The Out of Office Girl

by Nicola Doherty

  ‘It’s pretty gross, isn’t it? Typical Crippo.’

  When I heard that name, I knew there would be trouble. His real name, I’m remembering now, is Crispin, and he’s a lot posher than he likes to let on.

  ‘I’m going to do a quick sweep while in disguise,’ Poppy says. ‘In and out, an hour tops. Then a drink. What do you think? It might be a distraction . . .’

  ‘Let me think about it,’ I say. At the moment I can’t think of anything I feel less like doing than schlepping out to the East End to look at some idiot’s installation, but I owe Poppy. If it wasn’t for this drink with her, I don’t know if I would have made it home without falling apart.

  Suddenly I realise something.

  ‘Poppy,’ I say. ‘How do they know I sent the ghost home?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That email thing. It said I sent the ghost home. Nobody knew that but you and Olivia, surely?’ I look at her and we say in unison, ‘Claudine.’

  ‘She must have overheard me talking to you,’ says Poppy.

  ‘And she knows Simon,’ I say. ‘Oh God! He knows the people who send this thing out. I bet you anything she told him, and I bet you he wrote this. It even sounds like him.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ says Poppy. ‘Alice, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say numbly. ‘Look . . . you’d better get back to the office.’

  I trudge back to the Tube. It’s full of tourists on their way to Heathrow, with huge bags, which reminds me of my lost bag which I never did get back. Down on the platform, I suddenly get a fright when I catch sight of Luther – but it’s just a poster advertising his new film, The Deep End. I move away so that I can’t see it. It feels so strange to be on the Tube in the middle of the day, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. What did Sam call me when he met me? The out of office girl. I really am the out of office girl now. I start doing sums in my head, wondering how much I have left to last me until rent day.

  THIRTY-THREE

  ‘OK,’ says Erica, putting on the kettle. ‘First things first: do you have a copy of your contract with you?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘People never do,’ she sighs. ‘Don’t worry, Al. We’ll sort you out.’

  Erica’s left work early and come over to our flat for a crisis summit. Ciara is here too, and Poppy is going to come later. Ruth wanted to come, but she’s stuck at a work event, so she’s said she’ll make me dinner tomorrow night. Ciara’s ordered Indian food, and Martin is out – for once.

  We go into the living room, and I tell them everything I can remember about the reasons they gave for firing me. Erica gets out a notebook and asks me loads of questions – about whose responsibility the contract was, and other details. Finally she says, ‘None of that sounds serious enough for instant dismissal. Especially since the book is satisfactory, and there’s no lasting damage to the company.’

  It’s a big relief to hear her say this. Erica is a lawyer, and if she thinks what I’ve done isn’t so bad, then perhaps it isn’t.

  ‘What about gross misconduct, though?’ I ask doubtfully. ‘They can fire you straight away for that.’

  ‘Alice – that’s if you stole something, or assaulted a colleague,’ Erica says patiently. ‘You’ve just made a series of mistakes.’

  Ciara kneels down opposite Erica and pours out our tea. It’s so lovely to see them both again. After Italy, they both look so blonde and blue-eyed. Ciara has the same colouring as Erica and I have, except that her hair is curly whereas ours is straight.

  ‘What I don’t understand is why you didn’t put the Hawaii thing – whatever it is – in the book,’ Ciara says. ‘He told you during an interview, didn’t he?’

  ‘It’s just – he didn’t understand the consequences. Luther’s a bit like a child that way. He wanted to tell someone, but he didn’t realise what it would really mean in terms of his career and everything. It would be a catastrophe for him.’

  ‘Well, it’s your career I’m more worried about,’ Erica says. ‘I think you certainly have a case for unfair dismissal. I could represent you, freelance. Though my work insurance wouldn’t cover it, so—’

  ‘I don’t want to, Erica. It’s just not worth it. And . . . there’s other stuff that I wouldn’t want to come out, if it came to a court case or anything.’

  ‘What other stuff?’ Erica asks instantly, putting down her mug.

  ‘I had –’ Argh. ‘Well, a sort of a thing, I mean a fling . . .’

