The Out of Office Girl (10 page)

Just then, as if in answer to my
prayers, Maria Santa materialises behind me. She’s holding out a cordless landline and indicating it’s for me. Great! Then fear grips me: this is going to be Olivia, and she won’t be pleased at my lack of progress.

‘Hello?’ I say tentatively.

‘Alice,
bella
. It’s Marisa!’

‘Hi, Marisa! What’s up? Has something happened?’ I’m suddenly worried: has there been an accident? Has Luther wrapped himself
around a tree or something?

‘No, nothing!’ she says. ‘Sam told me about your problem with your bag. I have to go to Catania today. You can come with me. We’ll stop at the airport and we’ll get your clothes, or we’ll get some money from them. If we get money, we’ll go and buy you a dress.
Va bene
?’

I’m stunned by her kindness.

‘Marisa, are you sure?’

‘I’ll see you in half an hour,’ she says,
and hangs up.

Marisa arrives just before ten, driving a little Cinquecento. She’s looking very chic in Capri pants and a sleeveless shirt, with a scarf tied around her head.

‘Did you have a good night?’ I ask as I get into the car, wondering whether to mention the bra.

‘Good – yes. Very late!’ she laughs, revving skilfully up the steep lane. ‘We brought back some friends and went swimming in
your pool!’ I’m impressed at how fresh-faced she looks. I hope I’m like that when I reach my thirties.

Our visit to the airport is like a hit-and-run. We arrive at top speed, Marisa parks her car in a totally illegal position, and we’re in and out within about twenty minutes. I stand by, speechless, as she makes mincemeat of the baggage official, talking without interruption in a very firm
voice,
hands on her slender hips. I can’t understand anything she’s saying, of course, but I can see him crumpling and crumbling by degrees, until, after making a hushed phone call to somebody, he hands over a cheque.

‘What did you say to him?’ I ask, fascinated, as we leave.

She shrugs. ‘He said your luggage was still lost, so I reminded him that they had to pay compensation if it doesn’t appear after
three days.’

‘But it’s only been two days! And wouldn’t I need to make an insurance claim or something?’

She shrugs again. ‘You have the cheque now.’

Clearly there was more to it than that – but I’m incredibly grateful. I look at the cheque, and I can’t believe my eyes.

‘Marisa, this is far too much. My luggage wasn’t worth that.’

‘No? Never mind, you can buy some new things!’

‘Just something
very simple,’ I say cautiously.

Catania doesn’t immediately knock my socks off. We drive through some fairly dull suburban areas, and I notice a lot of the buildings look quite dark and grimy. But after we park, and start to walk to the centre, it improves. There are some very handsome baroque-looking buildings, and I catch glimpses of ruined Roman or Greek monuments here and there. Apart from
the squat palm trees everywhere, it almost looks the way I imagine Rome to be. Everywhere we go, we can see Mount Etna, looming at the end of almost every street. It’s strange to see a snow-capped mountain when it’s so incredibly hot.

We emerge into a beautiful square lined with imposing buildings, dominated by a huge church – a cathedral, in fact – and with a magnificent stone fountain in the
middle. It’s ringed with cafés, where people are sitting outside, drinking coffee and watching the world go by. A man walks
past us, dressed in a navy blue suit and a pink shirt, carrying a briefcase and with a little poodle on a leash. Everyone, even the men and women who are clearly dressed for work, looks as if they’re on holiday. This is more like how I imagined an Italian city to be.

‘Wow,’
I say involuntarily. ‘It’s lovely.’

Marisa laughs and squeezes my arm. She steers me into a large pedestrian street off the square, filled with people drifting up and down in no particular hurry, going in and out of some extremely smart-looking boutiques. We find an electrical store where I buy a charger for my phone, then Marisa suggests we do some clothes shopping. I’m worried she’s going to
take me into one of the expensive shops, but instead we go to a department store with the mysterious name of Coin. I hope that gives an indication of the price.

While Marisa inspects some scarves, I take the escalator upstairs. I’m conscious of her waiting, so I don’t want to spend ages choosing things; anyway, this stuff is just to tide me over for this trip. My first priority is underwear:
I choose two plain white bras and some multipacks of cotton briefs. I pick out a few more navy T-shirts, which are quite like the one I have already, a white T-shirt, which I reckon will go with my trousers, a pair of linen shorts, and a black dress which is on sale, for going out. I also find a navy cardigan which looks very useful and cosy. Feeling pleased with myself, I head towards the till. I
don’t think I need to try these on, I can tell they’ll fit.

