The Out of Office Girl

by Nicola Doherty

  He tells me that his mother had a falling-out with Amos, came to her senses and managed to leave with both Luther and his sister. He’s very funny on the subject of their journey home, talking about all the crazy experiences they had while hitch-hiking back to Queens to his mother’s family. It would sound implausible, except that there’s something about the way he describes it that gives it a ring of authenticity.

  After a while, he’s starting to look tired, so I suggest taking a break.

  ‘OK,’ Luther says. ‘I’ll think I’ll go take a nap.’

  Gosh. That wasn’t so hard. I go and find Brian, who’s sitting inside in the cool reception room tapping on his laptop. Nobody else seems to be around.

  ‘I did it! I got an interview from him!’ I hand him the tape, which is nearly full. ‘You should listen to it.’

  ‘Well done, Alice. By the way – there’s something I should mention.’

  ‘Oh, what?’ I hope he’s going to tell me what’s been on his mind.

  ‘Well, I was writing up that school play story, and I spoke to a woman who was in Luther’s class – she’s been very useful for background. She says it’s not true.’

  ‘What’s not true?’

  ‘The whole story about him not taking the bow. She’s scanned and emailed a photograph of him, centre stage, taking a curtain call. She doesn’t know why he’s said he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Why would he make it up?’ I say in disbelief.

  Brian shrugs. ‘It’s very common. Often people tell you what they think happened, or what they wanted to happen – it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes. Perhaps the principal did tell him he couldn’t at first, and that’s what he remembers. I shouldn’t worry too much, anyway. I’ll ask him about it.’

  ‘No, I’ll ask him,’ I say, indignant. ‘I don’t want him to think he can just lie to me. Oh, shit,’ I add abruptly, as a new and unwelcome idea finally hits me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think he’s just been telling me another pack of lies.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About – his mother taking him and his sister off to join a cult. I knew it sounded familiar. He said they were called Children of God.’

  ‘And?’ Brian says. ‘Sounds odd, but it might be true.’

  ‘No. It happened to River Phoenix. Oh, my God. That is the sickest thing I’ve ever heard. He’s stolen River Phoenix’s childhood!’ I grab Brian’s laptop, and google ‘River Phoenix cult’. Sure enough: River and his family were taken off to join the Children of God in Venezuela – not Mexico; that was Luther’s invention. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘Well, it does seem odd that this is the first we’ve heard of it,’ Brian says.

  ‘I’m such an idiot. And him!’ I glance up furtively, but there’s no one around. ‘With all of us dancing attendance on him, trying to pin him down . . . you and I could be at home right now!’

  Brian stares down at his laptop. He really does look awful.

  ‘Brian, what on earth is the matter?’ I ask. ‘I don’t want to pry, but I can tell something’s up – what is it?’

  ‘It’s my wife,’ he says. ‘I just – she’s been having tests. And this morning, we got some bad news.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s cancer,’ he says. ‘Ovarian cancer.’ His face crumples, and tears start to run down his plump cheeks.

  My hand is over my mouth. I can’t believe it. Poor, poor Brian.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. I put my arm around him; I almost feel on the verge of tears too. He doesn’t cry any more, but gives big, jerking sighs. As soon as I think he’s ready to listen, I say, ‘But Brian. What are you doing? Why are you even still here?’

  ‘I’ve signed a contract,’ he says numbly.

  My mind is racing. I want to tell him that he has to go home immediately, but I can’t do that without checking with Olivia first.

  ‘Hang on, Brian,’ I say. ‘I’m going to speak to Olivia. I think you should go home, but I just need to tell her first. Is that all right?’

  He nods. He looks as if he’s barely heard me. I quickly walk back to my room, and dial Olivia’s landline. No reply. Then her mobile. It rings out. I leave a message: ‘Olivia, it’s Alice. Something’s happened with Brian, and I think he ought to go home. Please ring me as soon as you get this. Thanks.’

  I go back into the room, where Brian is sitting and staring at his hands.

