The Out of Office Girl (21 page)

‘I think I might have asked to borrow her highlighter pen.’

Together we come up with a better opening line. I also want to know when their first date was, but I’m soon corrected: it sounds like there was no first date, just a more-or-less instant falling into bed.

‘That will work too,’ I say. ‘I
mean, that’s fine, if that’s how it happened.’

Luther doesn’t say anything. I glance over at him, to see that he’s frowning in concentration.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘You know, that story about me stealing money from Bruce. Or when I invited both those girls to the same premiere. Or learning to hotwire cars. And all the boozing and the drugs and everything . . . sending my assistant to meet my dealer
. . .’

‘Yes?’ I say nervously.
You mean, the best parts of the book? Please don’t start saying you want to take them out. Please, please don’t do this to me. Not now . . . not after everything we’ve been through
. . .

‘Do you really want to put those in the book? I mean – don’t they make me sound like an asshole? Not that I care what people think,’ he adds, somewhat unconvincingly. ‘It’s just,
I don’t like to talk to interviewers about that stuff, because they twist it. I don’t know why people would want to read about it.’

He sounds genuinely puzzled. Does he not understand?

‘But, Luther,’ I say. ‘Those are exactly the kinds of things that make a person interesting, and lovable. If you’d never put a foot wrong your entire life, and been a complete straight arrow, your story would
be pretty dull. Despite all the great things you’ve done,’ I add quickly.

He looks sceptical.

‘Really?’

‘Of course! It’s like in any story. Nobody identifies with
a character who’s perfect – it’s boring. Whereas, someone who messes up – that’s much more engaging. It’s more interesting, and it’s more real, because nobody is perfect.’

He’s looking as if this is all completely new information.

‘I know that’s the case with characters,’ he says. ‘But I never thought it would be like that for autobiographies. I guess it makes sense.’

‘I promise,’ I say. ‘And, look, Brian is brilliant at making his subjects come across as sympathetic. If there’s anything he’s good at, it’s getting the reader on your side. And that’s what we want. It’s in our interests to make you look good.’

Luther is
obviously mulling this over. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Well, it’s probably going to be good for Dominique also. This is definitely a side to her that isn’t so perfect. And, according to you, that’ll make her more sympathetic, right?’

Oh, dear.

‘Well . . . no,’ I say. ‘That’s different. It would be one thing if she were telling the story herself, but this is your side of the story only. If you sound
as if you’re being critical or unfair about her, it won’t make you look good. So we’ll have to bend over backwards to be gentlemanly.’

‘That sounds like quite a contortionist act,’ says Sam, appearing in the doorway.

‘Hey, man,’ says Luther.

I’m pretty pleased to see him. For the past hour, I’ve been dying to go to the bathroom, but I haven’t dared leave Luther while he’s sharing such intense
stuff.

I stand up, saying, ‘I’ll let you guys chat – I’ll be back in a second!’ And I scoot away before either of them can say anything.

Once I’m in the bathroom, I take a minute just to slump there and zone out. I can’t believe how intense today has been, on top of very little sleep last night and a twelve-hour working day yesterday. But it doesn’t matter. None of it
matters, as long as we
get the book. And Luther is still being brilliant. Wonderful. I’m just beginning to feel dizzy and I think I need fifteen minutes’ alone time.

After a minute, I realise I’d better go back out. Sam is still on the terrace. He’s dressed a bit more formally than usual, wearing a jacket over his T-shirt and carrying what looks like an overnight bag.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ I ask, knowing I sound
inane.

‘Yeah. I have to go to London for a couple days and do some fire-fighting. Not literally fire-fighting,’ he adds, seeing my expression. ‘I mean – forget it. I’m flying to Rome now to catch my connecting flight.’ He looks at Luther. ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can, though. And I’ll be contactable. So call me if anything comes up. Anything
whatever
,’ he adds pointedly to Luther. He looks
extremely pissed off.

‘Don’t sweat it,’ says Luther. ‘We’re busy. We’re working. We’re in the zone. In fact,’ he says to me, ‘maybe that’s the best thing. A closed set. What do you think, Alice? We can have a total lockdown, make sure nobody comes here, so we can work twenty-four seven . . .’

