The Out of Office Girl (15 page)

‘OK.’

‘OK?’ Wow. Is it going to be that simple?

‘There’s a back terrace. Let’s go out there.’

‘I’ll get Brian.’

He turns around. ‘No, let’s leave it just the
two of us for now.’

THIRTEEN

I run in and grab Brian’s Dictaphone, and hurry out to follow Luther into a small, square back terrace that overlooks the other side of the bay. I didn’t even know it was here; this place really is rambling. One wall is taken up with a long sofa-shaped padded seat, and there’s a sunlounger on the other one. Luther flings himself on to the sunlounger, puts an ankle on his knee and hooks
his hands behind his head.

‘So what do you want to know?’ he asks. I can’t read his expression.

‘Well – maybe we can start with some of your early life. What about the time when you were temporarily homeless?’

‘Really? You want to hear about that?’

‘Yes! I’d love to!’ As he begins to talk, I turn on the tape.

‘That was a crazy time. It lasted about a year. My dad moved out when I was thirteen,
and my mom couldn’t afford the mortgage any more. At first we stayed with some friends of hers, but that didn’t work out.’

I just nod.

‘Around that time my mom got a new boyfriend. Amos. What a hick. Definitely not your regular Camden dude. He was the brother of Mom’s friend – the one we were staying
with. He was a hippy, I guess, or a pothead, anyway. He kept talking about this place he knew
in Mexico where people could come and stay for free. Me and my sister just hoped he’d take himself off there soon, and never come back.’ He looks at me through his lashes.

‘One day, I came back from school. My mom and my sister were sitting at the kitchen table and Amos was there too. I remember it so clearly. She told us to pack our bags. We were going to Mexico.’ He shakes his head. ‘So, we
packed up all our stuff and the next day we got in his van and started driving.’

‘A long way.’

‘Sure. It took about three weeks, and we had to sleep in his crummy van the whole time. Mom didn’t have a car at the time, by the way – she sold it. By the time we got to the border, we were so tired we were almost hallucinating. We didn’t even have passports, so we had to sneak out past the border
police. Luckily, they don’t pay as much attention to people coming
out
of the US.

‘Then we got there. Somewhere near . . . Tijuana. It was a weird, weird scene.’ He leans back and looks up at the sky. ‘I don’t know how to describe it. It was basically a cult. They dressed in white, and called themselves the Children of God, and—’

‘The what?’

‘The Children of God?’ He looks at me blankly. I’m
not sure why I’ve interrupted him – it’s just that it was so totally unexpected, I wanted to make sure I didn’t mishear. It also sounds familiar for some reason.

‘Sorry. Go on.’

‘They made all us kids sleep together, away from the parents. They said there were no such things as children, or parents, we were all children of God together.’ He shakes his head. ‘Me and my sister used to sneak away
as often as
we could. We’d sing songs in the streets to try and get money.’

‘Why?’

‘I was saving up to run away.’ He looks down. ‘That was a bad scene. No kidding. The older kids were talking about some kind of initiation rite. I didn’t know what it was, I just knew I didn’t want to be there when it happened.’

I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. Is it true? How is it possible that all this
happened and that I’ve never read or heard a word about it? Yet it does sound vaguely familiar. I’m simultaneously reeling from these disclosures, feeling sorry for Luther, wondering about the legal issues and thinking that this is certainly pretty revelatory material.

He tells me that his mother had a falling-out with Amos, came to her senses and managed to leave with both Luther and his sister.
He’s very funny on the subject of their journey home, talking about all the crazy experiences they had while hitch-hiking back to Queens to his mother’s family. It would sound implausible, except that there’s something about the way he describes it that gives it a ring of authenticity.

After a while, he’s starting to look tired, so I suggest taking a break.

‘OK,’ Luther says. ‘I’ll think I’ll
go take a nap.’

Gosh. That wasn’t so hard. I go and find Brian, who’s sitting inside in the cool reception room tapping on his laptop. Nobody else seems to be around.

‘I did it! I got an interview from him!’ I hand him the tape, which is nearly full. ‘You should listen to it.’

‘Well done, Alice. By the way – there’s something I should mention.’

‘Oh, what?’ I hope he’s going to tell me what’s
been on his mind.

‘Well, I was writing up that school play story, and I spoke
to a woman who was in Luther’s class – she’s been very useful for background. She says it’s not true.’

