The Out of Office Girl (18 page)

‘Of course,’ I say. If Luther’s gone off somewhere, I may as well have lunch early – and I also don’t particularly want to face him alone if he does come back. ‘Do you want to eat here?’

‘No, thanks. Let’s go into town.’

We don’t go back to the same place as before, but to a restaurant in the same square, where we sit outside under
a canopy and eat
pasta alla Norma
and drink red wine. It’s so pretty, but I’m not in the best state to appreciate it. The waiter is extremely charming and attentive, showing us to several tables in turn so that we can choose our favourite. I wonder if it’s always like this for Marisa, wherever she goes. I can’t help noticing, though, that she looks depressed, and she’s not as chatty as usual.

‘Is there anything wrong?’ I ask
her.

She shakes her head. Her mobile rings, and she answers it. I can’t hear anything but her replies: ‘
Si
. . .
si
. . .
si
. . .
va bene. Va bene. Va bene
.’ I know that
va bene
means all right, but it doesn’t sound like whatever’s happened is remotely all right. Then there’s a burst of angry speech, and she hangs up, looking furious.

‘Everything OK?’ I say, tentatively.

‘Federico. He’s not
coming home tonight after all.’ She shrugs.

I look down at my plate. I know that in these situations, almost nothing you say is going to be helpful.

‘How did you and Federico first meet?’

‘Ah! Probably – in church, or in a neighbour’s house.’ She looks off into the distance. ‘We both grew up in a small town inland, not too far from Cefalù. He was two years older than me. I never knew him very
well, but I always thought he was the most handsome boy in the town. I had a crush on him! Then, after school, I went away to university and he stayed here to work on his father’s business.’

‘Oh yes, the cement.’

‘Yes. They have a big factory near Messina. Anyway, after university I went to Rome to work. I got a job in a TV station, then later in a film production company. But I went home for
three weeks every summer and two weeks at Christmas, and I used to see Federico every time. Roman men are very arrogant – I mean even more than Sicilians.
They think every woman in the world is in love with them. Federico was different, more sincere.’

I’m trying to compute this with the Federico I know. I suppose empty-headedness can be sincere.

She continues, ‘After my father died, two and
a half years ago, it was a terrible time. I lost my job, and I came here to be with my mother. Fede was one of the only people my age I knew who was still living here. He came to the house a lot, and he did lots of things for us . . . it was good to have him around. We became a couple. Then . . .’ She looks at me with a ‘can you guess?’ expression.

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘We both wanted it. We couldn’t
imagine – doing anything else. And I was ready to settle down. I was tired of Rome, and I wanted to be here for my mother. And I was thirty. I thought that was so old!’ She laughs, but to my horror I can see her eyes welling up.

‘What happened?’

‘I lost the baby. But by then we were engaged. And I honestly thought we would make each other happy.’ She adds quietly, ‘It’s different now.’

‘And
since then . . .?’

‘Nothing since then. I don’t know why. I thought we should have tests, but Fede hated the idea. And I’m not sure now if we should.’ She looks down at her hands, beautifully manicured, her diamond bracelet glowing on her wrist.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

She looks up, her eyes bright with tears. ‘Alice! I should be sorry. You have enough to worry about without me and my drama. It’s
fine.’ She smiles at me. ‘He’s a good husband, Fede, really. And he’s given my mother a lot of financial support. My father didn’t leave a lot of money. And my salary in Rome wasn’t enough to support her.’

Poor Marisa. I remember, when I first met her, thinking she wasn’t beautiful – now I think she’s stunning. I wonder whether, if she didn’t have her mother to consider, she would have left Federico
by now. Poor Marisa, and poor Brian . . . I’m really not the only person with problems.

We pay the bill, and drive back to the villa. It’s three o’clock now, and I’m hoping there will be some news of Luther. But, as we park, I can see his car is still missing. Sam is on the terrace, tapping away on his eternal BlackBerry.

‘Any word from Luther?’ I ask.

‘Nope,’ says Sam. ‘But I wouldn’t call
the
carabinieri
just yet.’

‘I should go and let you both get back to work,’ Marisa says, glancing from me to Sam.

‘No, stay,’ he tells her. ‘I’m done for today.’

