The Out of Office Girl (29 page)

‘You have a very expressive face, do you know that?’ Sam says.

‘Do I?’ I ask, startled.

‘Yes. Even when you’re not talking.
In fact, especially when you’re not talking.’ He smiles at me, and my heart skips a beat. I wonder if he might be about to say something to reassure me – maybe talk about when we’re going to meet again?

‘You’re not worrying about the book again, are you?’ he says. ‘It’s going to be fine.’

‘Um, no, I wasn’t,’ I say, filled with disappointment. God,
the book. I wish we didn’t have to talk about
the bloody book.

We get back in the car and on to the road. It’s night now, and the stars are out. The radio is playing the same Shakira song they played in the nightclub – it seems like such a long time ago.

‘So it looked like a pretty gruelling session today,’ Sam says. ‘What were you guys talking about? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Oh. It was pretty intense stuff. We won’t put it in the
book.’

‘Ah.’ He sounds startled. ‘Was it serious? Why would you not put it in the book?’

Why does he keep going on about work? A car suddenly overtakes us in the face of an oncoming lorry, missing us both by inches. People drive like lunatics here.

‘I just –’ I can’t tell him what Luther was talking about. ‘Just sort of – things Luther’s done, things that have happened to him, and – his image,
I suppose. He talked about wanting to develop.’

‘Wanting to develop his range?’ Sam sighs, and shakes his head. ‘He and I have talked about that a thousand times. And then he ends up wanting to go for the same old thing. I even had to talk him into
Roman Holiday
, which was the safest bet we got sent all year. Was that all?’

‘Well, there were some personal things.’ Why are we even talking about
this?

There’s a long pause.

‘Is it something illegal?’

‘No! I mean, I don’t think so. I don’t know. Look, it’s nothing.’

‘OK,’ Sam says. ‘I won’t pump you for information. I’ll speak to Luther.’ He looks preoccupied.

‘Yes,’ I say tonelessly. ‘Good idea.’ I find myself scratching
nervously at something on my arm: a mosquito bite. Damn. I suppose I’ve been lucky to escape those so far.

‘Mosquito
bite, huh?’ Sam asks. ‘They’re the worst. Marisa got eaten alive when we were in Rome.’

Marisa got eaten alive when we were in Rome.

Grammatically, there’s no way of telling, from that sentence, when they were in Rome. He could be talking about years ago, when they first worked together. But I know, somehow, that he means three days ago.

‘You mean – when you were there recently?’ I ask. ‘On
your way to London?’

‘Oh, no,’ he says. ‘I mean when we were there years ago. Working.’

Is he lying? I can’t tell. He sounds very plausible, but that doesn’t make sense: why would he mention it if it was years ago?

‘Oh, right,’ I say. I know I should just drop it but, like my mosquito bite, I can’t leave it alone, and I can’t help adding, ‘I kind of got the idea, at one point . . . I thought
that there might be something between you two. When I first met you, I mean.’

He’s silent for a moment.

‘We did date. When we first met, before she got married, we had a brief relationship. It didn’t work out. But we stayed in touch.’

I don’t say anything. I can’t.

‘Does that bother you?’ he asks, looking over at me.

‘Of course not,’ I say, too quickly.

But it does. It bothers me because
I know I can’t measure up to Marisa. She is stunning and intelligent and sophisticated as well as being a genuinely lovely person. That they were together makes sense, because he is out of my league. And at the same time I can’t help thinking: is this what he does? Does he just have mini-romances every time he sets
foot in Italy, or France, or England? And then leaves, to go back to soulless LA
and his hundred-hour work week and no dating actresses? Either way it looks as though I was wrong about his charms only being obvious to me.

I have to change the subject. I clear my throat. ‘Listen, you know, we’ve almost finished with the interviews. Luther tells me that he doesn’t need to read the book. Do you think that’s true? He suggested you could read it for him.’

He’s still looking at
me. Then he looks back to the road. ‘Sure. I’ll read it. He really needs a manager for this stuff,’ he adds under his breath.

We drive on in silence, and when we arrive back at the house, I get out of the car as quickly as I can.

‘Thanks for a lovely day, and evening,’ I say, not meeting his eye. ‘Gosh, it’s getting cool.’ I start walking towards the house, pulling my wrap around me before realising
it’s all sandy. What a lame excuse; it’s a lovely warm night.

