The Out of Office Girl (3 page)

I boggle at the picture he’s just created – for a number of reasons. Is he serious? How on earth am I going to exert my influence on Luther Carson? I don’t have any influence.

‘Alice, we have given this some thought, and I do think
it’s the best option. Normally we would prefer to send someone more senior, but you’re the most familiar with
the project. Olivia tells me you know everything there is to know about him. And I hear great things about your editing. She was very impressed with your work on the pet rescue memoir.’

The pet rescue memoir: what a nightmare. Three horses, twenty cats, twelve dogs and assorted birds
and reptiles, and one author who loved animals as much as she hated humans. A batty pet lady, though, is not the same as an A-list film star. I’m about to try to phrase this in a more tactful way, but Alasdair is still speaking.

‘I suggest you spend a day or so wrapping up here and as soon as you can, book yourself an open return to Sicily. Daphne will help you with the details, flights and so
on. Have a word with Ellen and the team downstairs to reallocate all your other work, but this takes priority.’

This is all happening way too fast. An hour ago I was Olivia’s assistant and now she’s in hospital and I’m on my way to – to work with
Luther Carson
. To handle a book more important than any I’ve ever worked on before, with an author who, gorgeous as he is, is probably pretty bloody
difficult. I can’t do it. I’m not senior enough, and I don’t have enough experience. I’ll have to tell him I need time to think about it, or something.

Alasdair looks up and says, ‘Is there anything else?’

I open my mouth to say yes, but something stops me.

I’ve just realised something blindingly obvious. This might be scary, but it’s a huge opportunity. He’s giving me the keys to the kingdom.
What am I doing, second-guessing and dragging my heels like this? I should be flattered that they’re even asking me. I need to stop wimping-out, right now, and step up.

‘No,’ I say as firmly as I can. ‘That’s all very clear. I’ll handle it.’

Alasdair smiles and stands up to shake my hand.

‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Keep in touch and let me know if you need anything.’

I’m halfway to the door when
he calls me back.

‘Alice,’ he says, ‘your current title is assistant editor, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I say, turning round. Is he going to rethink because I’m too junior?
Don’t change your mind
, I think frantically.
I want to go! I can do it!

‘Well, we’ll have to see about changing that when you come back with the book in your bag,’ he says. ‘Editor, or senior editor, even.’

I force myself not to
let out a shriek of joy. ‘That sounds – good,’ I say in a measured tone. ‘Thanks.’

I head out the door in a total daze. I forget to say goodbye to Daphne, and I walk straight into a big pot plant on the way to the lift. My cheeks are flushed and I feel sick and elated at the same time.
My big break
. That thought keeps repeating itself in my mind, but at the same time there’s another one, that’s
even more insistent:
I’m going to meet Luther Carson.

THREE

‘Did he really say: I want you to sit on him until he writes his book?’ asks Ruth, almost crying with laughter.

‘Yes, he did,’ I say happily. We’re sitting at a tiny table outside The Cow on Westbourne Park Road, near where Ruth lives. It’s not especially handy for me, but much as I love her, Ruth is one of those friends whom you travel to see, not the other way around. Beautiful people
are swarming all around us, but Ruth cleverly arrived early and bagged us a table outside. This was meant to be a commiseration-about-Simon drink but it’s turned into a celebration. It’s a lovely July evening, the summer is finally here. Life is good. Actually, life is great.

‘Well, I can’t get over it,’ says Ruth, which I’m not sure is flattering. ‘Not that you don’t deserve it,’ she adds quickly.
‘It’s just so surreal. My best friend from school is going on holiday with Luther Carson. What next? Is Mike going to start playing basketball with Leonardo DiCaprio?’

Mike is Ruth’s current boyfriend, an Irish banker she met through work. Before Mike there was Jonny, and before Jonny – was it James or Chris? I can’t remember. Ruth is one of those people who just skips effortlessly from one man
to the next. There is never a gap of longer than a few weeks, and sometimes there’s an overlap. I don’t know how
she does it. Of course, she’s very pretty, with big brown eyes and a sort of tomboy look, and she also works in financial PR which seems to be a better source of men than publishing. In contrast, before Simon, I was single for about nine months – total tumbleweed except for a couple
of awkward dates. But who cares about Simon when I have Luther Carson?

‘I’m not going on holiday with him,’ I remind her. ‘I’m going to work and I’m terrified. I’ve never handled an author as big as him before. Stop laughing!’