Marisa comes over to me as I’m queueing. ‘What did you get?’

I show her, and she literally recoils, as if I’ve shown her a bag of snakes.

‘Alice!’ she says. ‘No!’

‘Why not?’ I’m totally bemused. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

She just shakes her head, looking very serious. She brings me back upstairs, where she marches me around, pulling
things off the rails and handing them to me. First she finds a couple of little white shirts and cotton tops in different designs, a black halter-neck top, and a pink tulip-shaped skirt. I wouldn’t have picked them myself but I have to admit, they look great. She also picks out a striped black-and-white cotton blazer, a gorgeously patterned blue-and-green silk scarf, a white sundress, a pale blue
ballet-wrap cardigan and a white shirt, and makes me try them all on. Then we add some flat gladiator sandals and a pair of high heels with wooden soles. I want to keep the shorts, but Marisa finds me a flared navy skirt instead, as well as some big sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. I also find a beautiful pale blue bikini, and a navy silk bra-and-knicker set to go with my cotton basics, and
a nightdress. Marisa reminds me to buy a new travel bag and beach bag, which would never have occurred to me. None of my new outfits is expensive, but it’s the way she’s put it all together; I look so much more sophisticated and stylish.

‘They all look lovely, Marisa,’ I tell her.

‘Then why didn’t you pick them yourself?’

‘I don’t know,’ I admit. I know that I have a tendency, when feeling
panicked, to pick out very safe outfits – ‘boring’, Ruth would say. ‘Maybe because they seemed too fancy?’ I realise how lame that sounds. ‘And I didn’t want to delay you too much.’

‘Don’t worry,
brava
,’ she says. ‘I don’t have much else to do today.’

She looks a little sad as she says this.

‘Anyway there is something I need to do in town,’ she adds mysteriously.

After I’ve stocked up on suntan
lotion and a few more toiletries, we leave the store, and go back down the street
to a large café on the corner, opposite the entrance to a botanical garden. Marisa leaves me here, saying she’ll come back when she’s finished her errand. I go inside with my bags, feeling thrilled at the thought of all my nice new things.

The café is thronged with short old men in white shirts and grey trousers,
teenagers in T-shirts and jeans, tiny old women in brown and black dresses and gorgeous women my age or older, beautifully dressed and made up. They’re not all at tables; most of them are standing at the bar chatting at top volume. Waiters in blue waistcoats and white shirts are rushing around behind the counter, serving drinks at the speed of light and banging down change and receipts on little
metal saucers. On the counter, under a plastic hood, there is an extraordinary array of pastries, cakes and treats I don’t even recognise. Listening to the roar of Italian voices, I realise I haven’t seen a single tourist all day.

Everyone, even the tiny birdlike old lady beside me dressed in black, looks so stylish that I suddenly decide I have to get out of these linen trousers, which are almost
standing up by themselves. Sam was right: they do look like pyjamas. I go into the tiny bathroom, and get changed into the pink skirt and the black halter neck. I don’t have a strapless bra, so I decide to go without. I give my hair a quick once-over with a brush, and twist it up behind my head. Emerging back out, I feel like a completely new person. Is it my imagination, or am I suddenly getting
a few more looks than previously?

I stand at the bar to order my coffee, as all the locals are doing. I ask for a cappuccino, but the waiter shakes his head at me and points at the clock. He gives me an espresso with milk instead. I have no idea what that’s all about, but when in Catania, I suppose.

When Marisa arrives, she almost walks past me, before I reach out and tap her arm.

‘Ah, you
changed!’ she exclaims approvingly, seizing my shoulders. ‘Beautiful.’

‘Thanks! I might wear this tonight.’

‘No. We’ll go somewhere else for your evening clothes.’

She’s so bossy: I kind of love it. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ I ask her. ‘I’ll buy you one. Just don’t ask for a cappuccino; he wouldn’t give me one.’

She laughs. ‘Cappuccino is for breakfast, that’s why. It’s twelve o’clock!’

