The Out of Office Girl

by Nicola Doherty

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ says Marisa, coming outside with our drinks.

  ‘I can’t believe you actually live here,’ I tell her, taking my Campari. I take a sip, and almost gag; it tastes like cough medicine. Marisa sees my face and laughs.

  ‘Campari’s not for everyone,’ she says. ‘Would you like some lemonade?’

  ‘No, it’s OK. It’s an acquired taste, but it’s growing on me.’ It still tastes medicinal, but I’m finding it refreshing – it makes a change from white wine. And it feels exactly the thing to be sipping on this balcony, looking down at this beautiful view. We spend an hour or so lounging on the terrace, drinking and chatting, until Marisa suggests we start to get ready.

  She has an actual dressing room, with a dressing table and built-in wardrobes on two sides. It’s not just for her clothes, though; one whole side is full of Federico’s suits and shirts. I can’t decide between the pink and the blue dress – the blue dress is stunning, but I feel it’s too much of a dramatic leap from how I used to look. With all the beading, it feels a bit like fancy dress.

  ‘It’s a very fancy nightclub,’ Marisa points out.

  But I feel the pink dress is more me. It really is very pretty – it clings seductively, and the colour flatters my pale skin. It’s such a pity about my sunburn. I’ve never worn anything with such a low back before, and I’m taken aback to see how sexy it looks. I can’t wear a bra with this either, but I think I can get away with it – that’s one upside of not having much cleavage to speak of.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ says Marisa, shaking her head. ‘Without a bra, I look like a monster.’

  Anything less like a monster than Marisa would be hard to imagine – she looks a million dollars in an emerald-green strapless dress, with a thin diamond bracelet around one slender brown wrist. I watch, fascinated, as she does up her hair in heated rollers and wraps a silk scarf over them while they cool.

  ‘Would you like me to do yours?’

  I shake my head. ‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t suit curly hair.’

  ‘It won’t make you curly. It’s just for volume. Come on.’

  She’s like a girl with a doll, as she sits me down and puts some big Velcro rollers in my hair, and blasts me with a cold hairdryer. I’m dubious, but I’m going to trust her.

  ‘And now, your make-up! Can I do it?’

  I’m not sure if she’s joking or not.

  ‘I’ve already done it,’ I tell her. I’ve covered up my red nose and lip with concealer, and put on mascara, brown eyeshadow and lip gloss. Can she really not see it?

  She shakes her head. ‘Invisible make-up is fine, but not for the night,’ and she gets to work.

  I’m worried she’ll make me look like a drag queen, but she doesn’t. She uses some of my own stuff, but she applies it with her own brushes – she has a set of about ten of them – and she spends ages brushing, blending and shading. By the end, I look like me, but better: my eyes are bigger, my lips look fuller, and my skin looks absolutely flawless – even my cheeks look flushed and pretty rather than just pink. She also uses my foundation, mixed with body lotion, to cover up the burn on my shoulder. Finally she takes out my rollers and shakes out the groomed waves. I hardly recognise myself: I look so different. I’m exclaiming over the result when my phone starts ringing.

  It’s Olivia. Oh, shit. I take it out into the hallway.

  ‘Alice!’ the line is crackling. ‘Finally! I’ve been calling and calling you!’

  ‘Oh – I’m so sorry, Olivia. I lost my charger –’

  I can hear her sighing all the way from London.

  ‘Alice, you’ve got to learn to be more careful. So how is it going? Have you made any progress? We’re all waiting to hear, you know.’

  ‘Um –’ My expression in the hall mirror is guilty. I’m infinitely relieved that she can’t see me, dressed up to the nines with a Campari in my hand. ‘Well, I’ve mainly been getting to know him.’

  ‘Getting to know him?’ Olivia sounds incredulous. ‘And how much progress have you made on the book?’

  I shut my eyes briefly and take a deep breath.

  ‘Olivia, I’m doing my best. But he’s tricky. He’s just finished shooting a film. He’s got a few friends with him, and he wants to relax. At the moment I’m just trying to build a rapport with him, and then I hope we—’

  ‘A rapport! Alice, you don’t have time to build a rapport. The point of you being there is to put pressure on him. You need to sit him down right now and make him do some work.’

