The Out of Office Girl

by Nicola Doherty

  For want of anywhere better, I start walking towards my room. My heart is thumping. I’m furious. How dare he say I’m out to exploit Luther? And simultaneously, I’m terrified. I feel as if I’m falling down a very steep cliff, at the bottom of which is the company in ruins, the missing clause discovered, disgrace, my career over . . . What if there is no book?

  ‘You look like you just saw a ghost.’

  It’s Luther. He’s emerged from his room, which is opposite mine, looking heart-stoppingly handsome. He’s dressed for going out, in a grey linen jacket over a blue T-shirt and narrow jeans, but his hair is all messed up, as if he’s been having a nap. He’s carrying a FedEx package.

  ‘Check this out,’ he says. ‘I just got a little care package from Sandy with some mail and products.’

  ‘Products?’

  ‘Yeah. People send a ton of stuff so they can say I use it. I get to keep whatever Sandy’s assistant doesn’t cream off. They’ve sent me the latest iPhone. Also some male grooming products.’ He looks at one of the packages. ‘Great. Another one for Lucifer Carson.’

  ‘Luther,’ I blurt out, ‘I’m worried about the book.’

  That probably wasn’t the best way to put it, but at least now the cat’s out of the bag.

  ‘About the book? Why?’ He lights a cigarette, even though I’m sure we’re not supposed to smoke indoors. God, listen to me. Smoking indoors is not the worst thing he’s ever done.

  ‘Well – we haven’t done any work on it yet.’ Just in time, I remember to start putting things in a more positive way. ‘I’d like us to focus on it soon.’

  ‘We will,’ he says. He looks at me seriously. ‘Alice, we will. But, you know, you’ve only been here a day! I thought it would be cool to get to know you first,’ he adds softly, his eyes resting on my face. ‘You know, hang out and spend some time together, before I start telling you my life story!’

  He puts his hand on my arm. I look down at it.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Now I’m totally confused. Does he mean it, or is he just fobbing me off?

  ‘You seem like a pretty cool girl,’ he continues. ‘I think you should just kick back, come out with us on a night out, we can party . . . Oh, no. You can’t come tonight, can you?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not – I’m going to have to sort out my clothes tomorrow, but I can’t go in this.’ I pluck at the hair shirt.

  ‘You look cute in that,’ he says. ‘It’s kind of – English chic.’

  ‘Annabel lent it to me,’ I say quickly. I don’t want him to think I’m wearing it voluntarily.

  ‘Exactly, English chic,’ says Luther. He throws an arm around my shoulder and starts walking me towards the terrace. ‘So listen, don’t worry. We will do the book – I promise. Has Sam been giving you the big chief talk? Don’t listen to him. He works for me, not the other way around.’

  ‘So we’ll do some work tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Luther. And he looks so serious that I begin to feel, for the first time, a little reassured. I mean – I suppose it does make sense for us to get to know each other before launching into such intense work together.

  ‘Come and eat, guys,’ Sam calls from the table. I can tell he’s been watching the end of our conversation, and he’s decided it’s time it was over.

  As we all sit down, there’s some noticeable tension in the air. Annabel is all over Luther, and she’s looking more glamorous than ever in a slinky yellow playsuit that shows off her tan and blond mane. I’m unsure how friendly to be to Luther so I’m staying pretty quiet. I’m not even looking at Sam. He’s still watching us both like a hawk – he obviously wants to make sure Luther doesn’t mention anything remotely interesting. Brian is a bit distracted. I don’t blame him; he was probably hoping for something better than me to appear.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask him quietly.

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, absolutely. That’s a nice colour,’ he says, looking over his glasses at Annabel. ‘You don’t often see girls wearing yellow.’

  ‘I wore this colour to the BAFTAS,’ says Annabel. ‘And at London Fashion Week. Now, it’s funny, it’s almost like my signature colour. The press are always going on about it. I’m definitely wearing yellow to the Oscars next year.’

  ‘Are you expecting an invitation?’ asks Sam.

  ‘Of course – once Her Master’s Bite is released.’

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask Brian in an undertone.