‘What’s not true?’

‘The whole story about him not taking the bow. She’s scanned and emailed a photograph of him, centre stage, taking a curtain call. She doesn’t know why he’s said he wasn’t there.’

‘Why would he
make it up?’ I say in disbelief.

Brian shrugs. ‘It’s very common. Often people tell you what they think happened, or what they wanted to happen – it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes. Perhaps the principal did tell him he couldn’t at first, and that’s what he remembers. I shouldn’t worry too much, anyway. I’ll ask him about it.’

‘No, I’ll ask him,’ I say, indignant. ‘I don’t want him to
think he can just lie to me. Oh, shit,’ I add abruptly, as a new and unwelcome idea finally hits me.

‘What?’

‘I think he’s just been telling me another pack of lies.’

‘What about?’

‘About – his mother taking him and his sister off to join a cult. I knew it sounded familiar. He said they were called Children of God.’

‘And?’ Brian says. ‘Sounds odd, but it might be true.’

‘No. It happened
to River Phoenix. Oh, my God. That is the sickest thing I’ve ever heard. He’s stolen River Phoenix’s childhood!’ I grab Brian’s laptop, and google ‘River Phoenix cult’. Sure enough: River and his family were taken off to join the Children of God in Venezuela – not Mexico; that was Luther’s invention. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

‘Well, it does seem odd that this is the first we’ve heard of
it,’ Brian says.

‘I’m such an idiot. And him!’ I glance up furtively, but there’s no one around. ‘With all of us dancing attendance
on him, trying to pin him down . . . you and I could be at home right now!’

Brian stares down at his laptop. He really does look awful.

‘Brian, what on earth is the matter?’ I ask. ‘I don’t want to pry, but I can tell something’s up – what is it?’

‘It’s my wife,’
he says. ‘I just – she’s been having tests. And this morning, we got some bad news.’

‘What?’

‘It’s cancer,’ he says. ‘Ovarian cancer.’ His face crumples, and tears start to run down his plump cheeks.

My hand is over my mouth. I can’t believe it. Poor, poor Brian.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. I put my arm around him; I almost feel on the verge of tears too. He doesn’t cry any more, but gives big,
jerking sighs. As soon as I think he’s ready to listen, I say, ‘But Brian. What are you
doing
? Why are you even still here?’

‘I’ve signed a contract,’ he says numbly.

My mind is racing. I want to tell him that he has to go home immediately, but I can’t do that without checking with Olivia first.

‘Hang on, Brian,’ I say. ‘I’m going to speak to Olivia. I think you should go home, but I just need
to tell her first. Is that all right?’

He nods. He looks as if he’s barely heard me. I quickly walk back to my room, and dial Olivia’s landline. No reply. Then her mobile. It rings out. I leave a message: ‘Olivia, it’s Alice. Something’s happened with Brian, and I think he ought to go home. Please ring me as soon as you get this. Thanks.’

I go back into the room, where Brian is sitting and staring
at his hands.

‘I’ve left her a message,’ I say. ‘Let’s see if there’s a flight
this evening.’ I gently take his laptop from him and start looking online. There’s a flight at seven-thirty, but we’ll have to leave in the next half-hour to catch it. The next available one isn’t until the day after tomorrow.

‘But what about the book?’ Brian says.

Good question. What about the book? What on earth
am I going to do without a ghost writer? I’m an editor, not a writer – well, I’m not really an editor, but we’ll leave that to one side. I’m not even supposed to be doing interviews and, judging from the way the last one went, I can see why.

‘Well . . . we can probably manage something,’ I say uncertainly. ‘I mean . . . I could do more interviews, and you could work at home . . .’

Brian’s looking
at me expectantly. The expression of hope in his eyes breaks my heart.

‘Is there anyone there with your wife right now?’

‘Our daughter Jennifer is finishing her gap year trip. She’s in Chile. We haven’t told her yet. She only has two more weeks left and it seems such a shame.’

‘So – she’s at home alone?’

He nods. ‘I asked her to get her sister to come and stay, but she didn’t want to.’

And
I realise that even if it’s inconvenient for us, I have to try and get him on the seven-thirty flight tonight. I don’t know what Olivia will say, but I can’t keep him here. And anyway, didn’t Olivia say that I had to learn to make decisions?