  ‘With Luther?’

  ‘No, no, with Sam. Luther’s agent. We had a . . .’ I look at them both. How to put it? ‘Sort of a one-night stand. Well, it was more than that. I really liked him. So, that’s why I don’t really want to do the court case thing. In case it came out.’

  Both of them are looking a bit stunned.

  ‘I think that’s very unprofessional of him,’ says Erica. ‘How old is this man?’

  ‘And of me, Erica! It took two of us to tango. He’s twenty-eight. But now he hates me.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t hate you,’ Ciara says. ‘What happened?’

  I tell them, reluctantly, about how Sam thought I was going to betray him and Luther and put the Hawaii thing in the book.

  ‘You should have seen the look on his face. He wouldn’t even look at me, wouldn’t speak to me. And also – he’s interested in someone else.’

  ‘Who?’ says Ciara, looking nonplussed. ‘Oh, wait, doorbell. That’ll be our food.’ She runs off to answer it. I explain to Erica about Marisa and how she turned out to be Sam’s ex.

  ‘Don’t tell Mum and Dad about any of this,’ I add.

  ‘It sounds like Celebrity Love Island,’ Erica says, shaking her head. ‘How did any of you get any work done at all?’

  ‘Hello!’ It’s Poppy, laden down with a box of books and papers I left at the office, and – bless her – my spider plant.

  ‘What did I miss?’ Ciara says. ‘Who was the other woman with Sam?’

  ‘Sam?’ Poppy asks. ‘I knew it! All that stuff about how controlling and uptight he was . . . it sounded very sexy.’

  ‘Never mind,’ I say shortly. I don’t want to talk about it in this way.

  They all exchange glances. Poppy looks embarrassed. Erica gets down from the sofa and sits beside me on the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, Al,’ she says, putting her arm around me. ‘We know you’ve had a rough time. You don’t have to tell us anything else if you don’t want to.’

  Ciara pushes over a box of tissues, and Poppy pours me a glass of wine. I start to tell them: about how I hated Sam at first, and then I saw another side of him, and how we ended up together one night, but then I realised he had something going on with Marisa.

  ‘The thing is,’ I explain, ‘I can see how they are more suited. She’s much more his sort of person. I mean, she’s beautiful and sophisticated, and she knows about the film industry . . .’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Poppy says. ‘Aside from this trip to Rome, what actual proof do you have that they’re anything but friends?’

  ‘Well, she said she might be moving soon . . .’ I say uncertainly.

  ‘I don’t think that means anything. It sounds to me as if he liked you,’ says Poppy. ‘Running after your every wish, sweeping you off your feet, canoodling on the beach with you, wining and dining you and knocking on your door late at night – that sounds like pretty smitten behaviour to me.’

  The idea that Sam might have liked me, and that I ruined it, is too horrible to bear. But I don’t think he ever did like me in the first place – not that much. ‘Honestly, Poppy, it might sound that way, but Sam really is completely out of my league. And he thought that as well.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Ciara asks.

  ‘Well . . .’ I’m trying to think how to explain it, and I realise I actually don’t have much concrete evidence to give them. ‘Well, when we went for dinner, there was this gorgeous Italian girl, and he was staring at her.’

  ‘Oh. Drool
ing at her instead of at his spaghetti?’ Poppy says. ‘I hate it when they do that.’ Ciara nods.

  ‘No,’ I say miserably, aware that I sound crazy. ‘He just – glanced at her. As we walked past.’

  ‘Right,’ says Erica. ‘Anything else for the prosecution?’

  ‘Nothing specific. It’s just – a feeling,’ I have to admit.

  ‘I think you’re being paranoid,’ says Poppy. ‘You’re gorgeous and smart and talented and a lovely person. It sounds to me as if this guy wanted to be in your league. Why not let him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know why I didn’t!’

  Oops. That came out louder than I meant it to.

  ‘Sorry, hon,’ Erica says. ‘We don’t mean to lecture you about it. But it’s probably for the best. I mean . . . I’m sure you could resolve the misunderstanding over the Hawaii thing and what have you. But . . . he lives in LA, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, gritting my teeth. I know what’s coming next: long-distance relationships are hard, and we have different lifestyles.