  ‘I’ve left her a message,’ I say. ‘Let’s see if there’s a flight this evening.’ I gently take his laptop from him and start looking online. There’s a flight at seven-thirty, but we’ll have to leave in the next half-hour to catch it. The next available one isn’t until the day after tomorrow.

  ‘But what about the book?’ Brian says.

  Good question. What about the book? What on earth am I going to do without a ghost writer? I’m an editor, not a writer – well, I’m not really an editor, but we’ll leave that to one side. I’m not even supposed to be doing interviews and, judging from the way the last one went, I can see why.

  ‘Well . . . we can probably manage something,’ I say uncertainly. ‘I mean . . . I could do more interviews, and you could work at home . . .’

  Brian’s looking at me expectantly. The expression of hope in his eyes breaks my heart.

  ‘Is there anyone there with your wife right now?’

  ‘Our daughter Jennifer is finishing her gap year trip. She’s in Chile. We haven’t told her yet. She only has two more weeks left and it seems such a shame.’

  ‘So – she’s at home alone?’

  He nods. ‘I asked her to get her sister to come and stay, but she didn’t want to.’

  And I realise that even if it’s inconvenient for us, I have to try and get him on the seven-thirty flight tonight. I don’t know what Olivia will say, but I can’t keep him here. And anyway, didn’t Olivia say that I had to learn to make decisions?

  I stand up. ‘Brian, why don’t you go and pack your things right now. I’m going to call for a taxi, and then we’ll go to the airport and put you on that next plane. In fact, don’t pack yet. Call your wife first, then pack.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, and begins to dial. He looks up. There are tears in his eyes. ‘Do you know, it’s the stupidest thing. I’ve forgotten the dialling code for England. I dial it all the time –’

  ‘It’s zero zero four four, and then your number, without a zero,’ I say. ‘Here, I’ll do it.’ He was calm when we first started talking, but now that he’s told me, he seems to be unravelling before my eyes. I think he must still be in shock.

  After I’ve dialled for him, I set about looking for a taxi number. Why have I never organised a car service here? It’s crazy. What if there was an emergency? What am I saying – this is an emergency. I hurry off towards the kitchen, thinking I’ll ask Maria Santa, but she’s not there.

  Suddenly I spot a folder on the sideboard, which looks like a guide to the house. Inside – hurray! – there’s a sheet of paper with numbers of local taxi drivers. Unfortunately, the first person who answers doesn’t speak English any more than I can speak Italian. I say, ‘Airport?’ but no joy. Eventually he twigs. ‘Un’ora,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, no, I need it now.’ I indicate my watch, which, of course, is pointless as he can’t see me. Just then, Sam wanders into the room and pours himself a coffee from a pot on the stove. Great. I pointedly turn my back to him, and repeat, ‘Now?’ The man repeats ‘Un’ora’, so I hang up, and dial the next number.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ Sam asks.

  ‘No. It’s Brian.’ I may as well tell him. ‘His wife is unwell and he has to leave for the airport immediately.’

  I begin the same conversation with the next person, who does speak English but can’t come soon enough either. Sam doesn’t leave the room; he just sips his coffee and watches me with interest – bastard. I’m dialling a third number when he says, ‘This isn’t Fifth Avenue, you know. You can’t just click your fin
gers and get a cab.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  ‘Look, I’ll take him.’

  I’m stunned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Get him ready in five minutes, or I’m changing my mind.’

  ‘Oh – OK. Thanks.’

  Why is Sam offering to help us? I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter; the main thing is to get Brian home. After I’ve told Brian we’re leaving, I walk down the corridor towards Luther’s room. I am so furious with him right now. When I think of what Brian’s been going through – I can’t believe that one person could be so selfish and obstructive. Why is he pretending he wants to do this book when he so clearly doesn’t?

  I’m actually standing outside his door with my fist raised, ready to tear strips off him. But then what? I scream at him, he goes into a strop, he leaves, and there’s no book. Or, I scream at him, he miraculously reforms, we do a fantastic book? Not likely. Anyway, I don’t have time. I have to get to the airport. I step away from Luther’s door and go back to help Brian get his things together.

