The Out of Office Girl

by Nicola Doherty

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Pity. The writers sound good.’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, I’d better face it. This is what the future has in store for me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  I’ve had more than enough of my own dramas; I’m quite happy to listen to one of Luther’s instead. He sighs and doesn’t reply at once.

  ‘Come on, Alice,’ he says. ‘I’m not where I could be. I mean, yeah, I’ve made some good movies, but I’m not Matt Damon. I’m not Clooney. I’m not Brad Pitt. I’m a go-to guy for shitty action movies. And in a few years, I’m going to be too old for those.’

  I’m genuinely confused. It is true that Luther has done a lot of action films. But he’s still a big star. Isn’t he? He’s just done Roman Holiday with Natasha Pullman – that’s bound to be huge. And Total Kombat wasn’t shitty, it was a big success. The Last Legionnaire was a monster. What is he talking about?

  ‘Did you see Star Trek?’ he says. ‘The kids in that were half my age. And they didn’t even have to move around that much. With all that stuff I did in Total Kombat, I massacred my back. I can’t kick-box. They don’t want me, they want Shia LaBeouf.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! The people in Star Trek aren’t half your age. They’re seven years younger than you. You’re thirty-three, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. But the kids are just coming up faster and faster, and getting younger and younger. I’m not like that. I’m not on Twitter. I’m not best friends with Lindsay and Paris. But I’m not one of the indie people, or one of the huge leading men either.’

  ‘But what about your new comedy, The Deep End? That’s bound to be a big hit.’

  ‘I hope so, but who the hell knows? Nobody. Maybe it’ll tank. Maybe they’ll cut my screen time to zero or leave me off the posters. Maybe everybody will say how great my co-star was and how much I sucked.’

  Poor Luther. Suddenly I get it: I get what it must be like to live the way he does – to be so exposed and never to know how much longer your career will be viable.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘Roman Holiday was great, and I hope it does do well. I want to develop. I feel like there’s more to me than just action. I feel like my image has just become a straitjacket. I want to do parts that reflect more who I am, you know?’

  ‘Have you spoken to Sam about all this?’

  ‘Not really. I think he’s worried I’m not bankable, and that’s why he wants me to do TV. You know what? In ten years’ time they probably won’t even need actors. It’ll all be done with CGI. You’ll get holograms picking up Oscars.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’re not—’

  ‘It’ll be all about the blue people. James Cameron will generate an army of blue actors, and he’ll franchise them out everywhere. They’ll have their own union. It’ll be the Blue Screen Actor’s Guild.’

  He seems to be spiralling into more and more of a depression, and we’ve wandered completely off the topic of the book. If only Erica were here to give him one of her pep talks about how he should be glad he’s not an orphan, etc.

  ‘Luther, you’re just awfulising. I do that a lot,’ I tell him. ‘You’re thinking of one bad thing and it’s turning into hundreds. You have a lot of fans. You know we’re all incredibly excited about the book. It’s going to be huge for us – our biggest non-fiction title of the year, easily.’

  This seems to cheer him up, temporarily. I decide to begin our session, and I make sure he sees me switching on the Dictaphone.

  ‘Luther, could we talk about what happened when you – disappeared?’

  ‘When I went to Hawaii, you mean?’ he says unexpectedly. ‘I know there are all these rumours, but that’s basically all I did. I went to Hawaii for ten months and I learned to surf, and I worked in a bar. I grew my hair and a big ridiculous beard. I also got this tattoo.’ He points to the dragon tattooed on his right bicep. ‘People would recognise me, but I just said I was researching for a part, or on vacation – whatever I thought would get me off the hook.’

  I can’t believe it. The big revelation, and that was all it was. He was a beach bum for ten months.

  ‘It was pretty peaceful,’ he continues. ‘I got very into surfing. I sat on the beach, smoked a lot of dope, went to parties. It’s beautiful, Hawaii. It’s volcanic, like here.’ He points to Mount Etna behind us. ‘It probably saved my life, to tell you the truth, except the dope started to make me feel even more depressed and paranoid, so I cut back.’

  ‘But what made you go?’

