The Out of Office Girl

by Nicola Doherty

  We emerge into a beautiful square lined with imposing buildings, dominated by a huge church – a cathedral, in fact – and with a magnificent stone fountain in the middle. It’s ringed with cafés, where people are sitting outside, drinking coffee and watching the world go by. A man walks past us, dressed in a navy blue suit and a pink shirt, carrying a briefcase and with a little poodle on a leash. Everyone, even the men and women who are clearly dressed for work, looks as if they’re on holiday. This is more like how I imagined an Italian city to be.

  ‘Wow,’ I say involuntarily. ‘It’s lovely.’

  Marisa laughs and squeezes my arm. She steers me into a large pedestrian street off the square, filled with people drifting up and down in no particular hurry, going in and out of some extremely smart-looking boutiques. We find an electrical store where I buy a charger for my phone, then Marisa suggests we do some clothes shopping. I’m worried she’s going to take me into one of the expensive shops, but instead we go to a department store with the mysterious name of Coin. I hope that gives an indication of the price.

  While Marisa inspects some scarves, I take the escalator upstairs. I’m conscious of her waiting, so I don’t want to spend ages choosing things; anyway, this stuff is just to tide me over for this trip. My first priority is underwear: I choose two plain white bras and some multipacks of cotton briefs. I pick out a few more navy T-shirts, which are quite like the one I have already, a white T-shirt, which I reckon will go with my trousers, a pair of linen shorts, and a black dress which is on sale, for going out. I also find a navy cardigan which looks very useful and cosy. Feeling pleased with myself, I head towards the till. I don’t think I need to try these on, I can tell they’ll fit.

  Marisa comes over to me as I’m queueing. ‘What did you get?’

  I show her, and she literally recoils, as if I’ve shown her a bag of snakes.

  ‘Alice!’ she says. ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’ I’m totally bemused. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  She just shakes her head, looking very serious. She brings me back upstairs, where she marches me around, pulling things off the rails and handing them to me. First she finds a couple of little white shirts and cotton tops in different designs, a black halter-neck top, and a pink tulip-shaped skirt. I wouldn’t have picked them myself but I have to admit, they look great. She also picks out a striped black-and-white cotton blazer, a gorgeously patterned blue-and-green silk scarf, a white sundress, a pale blue ballet-wrap cardigan and a white shirt, and makes me try them all on. Then we add some flat gladiator sandals and a pair of high heels with wooden soles. I want to keep the shorts, but Marisa finds me a flared navy skirt instead, as well as some big sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. I also find a beautiful pale blue bikini, and a navy silk bra-and-knicker set to go with my cotton basics, and a nightdress. Marisa reminds me to buy a new travel bag and beach bag, which would never have occurred to me. None of my new outfits is expensive, but it’s the way she’s put it all together; I look so much more sophisticated and stylish.

  ‘They all look lovely, Marisa,’ I tell her.

  ‘Then why didn’t you pick them yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admit. I know that I have a tendency, when feeling panicked, to pick out very safe outfits – ‘boring’, Ruth would say. ‘Maybe because they seemed too fancy?’ I realise how lame that sounds. ‘And I didn’t want to delay you too much.’

  ‘Don’t worry, brava,’ she says. ‘I don’t have much else to do today.’

  She looks a little sad as she says this.

  ‘Anyway there is something I need to do in town,’ she adds mysteriously.

  After I’ve stocked up on suntan lotion and a few more toiletries, we leave the store, and go back down the street to a large café on the corner, opposite the entrance to a botanical garden. Marisa leaves me here, saying she’ll come back when she’s finished her errand. I go inside with my bags, feeling thrilled at the thought of all my nice new things.

  The café is thronged with short old men in white shirts and grey trousers, teenagers in T-shirts and jeans, tiny old women in brown and black dresses and gorgeous women my age or older, beautifully dressed and made up. They’re not all at tables; most of them are standing at the bar chatting at top volume. Waiters in blue waistcoats and white shirts are rushing around behind the counter, serving drinks at the speed of light and banging down change and receipts on little metal saucers. On the counter, under a plastic hood, there is an extraordinary array of pastries, cakes and treats I don’t even recognise. Listening to the roar of Italian voices, I realise I haven’t seen a single tourist all day.