I say I’ll leave them to it, but Marisa insists that I join them. Maria Santa brings us some iced lemonade, and we all collapse on the sunloungers and spend the next hour reading and chatting idly. It turns out to be a surprisingly
nice interlude. Sam and Marisa tell me some funny stories about the movie they worked on in Rome, and about directors and producers they’ve both come across. I’m taken aback to learn that in one of my favourite rom-coms, the leading actress was saying most of her lines to a stand-in because her co-star would go off and rest whenever he wasn’t actually on screen. And I’m disturbed to learn about the
famous action star who has to weigh every single bit of food he eats. But there’s nothing too X-rated.

‘Sam, always so discreet,’ Marisa teases him. ‘You never tell us the good gossip.’

‘I honestly don’t have the best gossip,’ Sam says. ‘Crew are the best people for that. They see everything, and nobody notices them.’

‘I don’t believe you. You have plenty of stories,’ Marisa
says, swatting
him lightly with her magazine. He just smiles, and shakes his head.

I look at the pair of them and think: is there something going on here? They certainly get on like a house on fire. And Marisa is gorgeous – any man would be interested.

Marisa stands up and stretches. ‘I’m going to talk to Mama for a while. Excuse me.’ And she goes inside the house, leaving Sam and me alone together.

I instantly
start feeling self-conscious again. He’s lying on the sunlounger right beside mine, just a foot away. When I find myself staring at his tanned arms, I realise this is just way too weird, lying around together in silence. We need some small talk.

‘Did you always want to be a film agent?’ I ask him, brightly. To my surprise, he laughs.

‘No. I wanted to be a professional basketball player.’

‘Oh.’
I wasn’t expecting that. Though he is very tall. ‘What happened?’

‘I got a basketball scholarship to UCLA, but in my senior year I busted my knee. I haven’t played a competitive game since.’

‘So how did you get into agenting?’

‘Well, I was considering law school but I thought I’d rather earn a salary, even a tiny one, than get into a lot of debt with school fees. I wanted to stay in LA, so
I decided to try and get a job with an agency. One of my friends is an actor, and I interviewed for a position with his agent.’

‘As his assistant?’

‘No, in the mail room. I worked my way up. A whole eight floors,’ he says mock-seriously.

‘And do you like it?’

He laughs again. ‘You know, nobody’s ever actually asked me that. Sure, I like it. It’s exciting. When the deals go well, it’s the biggest
adrenaline rush. And I like building a
relationship with clients, looking out for them. But it’s a pretty crazy job. It doesn’t stop. This is the longest vacation I’ve taken in two years.’

‘This is a
holiday
? But you’re working!’

‘No, officially I’m on vacation. But I have to be available all the time. I can only do this because my assistant is so solid.’

Wow. That sounds a very depressing
way to live. I thought Erica worked long hours, but at least she gets to go on holiday.

‘How about you?’ Sam says.

‘How about me what?’

He waves a hand. ‘How did you get into publishing? Is it what you’ve always wanted to do? Do you like it? Take your pick.’

‘Oh. Yes, I’ve always wanted to work in publishing. Ever since I realised that books didn’t just make themselves. I love books, and I
love being part of something that entertains so many people. And I love working with the authors . . .’ My voice tails off. I was briefly distracted for a minute while talking to Sam about his job, but now I’m worried about Luther again. He should have been back hours ago.

Seemingly reading my mind, Sam says, ‘If you’re worrying about Luther, don’t. He occasionally just heads for the hills. He
did it in Rome too; once he learned to drive stick, there was no stopping him. He’ll be back.’

‘I know,’ I say quickly. I’m not going to tell him that the last time I spoke to Luther I told him to go to hell.

Marisa reappears shortly afterwards and stays for dinner. Luther still hasn’t come home by the time I go to bed. It takes me ages to get to sleep: I can’t stop worrying about where he is
and what he’s doing. At one point I get up for a glass of water. As I walk back through the reception from the kitchen, I can hear Sam’s voice coming in from the
terrace. Marisa is still here; I hadn’t realised. They’re still at the table, their heads very close together. He reaches out and touches her arm. ‘Just tell me,’ I hear him say in a low voice. ‘Whatever you want, I’ll do it.’