  ‘Everything,’ he says. ‘It was everything. The break-up with Dom, and the intensity of rehab, Summer Rain being such a flop . . . and my performance being pasted. I thought it was a good movie, and that it wouldn’t have flopped, if they had cast somebody else. I felt like I ruined it. All these years I’d been thinking I was an impostor, and suddenly I had been unmasked. But what was I going to do? Move back to Queens and work in a store? I couldn’t do it. So Hawaii was an escape hatch, a kind of a nowhere place.

  ‘I had this thing I used to say,’ he continues. ‘That I came from nothing, and that I could go back to nothing, and I wouldn’t miss any of it: the applause or the girls or the fame. I don’t know, maybe I heard it in a movie or something and I thought it sounded good. But it turns out it wasn’t true.’

  He’s silent for a long time.

  ‘So how did you get back into acting?’

  ‘That’s it,’ says Luther.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That’s what I don’t know if I should tell you about.’

  I’m not sure what to say. Luther lies back and lights a cigarette. I decide to wait until he’s smoked the whole thing before saying anything else. It’s so hard, because I am dying to ask him, but I force myself to stay quiet. Sooner than I expected, he starts to talk again.

  ‘You know, something like this happens, and you can try to forget about it, so it’s like it never happened. But it kind of almost gets worse inside your head and starts getting bigger and bigger. You know?’

  I nod slowly.

  ‘So, it started when I was working in the bar, in Hawaii. This guy used to come in. He was a producer, there on vacation. We got talking, and he mentioned this movie about a Roman soldier. It sounded great. I didn’t see him again after that, but the whole conversation sort of galvanised me into action. So I flew to LA and I started calling people.

  ‘But it was difficult. I went back to my old agent, but I wasn’t his hot property any more. He was finding me roles, but they weren’t the ones I wanted. But then I met this guy who suggested acting as my manager.’ He exhales smoke slowly. ‘He seemed really well-connected. He knew about. The Last Legionnaire, which was the film I’d heard about, that I badly wanted to do. He was able to get me a meeting, he said, unofficially. So I went and met the director and one of the producers, who was the guy I met in the bar.’

  He pauses and turns his head to look out over the sea. I can hear the waves below us.

  ‘Soon after that, my manager rang me and said he had good news. I had the part – nearly. The only thing was that there was a condition. I had to go out on a date with the producer’s wife, so she’d put in a good word.’

  ‘A date?’ I ask, blankly.

  ‘Yeah, a date,’ he says. His expression is unreadable. ‘That was what he called it. But he didn’t mean dinner and a movie, you know?’

  As the reality of what he’s saying dawns, I realise that my jaw has dropped, and I hastily close it again. The tape recorder is still running, but I’m too shocked to stop it.

  ‘So you had to . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Luther. ‘I had to sleep with her to get the part.’ He takes a drag of his cigarette. ‘You know, when I say it out loud like that it doesn’t sound that bad. But I’ve never told anyone before.’

  I don’t want to sound judgemental, or blasé, but equally I don’t want to sound unsympathetic. Instead I probably manage to sound all three. I say, ‘Was she . . .?’

  ‘Attractive? Not particularly. I ma
de sure I could, you know, perform and I forgot all about it as soon as I could. It happened in Hawaii, actually, in their summer place, which I thought would make it easier, like I could leave it all behind.’ He shrugs. ‘Except I guess I haven’t. You know, it just makes me feel like, my entire comeback, so to speak – ever since The Last Legionnaire, which was probably my biggest movie – is not based on my talent. It’s because I slept with the right person.’ He looks down. ‘It makes me feel pretty ashamed, I guess.’

  I decide to throw aside my role of professional listener and just sympathise. ‘You don’t have to feel ashamed,’ I say. ‘They’re the ones who should feel ashamed. Although I understand why you would feel bad.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I did. I do.’

  ‘And you’ve never told anyone? Not even Sam?’

  ‘Not even Sam. Although you can see why I value him so highly. He’s not about to pimp me out to some sleazy producer and his wife.’

  ‘So what happened to your manager?’

