Oh, God. I have to say neither one of those options sounds all that enticing.
‘I’m going to have to think about it,’ I tell her.
After I’ve sent one more application, I clean the bathroom, tidy my bedroom, and then go to Ine Ood to buy a Crunchie. After I’ve had my Crunchie with a cup of tea, I sit again for a while, staring into space. Ironically, I find the days go very quickly when you have nothing to do: somehow it’s already five o’clock. I could do it right now: I could just pick up the phone and tell Alasdair ‘Yes’. I could go back to work tomorrow. I wouldn’t have to worry about what I’m going to live on next month. In fact, I’d have more money than I’ve ever had before. It’s very, very tempting, but . . . Aargh. I just don’t know what to do. I’m drawing up a list of pros and cons, when the phone rings. It’s Poppy! Brilliant: exactly the person I want to talk to.
‘Congratulations,’ she says in mysterious tones. ‘I hear you’ve been made an offer you can’t refuse. Or maybe you can. What do you think?’
‘I have no idea what to think! Tell me everything, do you know why they’ve done it?’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘they’ve obviously realised they were fools to fire you. And of course you have a big fan in LA, baby.’
‘So it was him! I can’t believe it. It’s so nice of him. Do you know what he said?’
‘I do. It was when he emailed through the acknowledgements. He was praising you to the skies, saying that if it hadn’t been for you the book never would have been written, and that if you did come back, he would recommend Paragon to all his A-List friends, etc. etc. It sounded like the carrot to end all carrots.’
‘Wow,’ is all I can say.
‘There might also have been an element of stick.’
‘What? As in, give Alice her job back or there’s no book?’ I don’t like the idea of owing my job to strong-arm tactics.
‘Well – not in so many words, but that was the implication,’ Poppy says. ‘That’s a secret, though. Well, the whole thing’s top secret. I was accidentally copied in on an email, and I know that you weren’t meant to know about it, ever. He made that very clear. So don’t tell him I told you, please.’
I just can’t believe it. The idea of Luther going to these lengths for me is so ridiculously touching. Especially since he probably had some strong opposition from Sam.
‘I think he must have told them to tell you it was Luther’s idea,’ Poppy is continuing.
‘Yes, I know,’ I say, without thinking. Then I do a double-take. ‘Luther’s idea? What? I thought it was Luther’s idea! Who said that?’
‘Sam did! Who did you think I meant? Sam got you your job back.’
‘Sam?’ I whisper. I’ve been walking and talking with the phone, but now I have to sit down. ‘But . . . Poppy, that’s impossible. He hates me. Last time I saw him, he would barely look at me. Unless he believes me now! But how did he find out I’d been fired? And why would he do it, does he just feel guilty or what?’
‘Alice,’ Poppy interrupts me, ‘You know how I love to chat, but – don’t you think you should be asking Sam these questions?’
She’s right, of course.
‘OK. I’ll email him.’
‘Do, or you could call his hotel. I’ve got the number right here.’
‘What? He’s here, in London?’
‘Yes, for the premiere of The Deep End. He and Luther are at the Dean Street Townhouse. But they’ll be leaving soon – I think it starts at six-thirty.’
‘And when are they flying back?’
‘I’m not sure – some time tomorrow morning. Listen,’ she whispers, ‘Olivia’s back. I’d better go. Good luck!’
I open up my email, and type, ‘Dear Sam.’ I don’t know what to put next. I can’t believe he got me my job back. I would have preferred to get it back by myself – or, ideally, not have been fired at all – but I’m still very grateful. I want to thank him but more importantly, I want to know why he did it when he was so mean to me last time I saw him. And – when I was so mean to him. Perhaps I should call him, as Poppy suggested? But what would I say? Maybe I should email and suggest meeting. But there might not be time, before his flight. I stare down at my list of pros and cons about taking the job. Maybe I should write one about different ways to contact Sam too.