  While this speech has been going on, I’ve taken the phone into the living room. I’m kneeling on the edge of a chair, staring out of the window where the sun is glowing over the golden town.

  ‘I will, Olivia. I promise. I’ve only been here two days.’ I know I sound like an idiot. What I want to do is to ask her how to do it – how to make him buckle down – but I can’t.

  She continues, ‘If I weren’t banned from flying after my surgery, I’d be over there right now sorting it.’ There’s a bad-tempered pause.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m all right. But I’m still not very mobile. And I’m very worried about this book.’

  I take another deep breath.

  ‘It’ll be fine, Olivia, honestly. He’s very nice, and he does seem keen to do the book. I think I just need another day or two, sort of building his trust.’ As I look at myself in the mirror, I can see myself blushing, because, if I’m honest, I don’t know if I’m dressed to build his trust or do something else.

  ‘Well, get on with it,’ says Olivia. ‘And use his agent. He’s there, isn’t he? Get him to lean on Luther for you. Remind him about the contents clause.’

  ‘I will,’ I say, feeling sick. Oh, God, the clause.

  ‘I can’t do everything for you, Alice,’ she says. ‘You’ve got to learn to take control of things and to make decisions.’

  ‘I know,’ I say humbly.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ She’s hung up.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Marisa’s appeared behind me.

  ‘Oh, fine. Just my boss asking about Luther.’

  Marisa obviously sees the glum look in my eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘There’s a Sicilian proverb, “How we trouble . . .”’ She’s obviously trying to think of the right translation. ‘“How we trouble ourselves, and then we die.” In a year’s time, what will this matter?’

  Well, I want to say, it will matter if we haven’t got the book and we’ve lost millions of pounds and I’ve been fired for incompetence. But there’s no point going into all that right now.

  ‘Can I have another Campari?’ I ask.

  TEN

  As we walk down the apartment steps in our high heels, both spritzed with Marisa’s Acqua di Gioia, I’ve pushed Olivia’s call to the back of my mind, and I’m feeling excited about tonight. Finally, I can be seen in something other than the hair shirt. It suddenly hits me: I’m going out for an evening with Luther! I may not have seen him all day but it was time well spent. I’m finally going to be able to keep up with him, and get to know him on an equal footing, in a relaxed, informal setting. And tomorrow, we’ll do great work on the book. I almost forget about my shopping bags, but Marisa says one of her cousins is going over later to see Maria Santa, and can drop them off.

  If the view from the balcony was spectacular, the town itself is like a film set. We walk down through narrow, winding medieval streets, catching glimpses of the sea at the end of little alleys where red and hot-pink flowers spill from black wrought-iron balconies perched up high on the walls. Stone arches and palm trees everywhere give the place an almost Arabic look. As we walk along, I realise how slow our pace is compared to how I normally walk in London. People here seem to stroll, or glide instead. It must be partly because it’s so hot – I can feel my silk dress sticking to my skin already. Also, walking around seems to be just as much of a social activity as sitting in bars or cafés: the whole town is one giant catwalk. Marisa seems
to know everybody, and stops more than once to exchange ‘ciao’s and kisses. Each person she greets is more glamorous than the last and they all look at me curiously as Marisa introduces me.

  As we pass a church, a gorgeous woman with streaky dark blond hair, wearing a long black dress, comes out holding a baby and followed by a dark-haired man in a grey suit. Their chat seems amiable enough but I pick up on some kind of tension – I think Marisa is getting a little annoyed over something, though she doesn’t show it.

  ‘Who was that?’ I ask Marisa, after they’ve gone.

  ‘I was in school with her. She’s always asking me when we’re starting our family, can you believe it? People are so rude.’ She looks infuriated, and I don’t blame her.

  ‘That happens to my sister Erica as well,’ I tell her. Funny that even in this place, which looks like paradise to me, people are bothered by the very same things as back home.

  The restaurant where we’re meeting the others is in an old stone building in one of the main squares. It’s like the square in Catania, but even prettier. Walking along with Marisa I get that same feeling of being in a film. I picture myself coming back here with Luther, late at night, his jacket over my shoulders . . . OK, I need to get a grip.

