The Out of Office Girl

by Nicola Doherty

  Suddenly I realise how weird this is. Here I am, in an Italian villa with Luther Carson, whom I’ve had a crush on for years, who’s been voted MTV’s Most Desirable Male, and been officially described as one of the Thirty Sexiest Men on the planet. He’s pouring out his heart to me and telling me things that probably no one else knows. We’ve been left all alone all day, and now we’re about to have dinner together. It sounds like heaven – and a week ago, it would have seemed an impossible dream – but, when faced with it in real life, it’s not at all how I would have imagined it.

  ‘Chow time,’ Luther remarks. ‘Why don’t you take the tape with you? I might think of more stuff over dinner.’

  I pick it up, and go to put in a new tape. And I realise something inconvenient, that could also be good news.

  ‘Luther – this tape is full. And it’s my last one. We’ve used up every single one. Which is wonderful!’ I add, seeing his face fall. ‘It’s fantastic that you’ve been working so hard. But I’ll need to download all the files to the computer before we do another interview. It could take a while.’

  ‘I guess we can just talk,’ he says, sounding disappointed.

  It’s a beautiful evening. The sun is sinking across the bay, and the terrace has never looked more inviting. Maria Santa has set the table beautifully, with little yellow and white flower arrangements, and what looks like a new set of plates that I’ve never seen before. She gives me a special smile as we sit down, and pours us each a glass of prosecco. Help. Does she think this is some sort of romantic occasion? If she has a violin quartet waiting in the wings I’m not sure what I’ll do.

  ‘She seems to think we’re celebrating,’ Luther remarks.

  ‘We’re celebrating all your work on the book,’ I say, and clink my glass against his. ‘Seriously, Luther, you’ve been an absolute star.’

  I’m ravenous. We start to eat our first course, which is my favourite: grilled, marinated vegetables, with slivers of ham and cheese. And I realise something very odd. I’ve spent the last two days nose-to-nose with Luther, hearing the story of his life, and now that we’re not working on the book, I can’t think of a single thing to say to him. I’m racking my brains to think of a question to ask him but, on the other hand, I’m worried that he must be tired of talking. So I try to think of something amusing to say, but my mind is totally blank. And then I start to worry that he must be finding me boring.

  ‘Have you ever been to London?’ I ask him, thinking that perhaps I can entertain him with tales of the metropolis.

  He thinks. ‘Yeah, a couple times. I did some PR there, for my last movie. I stayed at The Dorchester. I didn’t see the place that much. When I’m in London,’ he adds, ‘I always book in under Joe DiMaggio. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Oh, how funny!’

  Silence descends.

  As I rack my brains for another topic of conversation, something else occurs to me – an absolutely radical new idea.

  Why can’t Luther ask me a question?

  I’m trying to remember, but in the whole time I’ve known him, I don’t think Luther’s ever asked me a single thing about myself. I’m learning everything there is to know about him, and he knows absolutely nothing about me. Of course, I am meant to be interviewing him. But surely most people would have asked one or two questions, just out of politeness, if not out of genuine interest. Luther certainly doesn’t know my last name. If pressed, he would probably be able to say that I lived in London. But otherwise, for all he knows, I might have landed from the moon three weeks ago.

  He glances up, obviously aware of me staring, and I realise that I’m being weird. I might be overdosing on him a bit, but I can’t let it show.

  ‘Sorry. The Dorchester sounds lovely. I’ve been there for tea. Did you have a suite, or . . .?’

  And he’s away. All I have to do is listen and ask questions, and make a mental note of anything we can use in the book. As we chat – or rather, as he talks and I listen – I realise this is reminding me of someone. Who?

  Simon. I’m remembering our last awful date in Pizza Express, when I was racking my brains trying to think of something to say – that is, of a question to ask him. I can’t believe I thought I was talking too much that evening about my problems at work. I’d say the ratio of my voice to his was something like 20:80.

  As Luther continues to talk, I wonder: are all my conversations with men going to involve me being an audience to a monologue? Maybe I should just put my fingers in my ears and start talking about myself – tell Luther all about growing up in Hertfordshire, my horrible school, how I want to be promoted, my disastrous love life, Simon and how I always end up getting dumped. But he would probably be asleep within minutes.