Suddenly I realise something. While I’m writing my pros and cons, drafting emails and biting my nails, Sam is here – here in London, just a few miles away, for one night. Tonight is probably our only chance to meet face to face, and talk properly. It’s twenty past five. If I leave now I can just about reach him before he leaves his hotel. OK, I’m going to do it. If I don’t, I’ll always regret it. Without giving myself time to talk myself out of it, or even bothering to change out of my jeans and T-shirt, I grab my bag and run out the door.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Of course, this has to be the day that the Piccadilly line decides to have a meltdown. We sit at Knightsbridge for ages in a packed, sweltering hot train while I look at my watch and realise this was a really stupid idea. By the time we inch into Leicester Square station it’s a quarter past six. I’m sure he’ll have left by now. And even if he hasn’t, I imagine myself rocking up and finding him in the middle of a massive entourage, up to his ears in Luther stuff, asking me what I think I’m doing there . . . OK, I’m going to stop thinking about it and just do it.
I try to take a short-cut through Leicester Square itself but it’s packed solid with people waiting for the premiere to start. The irony is not lost on me. For a mad minute I wonder if I should just stay there and try and wave at Sam from the crowd, but that would be too humiliating and, also, he might not see me. Instead I do a detour, into Lisle Street, across Shaftesbury Avenue where I’m almost mown down by a rickshaw driver, until finally I arrive, red-faced, sweaty and panting, at the hotel.
‘Can I speak to Sam Newland?’ I ask breathlessly. ‘He’s staying here.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have a guest by that name, madam,’ says the dark-haired receptionist politely.
‘What? But he’s here! He’s with Luther Carson.’ I lower my voice. ‘I know him. Could you just tell him I’m here? Or has he left already?’
‘Madam – I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong information.’ In the mirror behind her I can see myself, hair dishevelled, cheeks fiery red, eyes staring. She probably thinks I’m a crazy stalker or an aspiring actress.
I’m about to try again when a voice behind me says, ‘Alice?’
It’s him. He’s alone, and he’s looking devastatingly handsome in black tie. At the sight of him, I can actually feel myself going weak at the knees, heart pounding. Oh God, I really hope I don’t faint again.
‘Are you – looking for Luther?’ he asks.
‘No, I was looking for you. I wanted to . . .’ I trail off. I had a whole speech prepared, but now that I’m face to face with him, I’m so nervous I can’t remember any of it. Should I thank him? Ask him why he did it? Then I notice two things: one, he’s staring at me as if he can’t believe his luck, and two, he seems incredibly nervous too.
Sam takes a step closer. ‘Hey. Could we talk for a minute?’
The receptionist is pretending not to listen, but I can tell she’s completely rapt. Whatever this conversation is going to be, I don’t think I can have it here, or in a bar. ‘Let’s go up to your room,’ I say, whereupon her eyes pop out on stalks.
As we go up in the lift, I’m feeling ridiculously shy. I don’t know where to look or what to say, and he’s very quiet too.
‘Sorry about that, back there,’ he says, as we walk down the corridor. ‘I sometimes ask them not to tell people I’m here, when I’m with Luther, you know, just in case . . .’
‘It’s OK.’
His room is beautiful, with yellow-and-white striped wallpaper, and a four-poster bed, which I avoid looking at. Sam gestures for me to sit in a chintzy armchair, but I decide to stay standing. He leans against his desk, a few feet away.
‘Thank you for getting me my job back,’ I say formally.
He looks down. ‘Ah . . . OK. You were not supposed to know about that. How did you find out?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But thanks all the same.’
Sam shakes his head, and starts talking very quickly. ‘Alice. I’m the one who should be thanking you – and apologising. I’ve been a total asshole. I should have believed you when you tried to explain about Luther. You were about to lose your job and you could have saved yourself by giving them that story, but you decided not to. I can’t believe you did that. I mean, I can believe it because I know you well enough by now. But I don’t know anyone else who would have done it. I owe you more than I could ever repay you. So does Luther. So please don’t ever thank me.’
I know I’m blushing, but I’m determined to get some facts straight before I start getting all emotional. ‘But how did you find out?’
