acting talk if I’m to bond with him.

  ‘And it’s been kind of non-stop – a couple of other people from the cast were here last weekend, and with Annabel still here, it’s almost like I’m still on set.’

  ‘Oh! So there was a group of you?’ I’m pleased to know that Annabel didn’t get a special invitation.

  ‘Yeah, Annabel’s stayed on. She’s a good kid. I like British girls.’ He glances at me, half smiling. Wow. Is he flirting with me? I must just be imagining it.

  ‘Anyway, we had fun. There were some dance scenes; that was interesting to do. It’s a while since I did any of those.’

  ‘Of course! I know! I loved you in Fever,’ I say sincerely. ‘I am such a big fan of dance movies, and I think it’s one of the best. You were amazing in it.’

  He looks very pleased.

  ‘Yeah?’ he says. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘There are such great social undercurrents in it. Like, when all the couples are lining up after the formal dance, and the principal won’t shake your hand . . . that was so moving, and such a terrible indictment of society in those days.’ I shake my head, realising, as I do, that the champagne is going to my head.

  ‘It’s interesting you should say that. You know, something a lot like that happened to me in high school,’ he says.

  ‘Really?’ I’m enthralled. This is more like it: personal reminiscences! I sit up, and tuck my legs under me, tugging the hem of the suit down as I do.

  ‘Yeah. I had this real ass of a principal . . . I was going to be in the school play, which was Our Town, and the week before I got busted with a buddy who had some weed on him. We weren’t even on school property – we were just outside in his car. But anyway, we got caught – I didn’t have anything on me but they claimed he was selling it to me. There was a huge row and the principal – Mr Spelling, can you believe that was his name – wanted me suspended and out of the play.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The drama teacher said it was impossible because there wasn’t an understudy, so he let me be in the play. But, if you’ll believe this, he wouldn’t let me take the curtain call.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Sure thing. The rest of the cast came out and took their bow and everything, but I had to stay backstage in the naughty corner.’ He swigs some champagne. ‘I didn’t give a damn but my mom and grandma were in the audience, and I felt bad for them. People were talking about me and what happened, this nosy neighbour lady gave them a hard time . . . it was such bullshit.’

  ‘So what were you doing while they were taking their bows?’

  He grins. ‘I was backstage getting high!’

  I can’t help laughing at this; the champagne makes it seem even funnier. I’m thrilled that he’s already talking about two of the things in the contents clause: drugs and childhood – sort of. That could be Chapter One, in fact – though we’d have to change the principal’s name, of course. We’re still laughing when Sam emerges on to our deck.

  Somehow, what with the champagne and my state of undress, I feel like w
e’ve been caught doing something illicit. But after a quick glance at us, all he says is, ‘Hey, Luther. I talked to Paula and they’re sending over the Fur Coat Blues script.’

  ‘Yeah?’ says Luther. ‘I don’t know, man. It sounds so weird.’

  ‘I think you should read it. I’ll let you know when it’s here,’ says Sam, and disappears. God, he’s bossy. Does Luther just let him talk to him like that?

  ‘Sam is a great guy,’ says Luther soberly, once he’s gone. ‘He’s saved my ass so many times. And he got me Roman Holiday which is a terrific part. If you decide to move to Hollywood and break into movies, Alice, make sure he’s your agent.’ He raises his glass in Sam’s direction, then clinks it with mine.

  ‘I don’t think I will,’ I say. ‘Move to Hollywood, I mean.’ The champagne doesn’t seem to be helping my repartee.

  ‘It’s hard to get in with the real agents,’ Luther says. ‘A lot of kids coming to Hollywood end up with crappy managers instead. They just set up from their bedrooms. They’re not allowed to find work for you, but they all do. Some of them take huge percentages on crummy jobs they didn’t even get for you, charge you for headshots – some of them are basically just pimps.’

  Wow. I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just nod, thinking how unbelievably handsome he looks, frowning, with his hair ruffling in the wind, and the sea behind him. I decide to try and turn the conversation back to him, do a little gentle probing.

  ‘So . . . who was your agent, when you did Fever?’

  He shrugs. ‘I didn’t have one. My mom found me a lawyer who read the contract – though I doubt he knew what the hell he was doing, because all he mostly did was fake insurance claims. And we signed it. That was it. It seems incredible now, when I look back. The truth is I was lucky.’