  Everyone, even the tiny birdlike old lady beside me dressed in black, looks so stylish that I suddenly decide I have to get out of these linen trousers, which are almost standing up by themselves. Sam was right: they do look like pyjamas. I go into the tiny bathroom, and get changed into the pink skirt and the black halter neck. I don’t have a strapless bra, so I decide to go without. I give my hair a quick once-over with a brush, and twist it up behind my head. Emerging back out, I feel like a completely new person. Is it my imagination, or am I suddenly getting a few more looks than previously?

  I stand at the bar to order my coffee, as all the locals are doing. I ask for a cappuccino, but the waiter shakes his head at me and points at the clock. He gives me an espresso with milk instead. I have no idea what that’s all about, but when in Catania, I suppose.

  When Marisa arrives, she almost walks past me, before I reach out and tap her arm.

  ‘Ah, you changed!’ she exclaims approvingly, seizing my shoulders. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Thanks! I might wear this tonight.’

  ‘No. We’ll go somewhere else for your evening clothes.’

  She’s so bossy: I kind of love it. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ I ask her. ‘I’ll buy you one. Just don’t ask for a cappuccino; he wouldn’t give me one.’

  She laughs. ‘Cappuccino is for breakfast, that’s why. It’s twelve o’clock!’

  How bizarre. For such a seemingly laid-back country, they seem to observe a lot of rules: pasta before meat, no cappuccinos after breakfast . . . Marisa knocks back a coffee with me, and we leave and return to the car. I hadn’t realised we were making another car journey, and I feel a sudden pang of conscience. I’m not actually supposed to be spending the day shopping.

  ‘Marisa . . .’ She looks at me expectantly. ‘Um – is it far, where we’re going?’

  ‘Half an hour. Why?’

  I’m wondering if maybe I should tell her that I don’t need evening clothes, and head back to the villa instead. But then again, I don’t know if Luther is even back yet himself. And I do know that he’s going out again tonight, so it probably makes sense to get something I can wear if I join him.

  ‘No reason. Just wondering!’ I tell her, getting back into the car.

  Soon we’re heading out of town and on to another motorway. After the strain of yesterday, I feel so much more relaxed, and Marisa is lovely company, chatting away to me about Sicily, asking me about my family and life in London. She reminds me a little of my sister Erica. She also asks me if I have a boyfriend, and she’s very sympathetic when I mention the break-up with Simon.

  ‘He didn’t deserve you,’ she says confidently. ‘Somebody better will come.’

  I’m not sure I believe her – if Simon didn’t deserve me, why don’t I still have him? But I appreciate the thought. I’d like to ask her what she does for a living, but I don’t because I have the feeling that she doesn’t exactly do anything.

  After half an hour or so, we arrive at a little town high up on a hill, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Getting out of the car, I can see ripples and ripples of green and sandy-coloured hills spreading away in the sun, with ancient towns perched on top here and there. The town we’re in looks newer; it’s not especially picturesque, just one street with a bar, a hairdresser’s, and a garage – and a shop without a sign on front.

  ‘In h
ere,’ says Marisa, guiding me inside.

  It’s much bigger inside, and it doesn’t look at all like a normal shop; instead, there are racks and racks of clothes, all squashed together and lined up in a very businesslike fashion. A tall woman in a green dress with tortoiseshell glasses comes over, and after a brief exchange between her and Marisa, she leaves us to look around.

  It’s not quite like the shop scene in Pretty Woman, but it’s close. Marisa makes me try on tons of dresses, including a beautiful pale pink silk halter-neck dress, and a blue-and-green beaded dress that makes me feel like a peacock. I don’t think I would have tried on either of them by myself, but I love them both. I almost don’t recognise myself in the mirror. I wish Simon could see me like this. Would he even know it was me?

  ‘You don’t think they’re a bit too much?’

  Marisa waves her hand. ‘Being beautiful is never too much.’