Eventually Ruth calms down. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she says, wiping her eyes. ‘You’ll get over there, worm all his dark secrets out of him, and he’ll cry on your shoulder and
fall madly in love with you.’

‘You think?’ I’m laughing, because it’s so ridiculous, but secretly I quite like that idea – strictly as a fantasy, of course.

‘Totally! He’ll find your down-to-earth English charm
so
refreshing after all the Hollywood bullshit. He’ll say, “Alice, I’m tired of these Botoxed bimbos. All they want is to be photographed on my arm. I need you.”’

‘Hah.’ I wish I had
Ruth’s confidence. ‘That’s a nice idea. But it’s not going to happen.’

‘Why not?’

I look at her to see if she’s serious. ‘Because – he’s a major star. He works with the most beautiful women in the world on a daily basis. He was married to Dominique Rice. I’m not even going to be on his radar.’

‘You never know,’ says Ruth.

‘I do know. But even if he did have some sort of interest in me, which
he won’t, there’s no way we could ever have a – a romance.’

‘Why can’t you?’

‘Because the book is too important. If I don’t do a good
job with it, it will be a disaster for the company. It’s a major part of our budget.’

‘So why don’t you have a fling with him
and
do a great job on the book?’ Ruth asks. ‘Simples.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I start counting reasons on my fingers. ‘First: I have to
be able to tell him what to do and I can’t if I’m – you know. Second: it would be totally unprofessional. And third, I would be fired and my career would be over.’

‘But you won’t need a career once you’re married to Luther Carson. Joking! I’m joking, Alice! You shouldn’t take things so seriously.’ She pats my arm. ‘It’s about time Olivia gave you a fun job like this. You’ve edited enough nightmare
books for her. I’m glad she’s finally recognising what you can do.’

I’m about to say that I haven’t actually had a chance to talk to Olivia about it all yet, but Ruth is taking a call.

‘Hi honey! Yes, fine . . . I’m here in The Cow with Alice. Really? Why don’t you come along?’ She looks at me with an ‘Is that OK?’ expression. I mime back, ‘Of course.’ She continues to chat – it’s obviously
Mike – and I check my own phone. Two texts. One is from a friend asking if there is any news on Simon. Oh God, I wish I hadn’t told so many people about my problems with him. And one from my flatmate, Ciara: ‘Great news! R u celebrating? Where r u?’ I text back: ‘At The Cow Westbourne Pk Rd. Come!’

Ruth is off the phone now. ‘That was Mike,’ she says, blissfully and unnecessarily. ‘He’ll be here
any minute.’

‘That’s great,’ I say, swallowing my disappointment. Mike’s nice. It’s just that I haven’t seen Ruth on her own in ages . . . and this was meant to be our commiseration-turned-celebration drink . . . oh well.

‘Anyway.’ She tops up my glass. ‘Listen, Alice. You’ll be completely fine. You can handle this guy. Just don’t rule
anything out. A fling with him could be just the thing to
help you get your confidence back after Simon.’

I’m about to ask if she’s still joking when Mike arrives. He’s come in a black cab, which tells me that a) he’s dying to see Ruth and b) he’s pretty rich. I approve of a) and I’m not that bothered about b). I’ve never been into rich City types. I prefer creative people, which Ruth would say is part of my problem.

Mike gives Ruth a quick but enthusiastic
kiss, and nods pleasantly at me. They make a nice couple. She’s petite and dark, and he’s short, too, but built for rugby, with sandy hair and freckles. As soon as he’s got back from the bar with his pint, Ruth fills him in discreetly.

‘GUESS WHAT? Alice is going on holiday with LUTHER CARSON!!!’

‘Who?’ says Mike. I make frantic ‘shushing’ sounds to Ruth – even in this achingly cool spot, one
or two people have looked around curiously.

‘The actor? He was in
The Last Legionnaire
, you know, and
Stars on the Water
, about the man whose wife dies—’

‘Oh, your man. He was in that other film, wasn’t he, about the two cowboys?’ Mike surprises us by saying. ‘That was a good film.’

‘
Brokeback Mountain
. Um, that was Jake Gyllenhaal,’ I say tactfully.

‘I didn’t know you liked that film.’ Ruth
gazes at Mike in wonder, as if he’s just saved a child from drowning or discovered a cure for cancer.

‘There’s more to me than multiplexes,’ Mike says. ‘So how come you’re going on holiday with him?’