  He shrugs. ‘I got rid of him. As soon as the movie was a success, I found someone else a.s.a.p. I don’t really hear about him.’

  ‘And – the producer and his wife?’

  ‘He died actually. About two years ago. Cardiac arrest. I didn’t send flowers.’ He laughs, but there’s not much humour in it. ‘I haven’t seen her either.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘You didn’t deserve that. Nobody does.’

  ‘Thanks. You know, it feels good to tell someone about all this. I knew it would be.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’ I wait to see if he wants to say anything else, but he doesn’t. So I continue, ‘You’ve done incredible work on this book, Luther, honestly. It’s going to be brilliant. In fact, you’ll be able to read the first draft in the next day or so.’

  ‘I don’t think I need to read it.’

  I glance at the Dictaphone. If this was one of my typing sessions, it would be one of those moments where I’d rewind and check that was what he actually said.

  ‘You don’t need to read it?’ I repeat.

  ‘Nah. I’d like Sam to read it, and maybe my attorney. But aside from that, I don’t think I want to. I’m not a book person. And I didn’t set out to write . . .’ He waves his arms, obviously trying to think of a comparison ‘. . . the Mona Lisa. I just wanted to talk through it all. It’s been good that way.’

  Not for the first time, I’m at a loss for words.

  ‘Let’s take a break,’ he says. ‘Federico’s taking out his boat, so maybe I’ll join him. I’ll lose this script overboard somewhere.’ He stands up.

  ‘Of course. You know, Luther, all that stuff about, you know, the producer – that was off the record – needless to say.’

  ‘You think? I don’t know, Alice. Maybe this stuff happens, you know? And maybe I should be open about it. Honestly, I don’t care. I’ll leave it up to you.’

  He can’t possibly mean that, can he? I won’t question him about it right now. Once he’s gone, I get up and, after turning off the tape, I lean over the wall, looking out to sea and taking deep breaths. Despite the beautiful view, I feel as if I’ve been trapped somewhere dark and claustrophobic, deep underground. It’s funny, it’s happened exactly as I imagined. Luther has told me things he’s never told anyone else; as Ruth predicted I’ve wormed all his dark secrets out of him. But it’s not even remotely romantic. How did I ever think it would be?

  Poor Luther. Is it possible that he did this entire book just so that he could tell someone what happened to him? That seems the saddest and weirdest thing of all. Surely you would go and see a therapist, rather than sign a book deal? I would, but I don’t exactly inhabit the same universe as him. But why on earth would he tell me, of all people, something so scandalous? Isn’t he worried about what it will do to his career?

  I go inside, get out the laptop and start transcribing. I’m going to leave out the whole scandal and career crisis element of the conversation – it’s too horrible and I don’t think he meant for it to go in the book. I email it to Brian and Olivia, and explain that in fact the Hawaii episode, which was built up as such a big deal, will only be a chapter. When I’m finished, I literally slump over the keyboard. I have a sudden urge to take a swim or go to the beach or even go for a walk in Taormina. I just want to be somewhere normal, with people having ordinary conversations about normal, boring things.

  ‘Hi.’

  I look up from my keyboard and find Sam standing there.

  ‘Um, I think this is yours . . .’ He hands me my bikini.

  ‘Oh.’ I take it and try to fold it up into as small a ball as possible.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘You look exhausted.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter. ‘I didn’t realise it was that obvious.’

  ‘Don’t be so paranoid. I didn’t mean it that way,’ he says gently. ‘I just meant you look like you could use a break. And so could I. Want to go out somewhere?’

  Of course I want to. Despite my worries, he’s the person I most want to see in the world. Going somewhere with him right now would be like getting out of prison. But I don’t think it would be wise. What would Luther think? And . . . I’m still feeling self-conscious about last night. It would be madness to take this thing with Sam any further, when I’m skating on such thin ice with work anyway.

  Sam sighs, interrupting my thoughts.

  ‘Look, Alice,’ he says. ‘I realise I put you in an awkward position last night . . . and this morning. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed about it. But . . .’

  What? But what?

  ‘I’d just like to spend time with you,’ he says simply. ‘If you don’t want to, then just tell me now and I’ll – well, I’ll probably keep asking you anyway.’