  They’re both reduced – I’ve belatedly realised this is a discount store – and I can afford them, especially with my miracle cheque. I also try on a black wrap dress, which looks useful, and is reduced by 75 per cent, but Marisa shakes her head.

  ‘Blondes look good in black, but that style is too old for you,’ she says. ‘And don’t you already have lots of black?’

  I’m about to ask how she knows, but then I realise she’s teasing me. I don’t mind. For the pièce de résistance, I unearth a biker jacket of very soft petrol-blue leather, close-fitting, light as a feather and extremely flattering. Marisa suggests I try it on with the dresses, which I never would have thought of doing. It is so beautiful, but I’m afraid it’s too expensive.

  ‘You shouldn’t buy it if you don’t love it,’ says Marisa seriously. ‘But you do love it, and so you should.’

  She’s right. I hurry over to give it to the woman behind the counter before someone else snaffles it. I hesitate for ages between the two dresses, and find myself wondering which one Luther will prefer. Then, putting that thought out of my head, I decide to go crazy and get both. Marisa tells me it’s a good investment. She herself tries on a pair of jeans, then decides against them because of some minute imperfection.

  It’s already after two o’clock, and I tell Marisa I’d like to buy her lunch. We go to the little bar down the road. There’s a handful of locals inside, who all glance up curiously when we go in, losing interest when they see our shopping bags. Marisa says a general ‘Buona sera’ and everyone replies. A teenage girl breaks off from texting to show us to a table, and brings us two bowls of gnocchi with fresh tomato sauce, some bread and red wine. I suddenly realise I am starving. Marisa attacks the pasta with equal gusto, sprinkling parmesan over it. I’m so grateful for her help today when she could have been on the yacht with Federico, or even at the car rally with Luther.

  ‘How do you and Federico know Luther, Marisa?’ I ask.

  ‘I met Sam at Cannes a few years ago, and then one of his clients was in a movie I produced. We kept in touch . . . and when he came to Sicily with Luther, he called me. And now Federico and I are very happy to know them both.’

  ‘I didn’t know you worked in movies.’

  ‘Yes, I was a producer for five years, in Rome. We did many co-productions with UK and French companies, Japanese and Korean companies . . . many beautiful films, with incredible directors.’

  ‘And what happened?’ I ask. ‘Why did you decide to leave?’

  ‘We went bankrupt.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And then I married Federico. His work is here. He can’t leave Sicily, so I left Rome and moved back here.’

  ‘Aren’t there any films in Sicily?’ I ask.

  ‘Not really. The Italian film industry is quite small compared to France or Spain, and most of it is in Rome. There is very little work here in general. It’s beautiful, as you see, but not very rich. Almost everybody I grew up with has left our town, and moved to Palermo or Messina, or the mainland.’

  I’m shocked. Has she given up her entire career for Federico? But I can’t ask that, so I just say, ‘So you’re from Sicily?’

  ‘Of course. You’ve met my mother!’

  ‘Have I? When?’

  Marisa looks mischievous. ‘You didn’t see her at breakfast this morning?’

  ‘Maria Santa? Is she your mother?’ I’m amazed, but now that I think of it, it seems so obvious – there is a real resemblance. ‘How come she works in the house?’

  ‘Mama is retired, but she and my father used to run a hotel, in Cefalù, on the northern coast. Since my father died, she likes to be out of the house from time to time. I was telling Sam this, and he asked if she would like to come and work in the villa. So she did.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘We even have the same name, you know – Marisa, it’s short for Maria Santa. A few years ago, I think looking after Luther would have been too much trouble for her, but from what Sam says, it seems he’s better. Not too much party.’

  I’m thinking about Sam. It was quite nice of him to give Maria Santa the job, I suppose, but is there anything he doesn’t micromanage? I realise, with a terrible lurch of guilt, that I haven’t thought about the book for hours. I’ve thought about Luther, certainly, but not the book.

  ‘So bella, how is everything going with Luther? Is he doing his work?’ Marisa asks me, as if reading my mind.

  ‘Well, not just yet.’