I explain. Mike nods thoughtfully, then says, ‘Is he not a bit young to be writing his autobiography?’

‘Well, he is,’ I say. ‘But he has quite a story to tell. He was a star at twenty-four, when
he did
Fever
—’

‘Then he was incredibly successful, and then he went off the rails and disappeared for a year,’ Ruth adds. ‘Nobody knows where he went.’

‘And then he had a big comeback with
The Last Legionnaire
. And his upbringing was crazy. He and his family were homeless for a while.’

‘And, and, he was married to Dominique Rice – you’ve got to get him to do lots on that,’ says Ruth to me.
‘Honestly, how can you not know all this?’ she asks, turning to Mike.

‘OK, fair enough,’ says Mike, holding up his hands. ‘You two are well informed. It’s your job, Alice, but how do you know so much about this guy?’ he asks Ruth.

‘Well, duh,’ she says. ‘It’s general knowledge.’

‘Is it,’ says Mike, raising one eyebrow. ‘So what’s he got that I haven’t, for example?’

Ruth and I exchange looks.

‘Aside from being a multimillion-dollar-earning, good-looking film star,’ Mike concedes. ‘What’s the big fascination?’

‘I suppose . . . it’s the bad boy thing,’ I say shyly.

‘Completely,’ says Ruth. ‘He’s always out on the tiles and getting into trouble . . .’

‘Not so much now, that was a few years ago,’ I say.

‘But you just know it’s because of some kind of pain in his past . . . his crazy
childhood . . . the divorce . . . and he’s so talented . . .’ Ruth looks dreamy; Mike looks sceptical.

‘I’d say you’ll have your hands full with him, all right,’ he says.

‘I’d love to have my hands full with—’

‘Well, yes,’ I chip in hastily, before Ruth gets herself into more trouble. ‘He probably is difficult, but I’ll just have to do my best.’

‘Ah, listen, I didn’t mean to worry you,’ says
Mike. ‘I’m
sure he’s a delightful character. Just head out for a few scoops with him and you’ll be sucking diesel.’

‘What?’ I say. This doesn’t sound good.

‘He means, just go out for a few drinks with him and you’ll be fine. Is that right?’ Ruth asks Mike. ‘He’s been teaching me Irish slang,’ she adds to me.

‘Ten out of ten,’ Mike says to Ruth, and raises his glass to me in a toast. I smile,
clinking my glass against his. Mike is nice. I hope he lasts.

‘Oh look, there’s Ciara,’ says Ruth. ‘Ciara! Over here!’

I shouldn’t make comparisons, but in contrast to Ruth, Ciara has come all the way from her job in Bermondsey, where she works for a charity, to join us in Westbourne Park. And she would have seen me at home in Hammersmith anyway. We introduce her to Mike, and as they’re both
from Dublin they start swapping acquaintances. Before they get into it all, though, Ciara goes to the bar to order champagne, and Mike follows her to fight over who’s paying for it. I hope he wins because Ciara doesn’t earn much money. When they come back, Ciara hears all about Luther all over again from the three of us. She’s very pleased for me, especially when I mention what Alasdair said about
a possible promotion.

‘So what’s happened with Simon?’ she asks at one point. I haven’t seen her properly for a couple of days so she’s not up to speed. I appreciate her concern but I’m getting so sick of telling everyone; it’s like a broken engagement or something. I almost need to take out an ad somewhere:
Attention: To whom it concerns: Simon has dumped Alice
. At least I never changed my relationship
status on Facebook.

‘Oh – he hasn’t been in touch. No big deal,’ I say.

I don’t want to go into more detail with Mike there – there’s nothing worse than having your romantic failures rehashed in front of your friend’s new boyfriend. But Mike
insists on hearing the full story. When he does, he doesn’t say, ‘Well, why don’t you call him?’ or offer excuses. He says Simon sounds like a gobshite
and that I should forget all about him. I’m beginning to think he’s absolutely right. It’s a fun evening and everyone is on great form. I love my friends; I love London. I can handle Luther Carson.

Just after eleven they kick us out. There’s some talk of going on somewhere – maybe to one of the clubs in Notting Hill – but we all have work tomorrow so we say our goodbyes and Ciara and I head to
the Harrow Road to get some chips, and then weave our way back down to Westbourne Park station. And on the way there, I get a text message. It’s from Simon, and it says, ‘Sorry, Alice, been v busy at work and can’t see you again I’m afraid. Have a good one.’

FOUR