  FOURTEEN

  Five minutes later, we’re piling Brian and his wheely suitcase into Sam’s Fiat. Brian sits in the back and, after a momentary hesitation, I sit in the front with Sam.

  ‘I should have said goodbye to Luther,’ he says, as we set off. He still seems dazed.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell him,’ I reassure him. ‘We should be in time for your flight. Can someone pick you up?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Sheila—’ His voice breaks and he goes quiet. Ridiculously, I can feel my own eyes welling up.

  ‘We’ll get you there,’ says Sam, looking at him in the rear-view mirror.

  He’s driving much faster than he did on the way from the airport with me. I never noticed it before, but he does have a nice profile, with his slightly snub nose and firm mouth. And very good forearms. I love watching men’s arms when they’re driving; I can see the muscles flexing as he moves the wheel . . . He looks over at me and I look away quickly, before he can see me checking him out.

  Oh my God. Am I checking him out? Sam? I must be out of my mind. He might be doing an uncharacteristically good deed for Brian but he’s still an arrogant bastard. Not to mention the fact that he probably wants Brian gone anyway, so he’s really just doing himself a favour.

  I clear my throat and sit up straighter in my seat, looking out at the sea and the mountains flying by, lit up by the evening sun. I check my phone. No word from Olivia. I’m glad, because the longer she leaves it before replying, the more of an excuse I have for sending Brian home. But I have to admit, she’s not going to like it – in fact, she’s going to flip. This whole situation could not be more of a mess. I thought I’d had some nightmare projects before, but this one takes the biscuit.

  Thankfully, there’s no queue at the sales desk, and we get Brian on to his flight straightaway. I’m braced to put it on my credit card, but Brian says he can do that himself. Just as well – after my shopping spree yesterday, I must be near the knuckle, and I still haven’t figured out how to cash my Italian cheque.

  ‘Thanks, Alice,’ says Brian, once he’s checked in. ‘I think I’ll leave you this, just in case.’ He hands me his laptop. ‘It’s just one I use for travel. You can give it back to me in London.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, taking it. ‘Oh, wait. What about the tapes and the Dictaphone?’

  ‘I left them in the living room. There’s a computer there as well – it’s slow but it works – and a printer, if you need them.’

  ‘Great. I’ll walk you to the departure gates. Um . . .’ I half turn to Sam. I want to talk to Brian alone but I’m not sure how to put it.

  ‘I’ll see you back at the car,’ he says shortly. ‘Take care, man,’ he adds, shaking Brian’s hand, and strides off.

  ‘Listen, I think we can make it work,’ I tell Brian as we walk. ‘I’ll just have to do the interviews, and I’ll send tapes to you at home and you can write them up. It will be fine.’ I’m not sure I believe this, but Brian looks so miserable, I want to cheer him up.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Alice. I’ve never let a client down like this before.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. This isn’t your fault.’ I swallow. We’ve arrived at the queue for the gate now. ‘Brian – oh God. I should have asked you this earlier. Do you have any, I mean – advice?’ It’s so lame, but I just want to hear if he has anything I can learn from, before I’m on my own.

  He thinks for a minute. ‘There’s so much but . . . one thing is never to jump in to fill a silence during an interview. If you can sit it out, eventually he will say something, and it will probably be something pretty important.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I give him a hug, and watch him go off through the departure gates, his small, stumpy figure soon lost in the crowd. I cross my fingers inwardly for him. Then I make my way back out to the car, where Sam is waiting, drumming his fingers on the dashboard and looking impatient – essentially, his usual charming self. I deliberately decide not to thank him again, or apologise for being late.

  ‘What’s wrong with his wife?’ Sam asks, as we queue for the exit. I explain briefly.

  He doesn’t express sympathy or say anything else until we’re on the motorway. Then he says, abruptly, ‘It’s going to be pretty hard for you without him.’