  I can see that he might find me boring. But – another seemingly radical idea occurs to me – Isn’t Luther a little boring himself? He’s had an amazing life and everything, of course. But when we’re not doing interviews, is he interesting to talk to? I still think he’s a good actor, but would people make such a big fuss of him if he didn’t look the way he does? I have to say the answer’s no, on both counts.

  Finally, after what seems like hours, dinner is over, and Luther stands up and stretches.

  ‘Time for a game of Grand Theft Auto,’ he says. He looks at me consideringly. ‘Hey. You want to play?’

  Oh, God. I can’t say no, because that would be rude. But I can’t say yes, because I’ve been in his company for over twelve hours now without a break, and if I don’t have just ten minutes by myself, I’m going to go insane. In fact, if my state of mind were a painting, it would be The Scream by Edvard Munch. That’s how I feel inside, though I’m smiling outside.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I say. ‘Maybe in a while? I just need to do some work first. I hope you don’t mind.’

  As soon as he’s gone, I try Marisa’s mobile again. She answers it with a flood of lively-sounding Italian, whether angry or happy, I can’t tell.

  ‘Marisa! It’s Alice. How are you? Listen, I need to ask you a big favour . . .’

  Two minutes later, I’ve hung up the phone with a feeling of total bliss. She’s not free this evening, but she and Federico will come by tomorrow evening at seven, and take Luther out for dinner and drinks. Tomorrow evening, I’m off the hook. And the day after, Sam should be back. The relief is indescribable. Marisa really is my fairy godmother.

  I look at my watch. It’s 8 p.m. now, and I should start transcribing. I reckon it’s going to take me until at least 3 a.m. this time around. If only there were some computer program that converted audio tapes into words. I bet, in fact, that one either already exists, or will be invented as soon as I stop this typing.

  As I resume my station at the computer, I realise I am shattered: bone tired. I think I’ll make myself some coffee; otherwise I can picture myself falling asleep over the keyboard and waking up in the middle of the night with with asdfghj imprinted on my cheek. Maybe I should borrow some of Luther’s pharmaceuticals to stay awake. But that would mean knocking on his door, and I just can’t face him at the moment.

  Wow. I never, ever thought I would feel that way.

  As a treat, I take a quick look at Facebook. Ruth has declared herself ‘In a relationship’ with Mike. Lucky Mike. Erica has posted pictures of her new kitten – it’s adorable. Out of habit, I find myself looking at Simon’s page. He’s posted pictures of himself at a party with his arm around some dark-haired girl – not Claudine. I’m just about to click on her profile to see who she is when I change my mind. Why am I looking? I’m not even interested. I go back to Simon’s page and click ‘delete friend’. Great! I feel much happier.

  I’ve recently figured out how to log into my work email from here. Along with all the work stuff there’s a message from Ciara, asking how I am and when I’m coming home. It all makes me feel homesick; it will be so nice to get back to London and see everyone. I’m about to reply to her when I see that I have an email from Sam – no subject. Feeling my heart skip slightly, I op
en it up. What is he going to say?

  ‘Alice: you still haven’t emailed me those transcripts. I need them a.s.a.p.’

  Huh. That’s a very short, rude email. Doesn’t he want to know how we are, or what the weather’s like or anything? But then I realise I’m being ridiculous. This is what I wanted, after all. I’m winning, and Sam has to ask for my help. I attach the most recent transcripts and press send, trying to ignore my irrational disappointment that he doesn’t have anything else to say to me.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘I miss autographs. The thing is that when someone gets your autograph, that’s cool, that’s like you’re giving them something special. But when they just take a snap of you on their phone, and they don’t even speak to you – it’s like they’re at the zoo and you’re the monkey. You know?’

  Luther is lying on the lounger, his eyes closed, his hand thrown over his head to shield himself from the sun. He looks like he’s on a therapist’s couch. I’m opposite him on the chair. We’ve now spent most of the last few days in this position, and I know this back terrace as intimately as I know my bedroom at home. The red tiles on the ground; that crack in the wall where the gecko sometimes comes out; the windows that look into the sitting room, and Mount Etna in the distance . . . I’m probably going to see it in my dreams for years to come.