  ‘Long-distance relationships are really hard,’ Ciara says, gently.

  ‘And . . . it sounds as if you have rather different lifestyles,’ Erica adds.

  ‘But I know all that! I’m the one who’s telling you that it’s a non-event. I don’t even have his email address. I’ve tried to explain things and he won’t believe me. And anyway, I know he’s with Marisa. So it’s well and truly dead in the water.’ I wipe my eyes. ‘Now, can we change the subject?’

  There’s an awkward silence, which Ciara breaks by saying tentatively, ‘Would anyone like to hear about my love life?’

  ‘OK,’ I mumble.

  With a quick glance at me, Ciara starts telling us about the new man she’s met horse riding. I notice they’re all looking at me nervously, as if they’re afraid I’ll snap at them again. Oh, God. I’d better be careful; at the rate I’m going I’ll soon alienate all my friends as well as having lost my job. But I know that Poppy is wrong about Sam. I did think, at one point, that we had something, but like my relationship with Simon, it was obviously a total mirage.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It’s Friday: the end of the longest week of my life. I’ve been out all day trekking around temping agencies having interviews, which went OK until we reached the part about why I left my last job. I’m not hungry but I know I should eat something – budget permitting. I’ve taken my Italian cheque to the bank, but even if it clears soon, it won’t last me very long. I didn’t know how lucky I was when I could just float across the terrace and see what Maria Santa had rustled up. Thinking of dinner in Italy makes me think of Sam, so I try and think of something else.

  I’m standing in Ine Ood Stores at the bottom of my street, wondering what is cheapest and has the least amount of scary preservatives. Martin says that when he moved here first, it was Fine Food, but the Fs fell down so now it’s Ine Ood. Poppy’s art thing is tonight, but I’ve cried off – I feel very bad about letting her down, but I can’t face people this evening. Ruth invited me to join her and Mike for dinner too, but I’m not in any kind of state to play gooseberry.

  I decide to be totally disgusting and buy a frozen pizza on offer for a pound and – what the hell – a mini bottle of red wine, one of those tragic glass-and-a-half ones. Then I see a bag of Minstrels. Why not Minstrels too? It’s Friday night. I’m entitled. As I assemble my treats, I think, this really is the classic sad, singleton Friday night. All I need is a DVD of Bridget Jones or My Best Friend’s Wedding and I’ll be set. I just hope nobody I know sees me.

  I wouldn’t believe it if someone told me this but, just as I’m thinking this, I see him. Simon. He’s at the other end of the shop, with a girl – not Claudine, but someone else; I think it’s the girl I saw him with on Facebook – debating over the wine selection. I look in horror at the back of his curly head: it’s definitely him.

  ‘I think we should get champagne,’ the girl is saying.

  ‘No way, babe,’ he says. ‘Can’t turn up with corner shop crap.’

  You know those fantasies where you run into your ex and you’re looking radiant and casual, yet perfectly groomed? This isn’t like that. I tried to dress smartly for my interviews, but all my nice Sicily clothes were still in the wash. So I’m wearing an old green skirt I don’t like but can’t give away because it was expensive, and a black shirt that isn’t as black as it once was. Even if I looked like a model right now, though, Simon is the last person I want to see.

  I immediately turn around and pray for the two people in front of me to hurry up so I can pay and leave. Or for him to take ages so that he doesn’t catch up with me. But it’s too late: they’re right behind me in the queue; I can hear them talking. Has he seen me? If only I had a hat or a hood. Or a wig. I’m next to pay. I’ll pay and leave without looking behind me. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be home free.

  The man behind the counter says, ‘Three fifty-nine please.’

  I hand over a fiver, grab my sad little items and mutter, ‘Keep the change.’ I’m scuttling towards the door when a voice says, ‘Alice!’

  I turn around automatically. Damn. Why did I turn around? Why didn’t I just run?

  ‘I thought it was you. This is Emilia. Emilia, this is Alice.’