‘Wait,’ he says behind me. I turn around. He’s standing beside the car, looking astonished. ‘Are you serious? That’s it?’

‘I don’t – I’d better check in with Luther.’ And I hurry inside before he can stop me.

TWENTY-EIGHT

I walk out to the terrace to find a scene of domestic bliss: Marisa and Luther drinking tea and playing cards. Marisa kisses me, and when Sam comes in behind me she kisses him too. I have to look away while this happens.

Sam sits down. ‘Sorry we’re back so late. Hey, did you read that script yet?’

‘Alice,
bella
,’ says Marisa. ‘Why don’t we leave these two to chat? We can go inside
and watch TV.’

‘No, stay,’ says Luther.

Marisa glances at Sam. ‘Actually,’ she says, ‘I should go home. Poor Federico will wonder where I am.’ She picks up her bag and gets up, saying, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ to Sam.

Marisa goes off to the bathroom, while I check my email. There’s a message from Brian. It’s the manuscript. He’s done his first draft in less than a week. This is unbelievable!
I hook up the laptop to the printer and start printing it out, half listening to Sam and Luther talking outside.

‘Luther,’ Sam is saying, ‘We’ve talked about this. You know I can’t make you into Depp or Clooney overnight. But of course you can develop. I just think, if you want to do that, you’re going to have to take more risks.’

I don’t hear what Luther says then, but Sam continues,
‘I’m not
so sure.
Roman Holiday
was a good start, but you could do more. Why do you think I’m suggesting this part?’

‘That’s not a risk, that’s TV,’ Luther says.

‘It is a risk, because it’s something different. It’s an excellent part. It’s a complex character, and it’s brilliantly written. That’s the kind of risk I think you should be taking – not just following an action movie with a rom-com.’

Luther
says something I can’t hear. Marisa emerges from the bathroom, and I get up to walk her to the door. As I walk beside her I can see there’s a huge mosquito bite on her shoulder. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before.

‘Were you in Rome recently, Marisa?’ I ask her.

She looks very startled, almost shocked. ‘How do you know?’ she says.

‘I just . . . wondered. I know Sam was there recently.’

She sighs. ‘He wasn’t meant to tell anyone. I can’t let Federico find out – will you promise?’ She grabs my hand and looks at me imploringly. She seems genuinely apprehensive. God, is she scared of him? How horrible, if that’s the case.

‘I promise,’ I say, feeling awful. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t say anything.’

‘Thanks,
bella
,’ she says. ‘You’re a real friend.
Ciao
.’ She kisses me again and slips
out the door.

I walk back and sit down at the computer, which is still printing away. So that’s that. Sam was in Rome with his beautiful ex, who I didn’t even know was his ex until an hour ago. And whatever the reason for their trip – even if it was totally innocent, which I’m dubious about – he lied to me about it. He lied to me, after we’d slept together and spent an idyllic day and evening
together.

I’m starting to doubt everything he said. Was he even in London at all? Did he make all that up about walking along the river, looking at my office on a map? I suddenly have
a vision of the two of them in Rome at some glossy dinner full of film people, talking shop in a mixture of Italian and English, her in a beautiful evening dress, his hand on her arm. Or wandering past the Colosseum
hand in hand . . . coming back to their hotel room late at night, her wearing his dinner jacket . . . oh, God, I feel so stupid.

I wait until the manuscript has finished printing, and I take it in to my room to finish reading it. My room is a total mess – almost as bad as Annabel’s was, except with fewer expensive clothes and products. My drawers are still open from when I charged in like an
over-excited child and got ready for my day out with Sam. I can’t think about that: it’s too painful. I take a deep breath and decide to focus, as I should have from the start, on doing my job.

I’ve read about three chapters when the phone rings. It’s Olivia.

‘Hello, Olivia,’ I say in the smallest, least offensive tone I can manage.

She just says, ‘I’ve finished reading Brian’s draft.’

I’m
closing my eyes and crossing my fingers.

‘It’s generally in good shape.’

Hallelujah! In Olivia language, that’s practically the Nobel prize for literature. Could this be a reprieve? Is she going to say I’m forgiven?

‘There’s just one thing,’ she continues. ‘I am disappointed that there’s nothing more behind the whole episode of the year he disappeared. Which, as you know, was one of the subjects
we wanted him to cover in the contract.’