How bizarre. For such a seemingly laid-back country, they seem to observe a lot of rules: pasta before meat, no cappuccinos after breakfast . . . Marisa knocks back a coffee with me, and we leave and return to the car. I hadn’t realised we were making another car journey, and I feel a sudden pang of conscience. I’m not actually supposed to be spending the day shopping.

‘Marisa . . .’ She looks
at me expectantly. ‘Um – is it far, where we’re going?’

‘Half an hour. Why?’

I’m wondering if maybe I should tell her that I don’t need evening clothes, and head back to the villa instead. But then again, I don’t know if Luther is even back yet himself. And I do know that he’s going out again tonight, so it probably makes sense to get something I can wear if I join him.

‘No reason. Just wondering!’
I tell her, getting back into the car.

Soon we’re heading out of town and on to another motorway. After the strain of yesterday, I feel so much more relaxed, and Marisa is lovely company, chatting away to me about Sicily, asking me about my family and life in London. She reminds me a little of my sister Erica. She also asks me if I have a boyfriend, and she’s very sympathetic when I mention the
break-up with Simon.

‘He didn’t deserve you,’ she says confidently. ‘Somebody better will come.’

I’m not sure I believe her – if Simon didn’t deserve me, why don’t I still have him? But I appreciate the thought. I’d like to ask her what she does for a living, but I don’t because I have the feeling that she doesn’t exactly do anything.

After half an hour or so, we arrive at a little town high
up on a hill, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Getting out of the car, I can see ripples and ripples of green and sandy-coloured hills spreading away in the sun, with ancient towns perched on top here and there. The town we’re in looks newer; it’s not especially picturesque, just one street with a bar, a hairdresser’s, and a garage – and a shop without a sign on front.

‘In here,’ says Marisa,
guiding me inside.

It’s much bigger inside, and it doesn’t look at all like a normal shop; instead, there are racks and racks of clothes, all squashed together and lined up in a very businesslike fashion. A tall woman in a green dress with tortoiseshell glasses comes over, and after a brief exchange between her and Marisa, she leaves us to look around.

It’s not quite like the shop scene in
Pretty Woman
, but it’s close. Marisa makes me try on tons of dresses, including a beautiful pale pink silk halter-neck dress, and a blue-and-green beaded dress that makes me feel like a peacock. I don’t think I would have tried on either of them by myself, but I love them both. I almost don’t recognise myself in the mirror. I wish Simon could see me like this. Would he even know it was me?

‘You
don’t think they’re a bit too much?’

Marisa waves her hand. ‘Being beautiful is never too much.’

They’re both reduced – I’ve belatedly realised this is a
discount store – and I can afford them, especially with my miracle cheque. I also try on a black wrap dress, which looks useful, and is reduced by 75 per cent, but Marisa shakes her head.

‘Blondes look good in black, but that style is too
old for you,’ she says. ‘And don’t you already have lots of black?’

I’m about to ask how she knows, but then I realise she’s teasing me. I don’t mind. For the
pièce de résistance
, I unearth a biker jacket of very soft petrol-blue leather, close-fitting, light as a feather and extremely flattering. Marisa suggests I try it on with the dresses, which I never would have thought of doing. It is so
beautiful, but I’m afraid it’s too expensive.

‘You shouldn’t buy it if you don’t love it,’ says Marisa seriously. ‘But you do love it, and so you should.’

She’s right. I hurry over to give it to the woman behind the counter before someone else snaffles it. I hesitate for ages between the two dresses, and find myself wondering which one Luther will prefer. Then, putting that thought out of my
head, I decide to go crazy and get both. Marisa tells me it’s a good investment. She herself tries on a pair of jeans, then decides against them because of some minute imperfection.

It’s already after two o’clock, and I tell Marisa I’d like to buy her lunch. We go to the little bar down the road. There’s a handful of locals inside, who all glance up curiously when we go in, losing interest when
they see our shopping bags. Marisa says a general ‘
Buona sera
’ and everyone replies. A teenage girl breaks off from texting to show us to a table, and brings us two bowls of gnocchi with fresh tomato sauce, some bread and red wine. I suddenly realise I am starving. Marisa attacks the pasta with equal gusto, sprinkling parmesan over it. I’m so grateful for her help today when she could have been
on the yacht with Federico, or even at the car rally with Luther.