  Yesterday was so much easier. After his initial manic burst, Luther seems to be slowing down a little. We didn’t start until 9 a.m., so I got at least five hours’ sleep, and we talked until around 6 p.m., with a quick break for lunch. Then, Federico and Marisa came around in the evening, as promised, to hang out with Luther, letting me off the hook. I was able to spend all evening typing up the interviews, structuring them in rough narrative order, and writing notes for Brian. I finished up, again, around 2 a.m.

  Brian seems to be holding up, thank goodness. His wife’s cancer is only at stage two, which is good news, and he sounded so much better than he did the day he left. He also said he was happy to have the book to focus on. He gave me a list of questions to ask Luther.

  ‘These interviews are terrific, though,’ he told me. ‘There is going to be no problem with this. The book’s going to be a winner.’

  I was so happy to hear this, I actually jumped up and down on the spot. I’m beginning to hope that this book isn’t just going to happen: it’s going to be really good. The only thing that worries me is that I still haven’t heard anything from Olivia, even though I’ve been copying her in on all my emails to Brian.

  Luther is on a detour right now, so I want to nudge him back on to what he was originally talking about, which was the Roman Holiday shoot.

  ‘By the way, what was it like working with Natasha Pullman? I never asked you.’

  ‘It was magical, fantastic, such a generous talent, blah blah. Actually, she’s a little witch. Can we say that she’s a little witch?’

  I laugh. ‘Is she? Well . . . we could say that you didn’t bond, or that you’ve had other co-stars you’ve clicked with better. I mean, you can express opinions about people as long as they’re just presented as your opinion, not fact . . .’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he says, losing interest. ‘No, let’s just not give her any air time. That’s what she’s going to do to me. Wait till you read her publicity. She hates this romance they’ve manufactured about us, and she’s not going to say one word about me in any of her interviews. She’s one of the least supportive co-stars I’ve ever worked with. I could barely even talk to her; everything had to go through the director and her ten managers and PAs.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ I’m getting slightly tired of Luther’s gripes.

  ‘She’s just obsessed with making it very clear who the star of this movie is. I mean, fine, she’s number one on the call sheet, and – she is a bigger star.’

  I’m very surprised to hear him say something like this. I wouldn’t have said that this was the case, at all. I’m about to ask him what he means, but then I decide that whatever it is, it’s probably not something I want to get into right now. Luther’s anxieties about whether he’s a big star might be good in a print interview, but not in our book, which needs to end with him ‘in a good place’. So I just say, ‘That’s crazy. I think you’re much bigger than she is. Hey – you know, we’ve been talking for an hour and a half. What about taking a quick break?’

  ‘Yeah? Has it been that long?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘That’s OK,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Don’t forget, I’m used to fourteen-hour days.’

  But I’m not, I want to say. ‘I need to change the tape,’ I say artfully.

  He gets to his feet. ‘Fine. Let’s take ten. But no longer! I’m going to take a leak and maybe a dip in the pool. But not at the same time, don’t worry.’ And he’s gone.

  I’ve closed my eyes and am taking a few deep breaths when the peace of the morning is shattered by some ear-splittingly loud music – I think it’s Aerosmith. Luther sometimes does this when we take a break. It’s annoying but I suppose he needs to let off steam. Anyway, it’s a small price to pay for what he’s giving us: his story. Finally. I drift off for a second into a daydream: Sunday Times bestsellerdom for Luther, promotion for me, a launch party at which Poppy and I can spot celebrities . . .

  I’ve acquired a nice biscuit-coloured tan, just from sitting out here with Luther, and I’m admiring it through my sunglasses when Sam appears in the doorway. He’s obviously come straight from the airport. He’s looking very tired and unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes – he must have got up at the crack of dawn to be here. I’m surprised at how pleased I am to see him. I sit up a little straighter in my chair, feeling glad that I had time to wash my hair this morning, for once.