  ‘Ask Sam to help you,’ says Marisa. ‘Sam can get things done.’

  ‘Right,’ I say non-committally.

  Marisa smiles. ‘Don’t you like him? He is a great guy. Not at all a typical Hollywood agent.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m dubious, on both counts. ‘To be honest, I think he’s very rude and . . . unhelpful.’

  ‘No! Alice, you have no idea how lucky you are. Sam is so reasonable, so trustworthy. He’s just being protective of Luther. Once you have him on your side you can do anything.’

  I definitely don’t recognise this glowing version of Sam. And more importantly, I don’t have him on my side.

  ‘Luther’s not a bad person,’ she continues. ‘Really, he is very easy, compared to how he could be. But he’s powerful, and he’s not used to working on anything that’s not movies. So you need to go gently with him, but be firm. He likes you, that’s important. Once you have his trust, you can push him, and he’ll follow your lead. Believe me,’ she says, seeing me droop. ‘I’ve worked with many actors. They all want a director.’

  I just wish that all the people who gave me advice about handling Luther had to handle him themselves. But it is a good point, and I can imagine Marisa being quite formidable in a work setting.

  ‘Do you miss producing?’ I ask her curiously. I normally wouldn’t ask such a question, but I’m on my second glass of wine.

  ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Yes, probably. But this is the choice we make.’

  I wonder, exactly, what choice she has made. She doesn’t seem madly in love with Federico – in fact, there seems to be something very amiss between them. And I wonder: does she have some kind of interest in Sam? Hardly, or she wouldn’t have praised him so openly. Would she?

  ‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘Never mind about all this. Tonight we’ll go to Tesoro, we’ll have a good time, we’ll all make friends and tomorrow your artistic collaboration with Luther will begin!’

  She raises her glass, and we toast to me and Luther.

  NINE

  Marisa suggests that, instead of going back to the villa, I should get changed in her place, which is on the edge of Taormina. We drive back there, listening to the radio and chatting away. The drive is beautiful, all along the coast, and we climb ever higher until ahead I see a small and very picturesque town clinging to a cliff way above the sea – the same town I saw from our villa.

  We park near Marisa’s apartment, which is a modern building on the edge of the town. Federico’s not home. It’s not very big, but it feels spacious, and they (or presumably Marisa) have done it up with real style – there are flowers everywher
e, a big paisley-patterned silk scarf is thrown over one of the white sofas, and there’s a beautiful rag-worked rug on the stone floor that looks as if it cost hundreds of pounds.

  ‘My aunt made it,’ Marisa says, when I compliment her on it. ‘Would you like a Campari?’

  I don’t actually know what this is, but it sounds extremely sophisticated, so I say yes. Marisa tells me to go to the terrace, and she’ll bring it out. Before I do, I remember to plug in my phone – I’m so happy I was able to get a charger. I have a ton of messages. There’s a text from Erica wishing me luck, and three texts from my mum – one asking how I am, and one telling me about some friend of a friend of hers who lives in Rome, who I should get in touch with if I need help, and one asking why I haven’t replied yet. Honestly, it’s as if I was in Outer Mongolia. I text her and Erica the same message: ‘All well. Place beautiful, Luther v nice, book going well.’ It’s mostly true. There’s also a missed call from Olivia. Oops. I’ll wait till I’ve had a quick sip of Campari, and then I’ll call her back.

  I step outside, on to the terrace, and my jaw drops. I can see the entire town spread out before me in a jumble of red-tiled roofs, stone arches and beautiful old houses, coloured golden, ice-cream pink and peach. There are two golden beaches far below, curving like scimitars and meeting at a point in the middle, where there’s a tiny green island. The sea is navy blue, dotted here and there with white yachts ploughing across the bay, their white trails criss-crossing. The town is perched on a cliff-top that’s lush with pines, cactuses and the ever-present palm trees, falling steeply down to the coast. With all the exotic greenery, it almost looks tropical. Below me I can see a Greek amphitheatre spread out on the edge of town. If I look further to my right, there’s Mount Etna again with its snowy top. I wish I had my camera.