  ‘Well, it’s not ideal,’ I say, instantly on the defensive. ‘But I’ll manage. We can still do the book—’

  ‘You didn’t have to let him go, though. Right? You could have made him stay regardless.’ He glances over at me.

  What is he getting at?

  ‘I suppose I could have, but it wouldn’t have been right.’

  Sam just nods. As we drive on in silence, he seems preoccupied. I wonder what that was all about. Was he testing me on something? Maybe he wants to see how determined I am to see the job through. Or he thinks I’ve finally lost the plot now that I’ve let Brian go home. And he’s probably right. It was stupid of me. I am not looking forward to explaining this to Olivia.

  Before long, Sam’s phone rings. I assume he’ll leave it but he actually has a handsfree thing installed in his car. Most of the conversation is incomprehensible though I do catch something about vacation days and an assistant, and something called ‘play or pay’. Suddenly the call is over – I think the person on the other end hung up. Sam swears under his breath.

  ‘I’m going to have to pull over,’ he says.

  We seem to be taking some kind of back road now; we’re off the main motorway and in what looks like a more rural area. He drives until we get to a sloping lay-by, where he stops the car and gets out to make his call. After the call ends, he spends a while punching out an email, and then he makes another phone call. I turn on the radio and listen to Italian pop music, while he paces around outside. It’s almost soothing to see him being horrible to someone else besides me.

  It’s a full fifteen minutes before Sam gets back into the car, looking extremely tense. He turns on the engine, which instantly stalls. He revs it again, but we’re on an incline, and as soon as he releases the clutch the car promptly cuts out again. It must be because he’s so agitated. Finally, he gets the car going, and we inch up the lay-by.

  ‘Shit!’ he exclaims.

  Our way is now blocked by an enormous herd of sheep, tailed by a man on one of those three-wheeled cars I’ve seen puttering about. There must be at least a hundred of them, all baa-ing madly and roving all over the road.

  To my immense surprise, Sam starts laughing. He turns off the engine, leans his arms and head on the steering wheel, and turns to look at me. ‘I thought the traffic in LA was bad,’ he says.

  Now I’m laughing as well – in fact, I can barely draw enough breath to point out that more sheep are coming.

  ‘Shit! Literally. And we’ll be behind them all the way home.’

  After five or ten minutes the sheep begin to disperse, and Sam turns the car around, saying we’ll have to go back the other way.
>
  ‘I hope you didn’t have early dinner plans,’ he remarks. ‘I should ring that asshole back, but whatever. I’ll just tell him there was a sheep situation.’

  ‘What time is it in Hollywood?’ I ask, suddenly curious.

  ‘It’s about nine a.m. – a good time for calls. Though my assistant can’t always listen in, which is inconvenient.’

  ‘She listens in to your calls?’

  ‘Sure. Doesn’t yours?’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Any given phone call in LA has at least two people listening in and taking notes. Or more, if it’s a conference call.’

  It sounds ridiculous and also mildly terrifying to me.

  ‘It’s just the way it works,’ he says, seeing my expression. ‘When I started out as an assistant, I would spend the entire morning rolling my boss’s calls. He would call me at the office from the gym, or his home or his car, and I had to get him one person after the other while I stayed on the other end, taking notes and putting things in his diary. They all knew someone else was listening. Everyone does, though it doesn’t stop them from saying the craziest shit. At first I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. But then I started to find it pretty useful.’

  This has to be one of the longest speeches he’s ever given. I’m absorbed in the vision of a lowly Sam, switchboarding away for his boss. I’m just reflecting on how strange it is that we’re actually having a conversation, when he says something even more unexpected.

  ‘Hey. I’m sorry for what I said to you last night.’

  ‘What – about Luther?’

  ‘Yeah. I should have called him on it, instead of taking it out on you. And . . . I got the wrong idea. I heard both your doors closing,’ he adds. ‘Slamming, actually.’

  ‘Oh.’ I can feel my cheeks going hot.

  ‘I guess I jumped to conclusions.’

  ‘A bit like in the swimming pool?’ I say, wanting to make a joke of it.

  ‘No way. You definitely looked a goner there.’