  It’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a very long time.

  ‘No, I do,’ I tell him. ‘I really do. Just let me go and get my bag.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Hey, wait a minute,’ he says. ‘Do you know where you’d like to go?’

  Anywhere but here, I think, and anywhere with you. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Why don’t you get ready and we’ll decide,’ says Sam.

  I run and get my bag and throw in a towel, suntan lotion, some lip balm and my wallet. I’m definitely leaving my phone here. I debate changing my outfit but decide not to bother. I don’t want to waste a second of the time I could be spending with Sam. I just put my bikini on underneath my clothes, and I’m ready to go. I also take my wrap, in case – hope springs eternal – we stay out late.

  His little Fiat is so hot from the sun that we have to leave the doors open for a few minutes to cool it down. Sam opens up a map and spreads it out on the bonnet.

  ‘You haven’t been up Mount Etna, have you? Did you want to go?’

  ‘Well, I’m not desperate to go . . .’ Actually, I’m sick of looking at it all day.

  ‘Good, me either. So, one thing we could do is drive to Corleone. It’s the home town of the Godfather in the movie, and it’s actually where Al Pacino’s grandparents came from too. It’s a pretty long drive because it’s all the way over to the west, and it’s only a small town but it’s still fascinating if you’re a fan of the movies. You’re a fan, right?’

  I don’t want to pour cold water on his plan, but I am totally dismayed. Does he really want to drive for hours to a random small town because of The Godfather? Well, if it’s what he wants to do, I’m willing to go with him. Because – there’s no point kidding myself – that’s how crazy I am about him.

  I think he sees my expression, though, because he says, ‘Or, we could go to a nature reserve that’s a little closer, just down the coast. Beautiful empty beaches.’

  A nature reserve! Even the words sound soothing. I can’t imagine anything better, after all the trauma of the past twenty-four hours, than beautiful empty beaches.

  ‘Let’s do that,’ I say, and we get into the car.

  ‘So I take it you’re not a fan of The Godfath
er,’ says Sam, as we swing out on to the road. ‘Please tell me you’ve at least seen it.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘My favourite film is Working Girl.’

  ‘That is a classic. But you also like Sunset Boulevard, right? I remember you mentioned it the other day.’

  ‘It’s one of my favourites. It’s so macabre and Dickensian. And it’s an excellent piece of storytelling. There isn’t one scene wasted.’

  ‘You know,’ says Sam, ‘there is a sort of similarity with what you’re up to here. The writer trapped in the house with the movie star, trying to finish the script . . .’

  I laugh. ‘I’m not exactly trapped, and I don’t think Luther’s much like Norma Desmond. He’s a little younger, for one thing.’ Suddenly a bizarre image floats into my mind, of an ageing Luther in a smoking jacket surrounded by hundreds of pictures of himself in his glory days. ‘So what’s your favourite film? Is it The Godfather?’

  ‘The Godfather is definitely up there. But I have a few other favourites. La Dolce Vita. Bicycle Thieves. There’s a great French movie called Army of Shadows—’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of that. Is it about zombies?’ I ask, making a random guess.

  ‘No, it’s about the French Resistance,’ says Sam. I start to laugh. He glances over at me, grinning, and I can feel myself falling for him even more.

  After driving for about half an hour, we park in a little car park overlooking a hill. There is nobody around. Below us, an empty beach stretches around in a golden curve towards a huge rocky headland crowned with olive trees and wild vegetation. I look at my watch. It’s already four o’clock but it’s still hot. I sniff the sea breeze, drinking it in. We walk down the steps and along the beach in companionable silence.

  ‘It’s funny how it’s still hot, even though it’s late afternoon,’ I say.

  ‘That’s because their midday was about an hour ago,’ says Sam.

  We drift towards the water. Neither of us feels like swimming yet, so instead we paddle. I spot a huge bird flying over the headland, soaring in big arcs. It’s so peaceful. The only other people around are a young couple with a toddler. We exchange hellos when we hear them speaking English. It turns out they’re Americans, from California. Sam tells them he’s from Utah and they talk about hiking there.