  Annabel looks at me patronisingly. ‘It’s my next big feature, about vampires. I’ve got the starring role. We’re just waiting for a proper distributor and then it’s going to be huge. My agent thinks it’s one of the best things she’s ever seen, and she’s very well-connected. She’s one of Martin Scorsese’s best friends. You’ve probably heard of her. Terry Heverige? She was an actress herself, she was really huge in the nineties . . .’

  I can just picture Annabel playing a bloodsucking fiend, I think to myself, as she rattles on. We’ve had tomato and mozzarella salad to start, and now Maria Santa is serving us all delicious-looking pasta with some kind of rich tomato and meat sauce.

  ‘Though I could do with some representation in LA as well,’ Annabel says. ‘Just to deal with all the demands out there.’ She looks pointedly at Sam. The table goes quiet. It’s a bit of a tumbleweed moment.

  ‘Sorry, Annabel,’ he says. ‘I already have someone on my books who is a lot like you.’ I get the feeling he’s said this to her before, probably several million times.

  Annabel is only briefly thwarted before turning her attention to me.

  ‘Do they have awards ceremonies for books, Alice?’ she enquires innocently. ‘Red carpet events? Paparazzi?’

  My mouth is too full of pasta to answer. Brian helpfully chips in, explaining about the Nibbies and the Man Booker and other literary awards.

  ‘Sounds very glam,’ Annabel says. ‘Just think, Luther, once you’ve written your book you won’t have time to go to the Oscars – you’ll be jet-setting off to – what is it, the Nibbles?’

  ‘Hey, I could check out the Nibbles,’ says Luther. ‘Sounds like fun. I could meet some hot intellectual chicks.’

  ‘As long as you don’t miss the Oscars,’ says Sam.

  While the rest of us have been downing wine, I notice he’s making one small bottle of beer last all through dinner. He is a total control freak. How can Luther stand him?

  ‘Ah, here’s Marisa and Federico,’ says Luther.

  Federico’s coming through the archway, with – of course – a very striking woman beside him. She’s not tall, but she has a slender and shapely figure, set off by a simple, fifties-style pink dress with silver sandals. I don’t think she’s all that beautiful – she has quite a Roman nose – but she’s very elegant. Her black hair is swept into a perfect up-do, and she’s beautifully made up, with winged eyeliner ringing her green eyes. I feel even more mortified in my brown dress, but Marisa doesn’t seem to notice. She greets Sam and Luther affectionately and kisses us all, even me and Annabel. Federico, who is poured into grey sharkskin trousers with a white shirt, greets us more languidly, but Marisa begins chatting to us all at once.

  ‘Ciao a tutti! How are you all? I am sorry I couldn’t join you today. I had to go and look at an apartment. Did you have a nice time? Did you make friends with Federico’s boat? He loves his boat more than me.’ She smiles at Federico, briefly putting her hand on his thigh as they sit down. He smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  ‘It was lovely,’ says Annabel. ‘I got a nice tan but poor Alice had to stay out of the sun the whole day to stop getting frazzled.’ She reaches out her own not-at-all frazzled golden arm and admires it.

  ‘Alice is clever,’ says Marisa. ‘She stays out of the sun, and she will look young for ever. Me, I’m going to look like a crocodile in twenty years.’

  ‘But a very hot crocodile,’ says Luther.

  ‘You won’t, Marisa. You’ll be like Sophia Loren – a young Sophia Loren,’ Sam says, which is
uncharacteristically charming for him. He can obviously turn it on when he wants to.

  ‘Yes,’ says Annabel. ‘Italian women age so beautifully. Personally, I can’t wait to get old. Even women in their thirties or forties can be incredibly elegant.’

  I don’t think this is the most tactful line of conversation, especially as Marisa can’t be more than thirty or so, but she continues to rabbit on. Maria Santa appears again, and I’m surprised that she and Marisa seem to know each other – Marisa kisses her very affectionately. I’m also surprised that she’s producing another dish – what looks like chicken. I thought we’d had dinner? I don’t think I can eat any more, I had so much pasta.

  ‘This is the second course,’ Annabel tells me patronisingly. ‘Italians eat pasta for their first course, then meat or fish second. Didn’t you know that?’