OK. Point taken.

‘It’s just an anti-climax that all he did was sit on a beach. Are you sure there was nothing more to it than that?’

Oh God. It’s an obvious, yet terrifying question. I can feel my hand turn damp as it clutches the phone.

‘You see,’ she says, ‘I don’t think we can trust him to tell us everything. And now I don’t know whether I can trust
you.’

‘I know,’ I mutter. ‘But . . . that’s all he’s said . . . so far.’

‘I’m not convinced. I think there’s more to the whole thing, and if you value your future with us, you’ll make sure to find it out,’ she says. And hangs up.

I thought I’d been scared before. I thought I’d been worried about my job before. But I have never felt such terror as now. This is it. If I don’t tell Olivia what
Luther told me, I could get fired.

I should have told her. It was said during an interview; therefore there is no reason not to put it in the book, if Luther agrees. In fact, surely I would be more to blame if I left it
out
of the book. If Olivia ever finds out what Luther told me, and that I didn’t tell her – she wouldn’t just fire me. She’d kill me.

But what would it do to Luther’s career?
And would it be good for him to have it in black-and-white for ever? I remember, uneasily, what I was thinking earlier, about him needing a therapist rather than a book contract.

Well, that isn’t my responsibility. If Luther doesn’t want it in the book, he can say so. But there’s no point in me holding back to protect him. I have to save myself. I go to my computer, and I fish out the tape where
Luther talked about the whole sordid thing, and start to type it up. It doesn’t take long. When I’ve finished, I print it out so I can show it to Luther, and I attach it to an email ready to send to Brian and Olivia. My cursor hesitates over the send button. Strange: just by pressing this I can affect Luther’s entire career. And mine. And Sam’s.

Can I do that? Am I really prepared to ruin Luther’s
career to save my own?

I’m probably being overdramatic. Luther’s career won’t
be ruined. Anyway, I don’t have a choice. I’m just about to press send when I hear a knock on my door.

‘Alice?’

It’s Sam. I’m not answering.

‘Alice? I know you’re there.’

He knocks again. A few minutes later, I hear him walk away. I bury my face in my hands. Today has just been too much. I won’t send the email yet:
I’ll send it in the morning.

TWENTY-NINE

I’m awoken by yet another knock on my door. I look at my watch: it’s 7.15 a.m. Who is it this time, and what do they want? I can’t wait until I’m back in my own bed instead of being here on call twenty-four hours a day.

‘What is it?’ I call, foggy-voiced.

‘It’s me.’ Sam, again. I go to open the door, hopes rising despite myself. Is he going to tell me that the whole Marisa thing
is a mistake? He hasn’t shaved yet, and he’s wearing his swimming things with a towel thrown over his shoulder, which is distracting.

‘Dominique’s on her way,’ he says.

‘What do you mean, she’s on her way?’ I ask blankly, looking past him as if she might be coming down the corridor.

‘I mean, she’s on her way here, now. Her manager called me late last night.’

So that was it – the reason he
knocked on my door last night. It wasn’t to talk to me at all.

‘Why is she coming in person?’ I say, knowing I sound snappy.

‘I have no idea.’

‘Well, when is she coming?’

‘This morning. She has a few requests.’

‘Such as?’

‘Helicopter parking. The manuscript printed out in triplicate on cream-coloured paper. And mentholated cigarettes, and five litres of Fiji water.’

‘Very funny.’

‘I’m
not joking,’ says Sam. ‘You know, that’s not a big ask by her standards.’

‘No?’

‘No. You got lucky.’ He’s not smiling.

‘We’ll do our best,’ I say. ‘Did she request any brand of mentholated – actually, what am I saying? There’s enough madness in her menthols.’

I’m about to turn away when he puts a hand on my arm. Looking down at me, he says, ‘Hey. Alice. Did I do or say something to piss you
off?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then why are you being so weird with me?’ He looks around and continues, in a low voice, ‘Yesterday . . . I had a really great time with you, and I thought you did too.’

I consider telling him that I know about him and Marisa, to see if he might be able to explain. But what is there to explain? Even if there is some innocent reason why they jetted off to Rome together,
the fact is that he lied to me; he didn’t tell me she was his ex until I asked him outright, and he and I are never going to be together again anyway. This whole thing with Sam was just as much of a fantasy as my crush on Luther.