I’m trying to control my expression, but I’m actually feeling pretty worried. It sounds brilliant in
theory, and it’s what I would have dreamed of a week ago, but . . . if Sam leaves us, that means I’m alone – for at least two days – in the house with Luther, with only Maria Santa as chaperone. Obviously it will be great to spend so much time with Luther and do the interviews freely without Sam interfering. But how am I going to get my work done in the evenings? Luther needs company, especially
after such intense days, and I can’t keep him company
and
transcribe our interviews. I won’t have time. I suppose I’ll have to rely on Marisa and Federico.

‘Sure,’ I say, trying to sound cheerful. ‘We’ll be fine. Have a lovely trip.’

Sam just gives me a look. ‘I’ll need those transcripts,’ he says curtly. ‘Don’t forget.’ As I watch him go, his bag slung over his shoulder, I get the strangest
sensation: it’s as if I’m marooned on an island, watching a boat sail off into the distance.

‘What was I saying?’ says Luther.

TWENTY

By the time evening comes, I’m a shadow of my former self.

It’s not that Luther’s being difficult: quite the reverse. The floodgates have opened. He’s been talking and talking: it’s as if he’s taken some kind of truth drug. After hearing his stories, I no longer believe anything that’s written in the papers; the reality almost always seems to be more bizarre. He’s dropped one outrageous
fact after another about different A-listers and smaller fry. After he mentioned something about a co-star of his who asked his assistant to break up with his girlfriend on his behalf, I had to explain to him that we can’t publish everything he says.

‘How come?’ he said. ‘It’s true.’

‘Because we could get sued,’ I said. ‘I’m not a libel lawyer but I do know that if we say defamatory things about
people, we have to be able to prove them, potentially in a court of law, and even if we can prove them, we don’t want to end up in court. It’s just not worth it.’

‘No?’ Luther didn’t look too upset, but I continued.

‘We can mention some of these things, provided we disguise people’s identities. But it gets tricky, because we could end up creating a fake identity that might then get mistaken
for another, real person.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Luther said. I could see that I’d lost him. I can’t help noticing that his attention does tend to wander when we’re not talking about him.

In any case, Luther has plenty of anecdotes that are lively without being completely scandalous. There are some great stories about him picking up girls with Leonardo DiCaprio and gatecrashing a party at Tom Cruise’s house.
The great thing about him is that unlike lots of more – well, mature stars, who have big, pharmaceutically induced holes in their memories, he can remember everything – or most of it. What with this, and his candour about himself, and the stuff about his childhood and early years, the book is going to be fantastic.

So it’s been great; but it’s been heavy going. My shoulders are aching; in fact,
every muscle in my body is aching. I never knew listening could be so much hard work. And it’s not just listening; it’s concentrating on what he’s saying, trying to ask the right questions, keeping him on the subject, getting the facts and chronology, all at once. And I still don’t know when I’m going to have the time to type it all up. I’ve tried calling Marisa to see if she’s coming over, but
there’s no answer.

At 7 p.m., Maria Santa rings the bell for dinner. It’s early; I think she probably saw how I was wilting during our quick sandwich lunch, which didn’t interrupt the flow of the interviews even remotely. How I wish I could collapse on a sofa and eat my dinner in front of the TV.

Suddenly I realise how weird this is. Here I am, in an Italian villa with Luther Carson, whom I’ve
had a crush on for years, who’s been voted MTV’s Most Desirable Male, and been officially described as one of the Thirty Sexiest Men on the planet. He’s pouring out his heart to me and telling me things that probably no one else knows. We’ve been left all alone all day, and now we’re about to have
dinner together. It
sounds
like heaven – and a week ago, it would have seemed an impossible dream
– but, when faced with it in real life, it’s not at all how I would have imagined it.

‘Chow time,’ Luther remarks. ‘Why don’t you take the tape with you? I might think of more stuff over dinner.’

I pick it up, and go to put in a new tape. And I realise something inconvenient, that could also be good news.

‘Luther – this tape is full. And it’s my last one. We’ve used up every single one. Which
is wonderful!’ I add, seeing his face fall. ‘It’s fantastic that you’ve been working so hard. But I’ll need to download all the files to the computer before we do another interview. It could take a while.’