  Inside it’s very slick and modern, with white walls and quirky artwork everywhere, and waiters whisking around in black jeans and white T-shirts. The tables outside look very inviting, but apparently we have a private room indoors. As Marisa and I go inside, I can feel heads turning. Everybody is staring at her, of course, but I realise a few people are also looking at me. I can hear bits of Eurotrash conversation in English as we walk through the restaurant:

  ‘I know her. Isn’t she that French actress? You know, the one that—’

  ‘French, my ass. Is that what she told you? She’s Lebanese.’

  ‘Did you know Luther Carson is here? I’m going to try and meet him! I heard he’s going to Tesoro later.’

  Our party is in a private dining room, and everyone is already sitting down. Annabel’s even more bronzed this evening. She looks beautiful and extremely smug in a sleeveless, high-necked black dress with a feather trim around the collar, and her hair done up in a fabulous beehive. Her face falls when she sees me.

  ‘Alice, you look so much better,’ she says, puzzled. ‘It’s astonishing.’

  Luther gets to his feet. ‘That’s a very hot dress,’ he says, kissing me on the cheek. He’s never done that before, and it gives me a jolt, almost like a mild electric shock. He holds out the seat beside him, and I slide into it. I feel a bit self-conscious as I slip the biker jacket off my shoulders – the dress really is very revealing. Luther’s about to take it for me, but a waiter beats him to it, pouncing on it immediately. He gives me a big gilded key which I presume is for the jacket. Sam has also done a double-take, and is staring at me.

  ‘So did you have a nice day shopping, Alice?’ Annabel asks me. ‘Brian’s been working hard at home. Still there, in fact.’

  I’m about to reply, when Sam says, ‘As a matter of fact, I went and did some shopping myself today.’ He’s wearing a very smart-looking jacket and blue shirt. ‘I’m going to Venice for the festival in September, and I want to go undercover as a European.’

  He does look surprisingly elegant, considering I’ve never seen him in anything but a T-shirt before, and he’s not wearing his glasses.

  ‘Nice try, Elder Newland,’ says Luther, lazily hooking an arm around the back of my chair. I sit uber-upright, hardly daring to lean back. ‘You might be a closet Euro-fan but you’ll always look like a Yank. I mean, look how tall you are, man. It’s not just the clothes, it’s the way you wear them.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Federico ponderously. ‘Style is very important to Italians.’ Marisa pats his arm approvingly, though I notice she’s not looking at him but at Sam.

  ‘Whenever I go visit my grandparents in Salt Lake, if I so much as wear a shirt that’s not plaid, people say I look very LA,’ says Sam. ‘I can’t win.’

  ‘I think I have an international look,’ says Annabel. ‘Though maybe I should get my teeth whitened again so I can play Americans.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Luther, barely listening. Annabel’s jaw drops; I don’t dare to look at her. I’m acutely conscious of Luther’s arm on the back of my chair. I’ve seen him sit like this before, though; it doesn’t mean anything, he just likes to sprawl.

  ‘Alice, can I swap with you?’ Annabel asks me.

  ‘Um – why?’

  ‘I want to be able to see myself in the mirror,’ she replies. This is pretty bonkers even by her standards, and I’m lost for words. Luther rescues me.

  ‘Let’s stay where we are,’ he says. ‘I want to order. What’s everyone having?’

  ‘Veal Marsala,’ says Federico.

  ‘Swordfish for me,’ says Marisa.

  ‘I can’t decide,’ I say. I’ve read the menu about five times, and I can’t take it in. ‘It all looks delicious.’

  ‘Would you like me to order for you?’ Luther says. ‘It can be a surprise.’

  ‘Sure, why not!’ I say. Luther suggests white truffle risotto, followed by poached chicken with asparagus. I notice Sam watching me with a very sceptical expression, but I don’t care. When the waiter comes, I order exactly what Luther suggested.

  The waiter has now reached Luther, who’s still studying the menu. Everybody’s waiting, but he’s still reading. Then he says, ‘Can I get a medium steak, with fries?’ I do a slight double-take: that wasn’t on the menu. But the waiter nods and hurries off.