  Once I’m home, I decide, if I ever see Annabel in a magazine, I’m going to scribble moustaches on every single one of her stupid faces, if I have to buy the whole shop. Meanwhile, I’m zoning her out. The conversation moves on to a lot of movie gossip about how much things have grossed and who is attached to which project and something being in ‘turnaround’. Marisa seems to know people in common with Sam. Annabel, meanwhile, is trying to explain the story of The Tudors to Federico. In the end she gives up, and tells him, ‘You should look me up on imdb.com.’

  I chat mainly to Brian and Marisa. There is something very likeable about her and I’m wondering what she’s doing with Federico – he is nice enough, but I still think he’s a personality vacuum.

  Luther pushes back his chair.

  ‘OK, folks, let’s hit the road,’ he says. Everyone downs tools and starts getting up from the table.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t come with us?’ asks Marisa, but before I can reply, Annabel chips in,

  ‘Oh, Alice doesn’t approve of nightclubs. She’s going to stay here with Brian and have a nice civilized evening, aren’t you? They’re going to talk about books.’

  I’m about to attempt some sort of a swipe back, when Brian appears in the doorway.

  ‘Look what I found, Alice,’ he says, obviously making an effort to be cheerful. ‘Scrabble!’

  ‘Great,’ I murmur. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I wish the ground would swallow me up.

  ‘Byeee!’ says Annabel. ‘Don’t go mad, you two!’

  They all look so glamorous: Federico, Marisa in her pink dress, Annabel in her playsuit – and, of course, Luther. They make a stunning group. The only one who hasn’t made any effort is Sam, who’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt – a white one today – and still has his glasses on. He has a cheek, talking to me about pyjamas. As their voices echo through the courtyard and out in the drive, I feel like the kid being left behind with a babysitter while all the grown-ups go out.

  ‘It’s a pity we don’t have a dictionary,’ asks Brian, who’s busy clearing a space for the board.

  I turn to him, shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry, Brian. I don’t exactly have him under control yet, do I?’

  He shakes his head, but doesn’t quite meet my eye as he replies. ‘Let’s just enjoy a nice quiet evening. You can make a fresh start tomorrow.’

  I still feel miserable, and I’m very glad that nobody knows that I’m here playing Scrabble with the ghostwriter while my author is off having a wild time without me. Luther seems really nice and genuine, so why can’t I get a handle on him? I know that there’s more to him than the partying and the yacht-going, and I think I could get to it, if I could only keep up with him, or if I could get rid of Sam – and Annabel. It’s so frustrating. To be so close, but not able to do anything . . . a little voice inside says, What if Olivia was right? What if you’re not up to this? I do my best to ignore it, but it keeps on long after I’ve gone to bed.

  EIGHT

  I wake up feeling marginally better. After all, the first day is bound to be a bit messy. Today I’m going to get going on Project Luther. Last night, after Brian beat me at Scrabble, I washed the brown dress and my T-shirt in the sink. It’s so hot that they’ve dried already. The suntan lotion mark hasn’t completely come out of the T-shirt, so I put on the brown dress, wondering if the others think this is some sort of monastic dress that book editors wear. At least it covers up some of my burnt shoulder – though my nose and upper lip are still bright red. I almost laugh when I remember my worries that Luther or Sam would somehow rumble me as not being a ‘proper’ editor. I could be the post-room boy for all they care.

  There’s nobody outside, but the table is set with bread and butter, yoghurt, olives and fruit. Maria Santa appears miraculously with coffee and fresh orange juice, which I take gratefully. I heard the others coming in last night around three or four. There were a lot of voices – more than five, definitely, and lots of Italian – and I think I also heard some splashing in the pool. Aside from the chairs being crooked, everything looks relatively normal, except I notice a bra stuffed behind one of the cushions in the seating area. Goodness. I wonder if there will be any new faces at breakfast? Or is it Annabel’s? I pick it up and inspect it, trying to guess from the size.

  ‘Gosh, whose is that?’ says a voice behind me. I drop the bra immediately, but it’s only Brian.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say. ‘Um, I’m not sure. Where’s Luther?’

  ‘He’s gone to a vintage car rally.’

  ‘You’re kidding! When? He must have left at the crack of dawn!’ I look at my watch. ‘It’s only nine.’

  ‘He left about fifteen minutes ago, I’m afraid.’

  I can’t believe it. That is, I can believe that Luther’s gone gallivanting, but I can’t believe I just let it happen – again. He said we were going to work on the book: I should have got up earlier and made sure he didn’t forget.