‘I guess we can just talk,’ he says, sounding disappointed.

It’s a beautiful evening. The sun is sinking across the bay, and the terrace has never looked more inviting. Maria Santa has set
the table beautifully, with little yellow and white flower arrangements, and what looks like a new set of plates that I’ve never seen before. She gives me a special smile as we sit down, and pours us each a glass of prosecco. Help. Does she think this is some sort of romantic occasion? If she has a violin quartet waiting in the wings I’m not sure what I’ll do.

‘She seems to think we’re celebrating,’
Luther remarks.

‘We’re celebrating all your work on the book,’ I say, and clink my glass against his. ‘Seriously, Luther, you’ve been an absolute star.’

I’m ravenous. We start to eat our first course, which is my favourite: grilled, marinated vegetables, with slivers of ham and cheese. And I realise something very odd. I’ve spent the last two days nose-to-nose with Luther, hearing the story
of his life, and now that we’re not working on the book, I can’t think of a single thing to say to him. I’m racking my brains to think of a question to ask him but,
on the other hand, I’m worried that he must be tired of talking. So I try to think of something amusing to say, but my mind is totally blank. And then I start to worry that he must be finding me boring.

‘Have you ever been to London?’
I ask him, thinking that perhaps I can entertain him with tales of the metropolis.

He thinks. ‘Yeah, a couple times. I did some PR there, for my last movie. I stayed at The Dorchester. I didn’t see the place that much. When I’m in London,’ he adds, ‘I always book in under Joe DiMaggio. I don’t know why.’

‘Oh, how funny!’

Silence descends.

As I rack my brains for another topic of conversation,
something else occurs to me – an absolutely radical new idea.

Why can’t Luther ask
me
a question?

I’m trying to remember, but in the whole time I’ve known him, I don’t think Luther’s ever asked me a single thing about myself. I’m learning everything there is to know about him, and he knows absolutely nothing about me. Of course, I am meant to be interviewing him. But surely most people would
have asked one or two questions, just out of politeness, if not out of genuine interest. Luther certainly doesn’t know my last name. If pressed, he would probably be able to say that I lived in London. But otherwise, for all he knows, I might have landed from the moon three weeks ago.

He glances up, obviously aware of me staring, and I realise that I’m being weird. I might be overdosing on him
a bit, but I can’t let it show.

‘Sorry. The Dorchester sounds lovely. I’ve been there for tea. Did you have a suite, or . . .?’

And he’s away. All I have to do is listen and ask questions, and make a mental note of anything we can use in
the book. As we chat – or rather, as he talks and I listen – I realise this is reminding me of someone. Who?

Simon. I’m remembering our last awful date in
Pizza Express, when I was racking my brains trying to think of something to say – that is, of a question to ask him. I can’t believe I thought I was talking too much that evening about my problems at work. I’d say the ratio of my voice to his was something like 20:80.

As Luther continues to talk, I wonder: are all my conversations with men going to involve me being an audience to a monologue?
Maybe I should just put my fingers in my ears and start talking about myself – tell Luther all about growing up in Hertfordshire, my horrible school, how I want to be promoted, my disastrous love life, Simon and how I always end up getting dumped. But he would probably be asleep within minutes.

I can see that he might find me boring. But – another seemingly radical idea occurs to me –
Isn’t Luther a little boring himself?
He’s had an amazing life and everything, of course. But when we’re not doing interviews, is he interesting to talk to? I still think he’s a good actor, but would people make such a big fuss of him if he didn’t look the way he does? I have to say the answer’s no, on both counts.

Finally, after what seems like hours, dinner is over, and Luther stands up and stretches.

‘Time for a game of Grand Theft Auto,’ he says. He looks at me consideringly. ‘Hey. You want to play?’

Oh, God. I can’t say no, because that would be rude. But I can’t say yes, because I’ve been in his company for over twelve hours now without a break, and if I don’t have just ten minutes by myself, I’m going to go insane. In fact, if my state of mind were a painting, it would be
The Scream
by
Edvard Munch. That’s how I feel inside, though I’m smiling outside.