  The meal passes in a blur. Luther is on great form, pouring me endless glasses of wine, and making us all laugh by deciding that he’s going to learn to do an English accent. As the wine flows, a feeling of euphoria steals over me. I can see us all reflected in the mirror; we do look like such a glamorous group. I look at the blonde girl in the pink dress, chatting to Luther. Is that really me? I wonder if people looking at us think that we’re in couples. In which case, with me sitting beside Luther, that would make me . . . I know this is all a bit of fun and a fantasy, but every time I look at Luther, I feel pretty overwhelmed at the way he looks back at me.

  Annabel, meanwhile, is acting like a spoiled toddler, issuing an endless string of demands: ‘This mineral water tastes weird. Can we get another bottle? I’m too hot. Can we get them to turn the air con up? Sam, I asked for this salad without oil – what’s the Italian for ‘without oil’?’

  ‘There is no Italian for ‘salad without oil’,’ he tells her.

  A young English girl approaches our table. ‘Luther? I love your films! Can I take your picture?’

  Luther says, ‘Sure – just as long as you snap my date too.’

  He puts his arm around me, and pulls me close, so that my face is touching his.

  ‘Thanks!’ The girl leaves, beaming. My heart is beating fast; I can still feel the brush of Luther’s cheek against mine.

  ‘Do you want me to have a word with the owner?’ says Sam.

  ‘Don’t sweat it, big guy,’ says Luther lazily, grinning at me. ‘We should’ve asked her for a copy, right?’ he says to me, and it’s funny because it’s exactly what I’m thinking.

  Annabel is looking more thunderous by the second, her black dress seemingly matching her black mood. She’s glaring at Luther who seems totally oblivious. I take another slug of wine. It’s hot in the restaurant, and I’m glad my dress is so skimpy, purely so that I don’t melt.

  The girl comes back, and addresses Annabel. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I forgot to say, I think I know you too.’ Annabel smirks modestly.

  ‘Aren’t you from that late-night shopping channel?’

  Annabel doesn’t even bother to reply; she just blasts the girl with a withering look. I manage not to laugh, but as I look up I catch Marisa’s eye and we exchange smiles.

  ‘That is so tacky,’ says Annabel, once the girl’s gone. ‘And they haven’t even offered us champagne on the house. I’m never coming here a
gain.’

  ‘I might get a coffee,’ says Sam.

  ‘No. Let’s go,’ says Luther.

  As we get up to leave, I realise that I’ve had a lot to drink – the room isn’t spinning, exactly, but I can sense a very gentle tilt, like being on the yacht. I think I could have done with a coffee but it’s obvious Luther is impatient to get going, so we all file out. I almost forget about my jacket, until one of the waiters rushes up after me after with it. I try and put it on but he insists on helping me with it, which is a good thing because I’m actually having trouble with the arms.

  ‘You certainly did make an effort. I hope you won’t feel overdressed in the club,’ Annabel says to me with a little laugh, as we head towards the waiting car. ‘I notice the foreign girls always dress up loads, while the Italians are more casual.’ I don’t think this is true, from what Marisa said earlier, and she’s not looking especially casual herself, but I don’t bother to reply – in fact, I’m not sure I can: I definitely need a minute just to breathe. I had hoped the fresh air outside would revive me, but I’m still swaying slightly. Sam notices me half stumble but doesn’t say anything.

  The car, a huge jeep, is already revving up as we arrive, and we all pile in. Luther’s heading to the front seat but at the last minute, he says to Sam, ‘Hey, man, you’re the tallest – you ride in front.’ Before Sam can protest, he scoots around the back and gets in beside me.

  I can smell his aftershave and, during the entire drive, I’m acutely conscious of his body pressed beside me. ‘Gotta love these bends,’ he says to me, smiling wickedly. Having him so close to me is completely dizzying.

  The club is seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and looks like a private house at the end of a long drive, where we park. As we walk closer, the noise of crickets is gradually drowned by the deafening sound of music. There’s a long queue of beautiful people, smoking and chatting as they wait, but we are rushed straight in through a back entrance. A man wearing a headset shows us to a smaller, cordoned-off area upstairs, where there are a few other tables with little groups of even more beautiful people. Everyone has seen us coming in, but they immediately pretend not to have noticed, though all of the women are staring at Luther.