‘I couldn’t stop thinking about it after you’d left, wondering if I’d been wrong. I was kicking myself for going to get Annabel – who was fine, by the way, she was painting her nails when I arrived – rather than giving you a chance to explain. I tried emailing you, and I got a bounce-back, saying you’d left. I was just figuring out how to reach you, when I had an email from your co-worker . . . Patty?’
‘Poppy!’
‘Yeah. She told me what really happened. Though I could have saved myself a lot of trouble just by asking you in the first place. Look . . . I’ll be completely honest. I was sore that you withdrew from me, after everything that happened between us. I thought maybe you decided to end things with me because you wanted to dish the dirt on Luther. I can be a stubborn, suspicious bastard, as you’ve probably realised. I’m really sorry.’
He moves his hand, as if to reach out for mine, but then he drops it back by his side.
‘But why did you pull back from me, Alice? If it’s just that you weren’t feeling it, then you don’t have to explain. In fact, don’t say anything, and I’ll never bother you again. But if it’s something I did . . . I need to know.’
My heart is hammering again. I decide to sit down after all. I can’t believe we are actually having this conversation. I could, of course, tell him, ‘It was because of my crazy insecurities,’ but instead, I say, ‘I thought there was something going on with you and Marisa. Because of the trip to Rome.’
He groans. ‘I knew it. She’s just got a job in Rome working for a big studio. That’s why we went there. I wanted to introduce her to some people. She asked me to keep it secret, so I did. But I should never have lied to you about it.’
‘Why did you? I know she didn’t want Federico to know, but you could have trusted me.’
‘I know. Look, I take things way too literally sometimes. If someone asks me to keep a secret, I keep a secret.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘I guess I was being stubborn, too. I didn’t see why I should feel guilty about my exes and I didn’t know you knew she was in Rome with me. I realised afterwards I’d been pretty stupid. Marisa told me so, in fact.’
‘Did she? I suppose I was surprised as well because . . . well, she never told me that you were her ex.’
‘I think,’ he says, ‘that might have been because she guessed that I was falling for you and I didn’t know what the hell to do about it.’
I have to look up, at that. The words he’s spoken are hanging in the air; I can almost see them. The room is so still I’m sure he must be able to hear my heart thumping.
‘But – how do you feel?’ he asks.
The look of uncertainty on his face makes me melt. This is where, I know, I should be sensible and tell him that of course, if circumstances were different, then great, but we live on different continents and it really wouldn’t be wise, but instead I stand up and go over to him and before I can say anything else, he’s taken me in his arms and he’s kissing me. It’s every bit as magical as it was the first time. I never want it to end. Even if it’s just for tonight, I’m so happy to be here with him.
After a while, though, I remember something.
‘Sam, aren’t you late for the premiere?’ I say reluctantly.
‘Hell, no. I don’t even need to be there. Luther has a ton of people with him.’ He kisses me again. ‘You know, the main reason I came to London was to try to see you. In fact, I just emailed you about half an hour ago, to see if I could meet you tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ I’m even more thrilled to hear this.
‘Yes. So, no, I don’t care about the premiere. Unless you wanted to come with me?’
I laugh. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘I’m not exactly dressed for it. And wouldn’t Luther find it strange if I was there as, um, your date?’ More to the point – I don’t want to spend my one evening with Sam watching a film. My heart sinks as I remember: we’ve got tonight, but tomorrow he’ll be leaving.
‘You could go like that,’ he says. ‘Or the stylist could fix you up with something. And as for Luther . . . well, I don’t know if this is the right moment to tell you this, but . . .’
‘God, Sam, what?’ I can’t take any more shocks.
‘I’m not going to be representing Luther for much longer. I’ve been offered a job at an agency in London. And I want to take it.’
He looks at me for a reaction, but there is none because I can’t have a reaction. It’s too much. I’m all out of reactions.
‘OK. Maybe we can talk about that later. I didn’t mean to spring it on you like that. But what do you want to do about tonight? You want to go? Because we don’t have to. We could just hang out, go get a drink, or some food, or whatever you want . . .’