I stand up. ‘Brian, why don’t you go and pack your things right now. I’m going to call for a taxi, and then we’ll go to the airport and put you on that next
plane. In fact, don’t pack yet. Call your wife first, then pack.’

‘Thanks,’ he says, and begins to dial. He looks up. There are tears in his eyes. ‘Do you know, it’s the stupidest thing.
I’ve forgotten the dialling code for England. I dial it all the time –’

‘It’s zero zero four four, and then your number, without a zero,’ I say. ‘Here, I’ll do it.’ He was calm when we first started talking,
but now that he’s told me, he seems to be unravelling before my eyes. I think he must still be in shock.

After I’ve dialled for him, I set about looking for a taxi number. Why have I never organised a car service here? It’s crazy. What if there was an emergency? What am I saying – this
is
an emergency. I hurry off towards the kitchen, thinking I’ll ask Maria Santa, but she’s not there.

Suddenly
I spot a folder on the sideboard, which looks like a guide to the house. Inside – hurray! – there’s a sheet of paper with numbers of local taxi drivers. Unfortunately, the first person who answers doesn’t speak English any more than I can speak Italian. I say, ‘Airport?’ but no joy. Eventually he twigs. ‘
Un’ora
,’ he says.

‘Oh, no, I need it now.’ I indicate my watch, which, of course, is pointless
as he can’t see me. Just then, Sam wanders into the room and pours himself a coffee from a pot on the stove. Great. I pointedly turn my back to him, and repeat, ‘Now?’ The man repeats ‘
Un’ora
’, so I hang up, and dial the next number.

‘Going somewhere?’ Sam asks.

‘No. It’s Brian.’ I may as well tell him. ‘His wife is unwell and he has to leave for the airport immediately.’

I begin the same conversation
with the next person, who does speak English but can’t come soon enough either. Sam doesn’t leave the room; he just sips his coffee and watches me with interest – bastard. I’m dialling a third number when he says, ‘This isn’t Fifth Avenue, you know. You can’t just click your fingers and get a cab.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ I say through gritted teeth.

‘Look, I’ll take him.’

I’m stunned. ‘Are you
sure?’

‘Get him ready in five minutes, or I’m changing my mind.’

‘Oh – OK. Thanks.’

Why is Sam offering to help us? I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter; the main thing is to get Brian home. After I’ve told Brian we’re leaving, I walk down the corridor towards Luther’s room. I am so furious with him right now. When I think of what Brian’s been going through – I can’t believe that one person
could be so selfish and obstructive. Why is he pretending he wants to do this book when he so clearly doesn’t?

I’m actually standing outside his door with my fist raised, ready to tear strips off him. But then what? I scream at him, he goes into a strop, he leaves, and there’s no book. Or, I scream at him, he miraculously reforms, we do a fantastic book? Not likely. Anyway, I don’t have time.
I have to get to the airport. I step away from Luther’s door and go back to help Brian get his things together.

FOURTEEN

Five minutes later, we’re piling Brian and his wheely suitcase into Sam’s Fiat. Brian sits in the back and, after a momentary hesitation, I sit in the front with Sam.

‘I should have said goodbye to Luther,’ he says, as we set off. He still seems dazed.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell him,’ I reassure him. ‘We should be in time for your flight. Can someone pick you up?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Sheila—’
His voice breaks and he goes quiet. Ridiculously, I can feel my own eyes welling up.

‘We’ll get you there,’ says Sam, looking at him in the rear-view mirror.

He’s driving much faster than he did on the way from the airport with me. I never noticed it before, but he does have a nice profile, with his slightly snub nose and firm mouth. And very good forearms. I love watching men’s arms when they’re
driving; I can see the muscles flexing as he moves the wheel . . . He looks over at me and I look away quickly, before he can see me checking him out.

Oh my God. Am I checking him out?
Sam?
I must be out of my mind. He might be doing an uncharacteristically good deed for Brian but he’s still an arrogant bastard. Not to mention the fact that he probably wants Brian gone anyway, so he’s really
just doing himself a favour.

I clear my throat and sit up straighter in my seat, looking out at the sea and the mountains flying by, lit up by the evening sun. I check my phone. No word from Olivia. I’m glad, because the longer she leaves it before replying, the more of an excuse I have for sending Brian home. But I have to admit, she’s not going to like it – in fact, she’s going to flip. This
whole situation could not be more of a mess. I thought I’d had some nightmare projects before, but this one takes the biscuit.