  ‘Welcome back! How was your trip?’

  ‘Short,’ he says, tight-lipped. Oh, God, what now? ‘As soon as I read those transcripts, I decided to come back early.’

  ‘Oh. How come?’

  ‘How come? Well, let’s see. There’s the kiss-and-tell. The tales of Luther’s bad behaviour, all those stories about other actors. The drugs. The boozing. Do you want me to go on?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I don’t expect you to know this,’ says Sam, ‘but there’s a certain understanding among people like Luther that you don’t repeat gossip about your friends. What you get up to on your down time is your own business.’

  How patronising can he get? ‘I don’t expect you to know this’ indeed.

  ‘But the stories aren’t about Luther’s friends,’ I object.

  ‘No? That trip to Mexico with Colin Farrell? The unnamed but completely identifiable actress who supplied him with coke on set? The idiot actor who broke up with his girlfriend via his assistant?’

  ‘But – that’s just –’ I want to say that it’s just good clean fun, though I realise that’s not the phrase I want. ‘But we’ve deliberately kept it light. I mean, relatively speaking. Most of the book is Luther’s story – his childhood and teenage years and everything. As for the Hollywood stuff – it’s not that scandalous compared to the stuff on Gawker or whatever. It’s colourful, but it’s all pretty good-natured. It’s not as if anyone’s privacy is being compromised.’

  ‘What about Dominique Rice?’

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  ‘I mean,’ Sam continues, ‘there is no way she’s going to OK what he’s said about her. Your lawyers will be telling you that soon enough.’

  ‘Yes, of course, and we can make the changes they recommend. But beyond that, it’s Luther’s book, and he can say what he likes.’

  ‘And if Luther never works again because of this book? What kind of success story will that be for you?’

  ‘But that won’t happen,’ I say, uncertainly.

  ‘Really? Can you think of another actor like Luther, who’s done a book like this and survived it?’

  That idea makes me feel very bad. But I can’t let that stop me.

  ‘Look, it’s Luther’s career. I can’t imagine t
hat this book will end it, but if he wants to do it, doesn’t he have the right to?’

  Neither of us has noticed Luther approaching. He slings an arm around us both.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I don’t want Mom and Dad to fight.’

  I can’t help laughing. Sam looks completely unimpressed.

  ‘You said you had some news for me,’ Luther says to Sam.

  ‘Yes,’ says Sam, recovering himself. ‘Very exciting news. Seth’s been given a heads-up about a pilot—’

  ‘Uh-oh. No. Not Seth. Not pilots.’

  ‘It’s a great part,’ Sam says.

  ‘No how. No TV. I don’t do TV. I am big screen.’

  ‘Luther, everybody does TV. Glenn Close does TV. George Clooney. Laurence Fishburne. Chloë Sevigny. Gabriel Byrne. Rob Lowe—’

  ‘No! Don’t say Rob Lowe! I never made a tape!’

  ‘And the money is good. Do you know how much they’re offering, per episode?’

  He tells Luther, and I gasp.

  ‘I’m not in this business for the money,’ says Luther.

  From the look on Sam’s face, I can tell he wants to strangle Luther. I sympathise because I know exactly how maddening Luther can be. Sam starts talking about how acclaimed the writers and the producers are.

  ‘Luther, Dustin Hoffman is doing TV now,’ he says. ‘Don’t you think there’s something in it?’

  ‘I’ll leave you guys to it,’ I say, discreetly backing away.

  I’m hoping that I can just have a sandwich by myself before I write up some of this morning’s interview. I’ve felt rude leaving Luther to eat lunch alone, but now that Sam’s back, I’m off the hook. I am worried about what Sam said about Luther. I don’t want Luther’s career to be in ruins. And I’m annoyed that Sam is taking it out on me when none of this is my fault.

  There’s nobody in the kitchen, but half the cupboard doors are open. It’s like that scene in The Sixth Sense. I know why this is; Luther has been in here earlier making a snack, and he wouldn’t think of closing a cupboard door after himself. I close them all, and then I cut myself some bread and cheese and tomatoes, and take a plate out to the front terrace.