I can tell he’s thinking the same thing as I am: we could just stay here and make the most of his lovely hotel room. Order room service . . . It’s very tempting. But now that I know we have more time together, I think it would be fun to have a night out. After all, we’ve got a lot to celebrate.
‘No, let’s go,’ I tell Sam. ‘If you’re sure it’s OK. And congratulations about the job. That’s great news!’ I kiss him again, he kisses me back, and then, before we get totally carried away, Sam calls the stylist, Roger, who says he can fix me up if I come around to the suite right away.
Forty minutes later, when Sam and I step out of the lift, hand in hand, I see the receptionist do a double-take. I don’t blame her: I’m unrecognisable. I’m wearing a gorgeous full-length blue chiffon dress by Alberta Ferretti. My hair is swept to one side in a low chignon, my skin is glowing and Roger has somehow managed to make my eyes look three times their normal size. I’ve left my jeans and T-shirt in Sam’s room. Neither of us has said it but I think we both know I’ll probably wear them home tomorrow morning.
‘You look beautiful,’ Sam says, kissing my cheek.
‘Thank you. Oh, Sam, I need to send a text. Do you mind?’
‘Of course not. We can be late.’
I fish my phone out of my borrowed Chanel clutch, and text Poppy: ‘Off to premiere with Sam!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH xxxxx’. Then Sam and I walk out of the hotel into Dean Street, attracting more than a few looks and smiles in our evening dress. I make a mental note to get Sam to tell me what the film is all about, in case Luther asks me about it later. I know that, with Sam sitting beside me, I’m not going to be able to concentrate on the screen.
EPILOGUE
Three weeks later
‘So how did it go?’ says Sam.
‘Good, I think!’ I slide into the chair beside him. We’re in Polpo on Beak Street, which is a Venetian-style bar. Sam loves it because they serve Negronis, and an obscure drink called Spritz all’ Aperol. I really like it too – although, to be honest, we could be in Burger King on Tottenham Court Road and I’d be just as ecstatic. ‘They were really friendly. It’s hard to say, but I think it went well. And the whole why-did-you-leave thing was fine, now that I can say I left of my own accord.’
‘So when will they let you know?’ he says, pouring me a glass o
f wine. ‘This was the second interview. It’s time for them to make their decision.’
‘Well . . . Caroline said, “Officially, we have another person to see. But unofficially, when can you start?”’
‘Hey! So you got it! Congratulations.’ He looks delighted.
‘I’ll wait till I get a definite offer. But . . . fingers crossed.’
Sam was the first person I told when I got the interview. He spent hours with me the weekend before, going over interview techniques, firing questions at me and saying things like, ‘You gotta bring your A-game! Bring it!’ I told him he was being scary, but I was very touched. I can’t imagine Simon ever helping me prepare for an interview.
‘So – you do understand why I don’t want to go back to Paragon?’ I ask him. ‘It’s good to have it as back-up. But . . .’
‘No, I totally get it. You want to strike out on your own and find something you’re passionate about.’ He smiles at me. ‘I think it’s great.’
Sam has come to London to work for the sister agency of the one he worked for in LA. I get the impression it’s less high-powered what he used to do, but it’s less manic and he’s finding it really interesting. He’s wearing jeans, a faded blue bomber jacket and a white T-shirt that shows the end of his tan. Strangely, he seems to have got younger since he’s arrived. With his BlackBerry no longer permanently attached to his hand and ear – well, not quite so permanently – he looks much less stressed. He still works very long hours, but he says it’s nothing to the way it was before.
‘So tell me,’ I say teasingly. ‘Are you glad my words of wisdom beside the pool helped you rethink your career?’
‘Hey, don’t get cocky,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t just you, you know.’
Our food arrives. It’s a selection of snacks; gnocchi with duck ragu, gorgonzola and walnut crostini, and arancini, or rice balls, just like we had in Sicily. We start wolfing it down.
The Out of Office Girl Page 28