Good grief,
what’s this about? Hastily I tiptoe back to bed before they see me. Later, in the spare moments when I’m not agonising about Luther, and replaying our conversation in my head, I wonder what on earth was going on out there.

SEVENTEEN

I’m woken by noises outside: thank God, I can hear Luther’s voice. I’m so relieved. Although, what did I think was going to happen? That he was going to throw himself off a bridge because I was mean to him?

After I get dressed, I sit on the edge of the bed for a minute and think. I’m too afraid to go out and face him. In fact, I feel nauseous. What on earth am I going to say? What will
he say?

Perhaps he’s already called Olivia to complain about the way I spoke to him. I haven’t been in touch with her since our last disastrous conversation. Oh, God. If he or Sam calls her, and tells her that I gave Luther an ultimatum . . . But why am I worried about my boss being cross, when the consequences could be much more dire? Olivia might not even be my boss much longer; she might get
fired for trusting me with this big job, which I messed up. My head starts to throb steadily from stress and terror.

I stand up and look out of my window at the beautiful view outside. It’s a gorgeous day and the heat has started pulsing up again, surging up from the ground in huge waves. The sky and sea are the same incredible blue. The windowsill is too hot to touch. It’s such a beautiful place,
but after this trip, I never want to come to Italy ever again.

There’s a knock on my door. It’s probably Sam, or bloody Annabel wanting to borrow something. Or could it be Luther, with flowers and an apology? Yeah, right.

Before I can say anything the door has opened slowly and a head comes around it. It
is
Luther. He looks like he’s been out all night, which he probably has.

‘Can I come in?’
he says.

He comes inside the room in a very circular way, moving around the edges. He goes to my dressing table and picks up the silk scarf Marisa chose for me.

‘Luther – I’m so sorry about yesterday,’ I tell him. ‘It was incredibly rude of me. And stupid. I didn’t mean it.’

He doesn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he slips the scarf around his neck. ‘Suits me?’

‘Um . . .’ I smile and shake my
head, though the strange thing is it actually does look quite cool on him – like everything he wears.

He puts the scarf back on the bureau. ‘Let’s take a walk,’ he says.

We walk down towards the beach. I don’t say anything, because I’m not sure what’s happening and I want him to talk first. When we get to the beach, he picks up a stone and skims it, just like Brian did the other day, but more
expertly.

‘I guess I’m the one who should be sorry,’ he says. ‘You must think I’m some asshole.’

The relief is so strong, it’s an actual physical sensation.

‘I don’t think you are an asshole at all.’

‘Hah,’ says Luther. He throws another stone. ‘The thing is, I do want to do this book. I do. There’s lots of stuff . . .’ he trails off, and looks back to sea. I wait for him to go on.

‘There’s
lots of stuff I want to tell someone.’

‘You can tell me,’ I say. He nods. I count to ten slowly inside my head, just as Brian suggested, waiting.

Eventually Luther says, ‘It’s funny that you said, “Who do you think you are?”, because I guess I’m at a point in my life right now where I almost don’t know who I am. Do you know what I mean?’ He continues, ‘I mean, I play all these roles but I don’t
know who I am when I’m off-camera, really.’

I don’t say anything at all; I just nod, hardly daring to breathe. I’ve never heard him talk like this before.

‘So, when I was talking to you earlier, I guess I was stalling,’ he says. ‘I want to do it, but when it comes to actually talking about that stuff – it’s pretty scary actually.’ He adds quietly, ‘It’s just weird to think of it all being out
there.’

I don’t know what to say. I’m feeling overwhelmed with remorse, and sympathy. He’s right. Despite me bitching about how easy he has it – I’m not the one who is about to reveal my life story.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘But we can take it slowly. And we don’t have to put things in if you don’t want to.’

He nods. ‘Good. I’m up for it, I really am. If you are.’

‘Of course I am.’ I’m so happy.

‘So what do we do now?’

‘Well, you and I can talk. And then we’ll send the tapes to Brian, and he’ll write them up. When he’s finished, you can read it and we’ll make changes together. And then it’ll be done.’

‘OK.’ He gets up. ‘You know what?’ he says decisively. ‘I’m excited. No bullshit. I want to do this.’

I’m so relieved; I can’t believe he’s come around. It’s taken a while but I think
I’m finally getting closer to the real Luther.