  What is it with this guy? Does he crave awkward situations? Emilia looks a bit like her predecessor Claudine: she’s very tiny, dark, and expensively dressed, with thin lips and, just now, a puzzled expression that says: how does Simon know this dowdy girl?

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, which is totally ridiculous. He knows I live around here! What’s he doing here, more to the point?

  ‘I live here,’ I remind him. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, we’re off to supper with some friends of Emilia’s.’ Simon looks smug. His tone seems to imply that Emilia has very desirable friends.

  Good for you. Can I go now? Of course, I don’t say this. Instead I say, ‘That sounds nice.’

  ‘What about you?’ Simon asks, pushing his feet apart as if he’s trying to screw himself down into the ground. I’d forgotten he did this; it looks really stupid and annoying. He looks at my bag. ‘Having a night in?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I look down involuntarily at my bag as well, and I’m about to make some sort of self-deprecating remark, when he says, ‘By the way – how was your trip with Luther Carson?’

  I look up, and when I see his expression, I just know it was him. I see red, and my mouth begins to speak without my strict permission – a bit like it did that time with Luther.

  ‘You know,’ I hear myself saying, ‘you have some nerve, asking me that. I know you wrote that email. Did you know I’ve been fired because of it? It wasn’t enough for you to dump me in the most horrible, gutless, spineless way possible’ – Emilia’s eyes are like saucers now – ‘but now you’ve made me lose my job. Well, good for you. He’s a real catch,’ I add to Emilia.

  Emilia’s expression has gone from puzzled to utterly horrified, and she looks up at Simon for guidance. He’s looking a little embarrassed.

  ‘Have a good one,’ I add, stamping out past them.

  As I leave the shop, my heart is thumping from the shock of the encounter. Why did I have to meet him, in a city of seven million people? And what did I ever see in him? He’s awful. Buttonholing me and asking me if I was having a night in. It was probably crystal clear from my pathetic treats. I shouldn’t be worried about it in the grand scheme of things, but I wish they hadn’t seen those. Why couldn’t I have been buying, I don’t know, a litre of cream and a whole smoked salmon? Or a bottle of vodka and six limes? They’re probably laughing about it right now. I can’t decide whether the fact that Simon’s thing with Claudine, which was part of the reason I got fired, didn’t last makes me feel better or worse.

  I’ve reached home by now. As I let myself in and put my sad snacks on the table, I suddenly think: What am I doing? So I’ve been fired and my heart is broken. So what? Life goes on.
It’s Friday night. Even Simon is having a night out, taking a break from ruining people’s lives. Poppy’s out facing her demons – my friend Poppy, who’s been such a star to me. These are supposed to be my golden years. Why, exactly, am I at home with a £1 pizza?

  I stick the pizza in the freezer, put the wine and Minstrels out for Ciara and Martin, and dial Poppy’s number. She’s still at home, thankfully.

  ‘Poppy? I’m on my way. Can you text me the address?’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Fifty-five minutes later, Poppy and I are standing at the entrance to the warehouse off Commercial Street where Bitch Done Me Wrong is having its grand opening. She wasn’t joking about coming in disguise. She’s wearing a long blond wig and a pencil skirt with a plain white shirt and a string of pearls, plus big Supernanny-style glasses. It’s quite effective: even I didn’t recognise her at first. I look a bit different too. I’m wearing the blue beaded dress over boots and black tights, and the biker jacket. I’ve scraped my hair up into a messy top bun, and I’m wearing a slick of red lipstick and lots of black mascara.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ I ask.

  ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘I know all this stuff. Question is, are you ready for it?’ She pushes down her glasses, and looks at me again. ‘Oh my word. Check you out. You’re a knockout!’

  ‘Just a little something I picked up in Sicily,’ I say. ‘Come on, in we go.’

  Another thing I’d forgotten is how fashion-forward people are in London. It’s astonishing. As we go up the metal stairs, I see people wearing the most incredible outfits: vintage dresses with fur coats and hats, playsuits with platform boots, T-shirts and tweed jackets over sequinned harem pants, all customised with feathers and safety-pins and God knows what. Poppy is very conspicuous in her sexy secretary outfit – I hope people don’t recognise her.