  ‘Didn’t you want to go?’ I ask. ‘Did he ask you?’

  ‘No, and I didn’t feel like it,’ says Brian. ‘To be honest, Alice, I didn’t come here to go on a yacht or go to vintage car rallies. I’d sooner stay here and fiddle on that ruddy book. I’m sorry he left without you, though. I think there was a particular race he wanted to see.’

  Well, if Luther’s gone off for the day, I’m going to take the opportunity to sort out my clothes.

  ‘Can I borrow your mobile, Brian?’ I ask. ‘Mine’s out of battery.’

  ‘Oh,’ he looks awkward. ‘I’m sorry – I’m waiting for an important call myself. Do you mind? There is a landline though.’

  ‘Fine.’

  I’m going to call the airport, and insist on speaking to someone about my bag. If it’s turned up, I’ll get a taxi there and get it, and if not, I’ll just go into Taormina or Catania to buy some basics. I can’t afford all this, of course, but I’ll put it on my credit card and just pray that I can expense it. I don’t relish explaining my lost bag to Olivia – she already thinks I’m pretty scatty – but this is definitely an emergency, if ever there was one. I can’t keep sitting at home in my brown dress while Luther chases around town.

  Just then, as if in answer to my prayers, Maria Santa materialises behind me. She’s holding out a cordless landline and indicating it’s for me. Great! Then fear grips me: this is going to be Olivia, and she won’t be pleased at my lack of progress.

  ‘Hello?’ I say tentatively.

  ‘Alice, bella. It’s Marisa!’

  ‘Hi, Marisa! What’s up? Has something happened?’ I’m suddenly worried: has there been an accident? Has Luther wrapped himself around a tree or something?

  ‘No, nothing!’ she says. ‘Sam told me about your problem with your bag. I have to go to Catania today. You can come with me. We’ll stop at the airport and we’ll get your clothes, or we’ll get some money from them. If we get money, we’ll go and buy you a dress. Va bene?’

  I’m stunned by her kindness.

  ‘Marisa, are you sure?’

  ‘I’ll see you in half an hour,’ she says, and hangs up.

  Marisa arrives just before ten, driving a l
ittle Cinquecento. She’s looking very chic in Capri pants and a sleeveless shirt, with a scarf tied around her head.

  ‘Did you have a good night?’ I ask as I get into the car, wondering whether to mention the bra.

  ‘Good – yes. Very late!’ she laughs, revving skilfully up the steep lane. ‘We brought back some friends and went swimming in your pool!’ I’m impressed at how fresh-faced she looks. I hope I’m like that when I reach my thirties.

  Our visit to the airport is like a hit-and-run. We arrive at top speed, Marisa parks her car in a totally illegal position, and we’re in and out within about twenty minutes. I stand by, speechless, as she makes mincemeat of the baggage official, talking without interruption in a very firm voice, hands on her slender hips. I can’t understand anything she’s saying, of course, but I can see him crumpling and crumbling by degrees, until, after making a hushed phone call to somebody, he hands over a cheque.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ I ask, fascinated, as we leave.

  She shrugs. ‘He said your luggage was still lost, so I reminded him that they had to pay compensation if it doesn’t appear after three days.’

  ‘But it’s only been two days! And wouldn’t I need to make an insurance claim or something?’

  She shrugs again. ‘You have the cheque now.’

  Clearly there was more to it than that – but I’m incredibly grateful. I look at the cheque, and I can’t believe my eyes.

  ‘Marisa, this is far too much. My luggage wasn’t worth that.’

  ‘No? Never mind, you can buy some new things!’

  ‘Just something very simple,’ I say cautiously.

  Catania doesn’t immediately knock my socks off. We drive through some fairly dull suburban areas, and I notice a lot of the buildings look quite dark and grimy. But after we park, and start to walk to the centre, it improves. There are some very handsome baroque-looking buildings, and I catch glimpses of ruined Roman or Greek monuments here and there. Apart from the squat palm trees everywhere, it almost looks the way I imagine Rome to be. Everywhere we go, we can see Mount Etna, looming at the end of almost every street. It’s strange to see a snow-capped mountain when it’s so incredibly hot.