The Out of Office Girl (31 page)

I’ve hardly noticed that it’s getting dark, until Sam gets up and puts on the light.

‘My God. Are they still out there? I’d almost forgotten about them.’

‘They’re leaving,’ Sam says. ‘Let’s go say goodbye.’

Outside, the entourage are standing around, with Dominique and Luther a little way apart from them. He’s holding some notes, which I realise
must be from her. We all shake hands with the others, and then they all file down the stairs. Dominique and Luther stay behind last of all, saying their goodbyes at the top of the stairs. Looking at them standing in the half-dark, at the edge of the terrace, with the last light from the setting sun behind them, I think about what a sight this would be for a passing paparazzo. But even if they
were caught on camera, there’s no way for anyone to know what they are saying.

She leaves, and Luther comes slowly back over towards us, looking at the wad of paper in his hand.

‘How was it?’ I ask.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Bittersweet, you know?’

‘And did she like the book?’

He nods slowly. ‘She did, you know? She really did.’ He waves the papers. ‘She wants us to change, like, six pages.’

‘Six
pages? Is that all?’

‘Yeah, she’s worried when I talk about a friend of ours, and there are some other things that she wanted to change. But she’s cool with most of what I said about her and me. She says she hopes it helps other people who are going through similar stuff.’

This is unbelievable. I feel a new-found respect for her: what a star. Suddenly the noise of the helicopter begins. It’s
completely deafening, and it blows all our clothes against us. We look up at the chopper, lifting higher and higher overhead.

I take the pages from Luther, and examine them, holding them tightly – it would be too tragic if the wind blew them away. Her changes are written in a tiny, neat hand, and they seem to be mostly psychobabble – far-out chat about learning and growth and acceptance and change
and other
stuff which is going to sound extremely strange woven into Luther’s bad-boy anecdotes. But I just don’t care any more.

‘These look great,’ I say to him. ‘I can’t believe she came out and just did it in a day. Luther, do you know what this means? We’ve finished the book!’ I’m so excited that I’m practically jumping up and down, and Luther is laughing at me.

We get some champagne and
open it on the terrace, while Maria Santa is setting up for dinner. I remember the last time someone brought champagne on to the terrace – Luther, when he tried to seduce me after the nightclub. I can’t believe that after everything that’s happened, all the disasters and detours, we’ve actually ended up with a publishable book.

‘This is such a great feeling,’ I say to him. ‘Luther, you should
be proud of yourself. Are you happy about it?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yeah, I am. I feel like I learned and grew, you know?’ He’s clearly taking the piss, or is he? As ever with Luther, I’m not totally sure, but he looks pretty happy.

I decide that before the others join us, I’d better tell Olivia that Dominique has approved the book. I’ve just opened up my email, when Sam comes inside.

‘What the
hell is this?’ he snaps.

‘What the . . . hell is what?’ But I can see. He’s holding a piece of paper. In slow-motion horror I realise Luther’s told him about the producer story. And shown it to him.

‘Sam, I can explain,’ I say, realising I’m talking in clichés. ‘I changed my mind. I don’t think it should go in.’

‘Oh, sure you’ve changed your mind. Right after you asked Luther to show – this
– to his ex-wife. How could you do this? He trusted you. How could you encourage him to broadcast such a miserable, shitty story? Didn’t you even think about what it would do to him, to his career? I’m just glad he decided not to show it to Dominique.’

‘But – I’ve deleted it! Honestly. You can check my computer.’ I turn the laptop towards him with shaking hands.

‘I don’t believe you,’ he says.
‘But I get it now. There’s the version you gave me, and there’s the version that you’re really publishing. Well, you can do your own dirty work from now on.’

‘So – so are you cancelling the book?’ I ask helplessly.

He laughs. ‘Of course, that’s the main thing: the book. Don’t worry; Luther still wants the book. But don’t even
think
of including this sordid piece of gossip in it.’

‘Wait, Sam!
You don’t understand. I’m about to lose my job—’

‘Skip it, Alice. I know you’re under pressure to dig for dirt. Just go dig somewhere else, OK?’

‘Please, Sam. I can explain.’

‘There’s really no need. Luther’s changed his mind about the TV; he wants to do it. We fly tomorrow. You’ve got your book; we’re done here.’

And he walks out to greet Federico and Marisa, who’ve just arrived. I can’t
speak; I can’t even cry. I’ve lost him.

At dinner, everyone is in a celebratory mood. Federico tells us how his printer kept jamming, and Marisa talks about getting hold of the paper and how her cousin wanted Dominique’s autograph. Luther is on great form as well, inventing lots of outrageous anecdotes which he claims he’s put in the book. The champagne gets finished surprisingly quickly, and
Luther immediately asks for another bottle, and another one. I just concentrate on cutting up my food and making it look as though I’m eating so that nobody asks me any questions. I’ve already booked my flight, and I’ve emailed Olivia telling her that Dominique has approved the manuscript, and that nothing else came of the Hawaii story. Now I want to go home.

The others are discussing
Roman Holiday
. In the ending of the original, the Princess and the journalist go their separate ways because they belong to different worlds. In Luther’s remake, she hands the throne to her younger brother and they ride off into the sunset together. It sounds awful. Of course I haven’t said as much to Luther, but Marisa, who can say things we can’t, is telling him they should have kept the ending as it was.

‘It was more romantic,’ she says. ‘Ah, the scene with the press conference at the end – it’s beautiful.’

‘It’s a downer,’ Luther says irritably. ‘Ours is more uplifting.’

‘But not as true,’ Marisa argues. She turns to Sam. ‘What do you think? More beautiful before, no?’

Sam just makes some generic comment about how he can’t wait to see Luther’s version. If only I hadn’t done that awful thing
with the producer story, maybe he would have looked at me and said something meaningful about how the Princess should have ended up with the journalist or something, and I would have agreed and we would have ended up riding off into the sunset together. But he won’t talk to me, or even look at me. Seeing him sitting beside Marisa, I realise it’s hopeless. There probably is something between them.
And even if there isn’t, he hates me now.

By 1 a.m., Marisa and Federico are still there, having a whale of a time, and Luther’s clearly in for the long haul. When he tries to top me up for the tenth time, I make a move to go, talking about being tired and having to pack.

‘No!’ Luther protests when I get up. ‘Disloyalty to the party!’

The mention of disloyalty makes me blush. ‘My flight’s at
eleven,’ I mutter.

‘I’m sorry I can’t take you to the airport,’ Marisa says. ‘I have some errands to do. Sam, will you take her?’

‘I won’t have time,’ Sam says shortly. Marisa looks surprised.

‘It’s OK. I can get a taxi. Goodnight, everyone,’ I say.

‘Hey. Come on, man,’ says Luther, unexpectedly. ‘She’s worked hard. Give the girl a ride to the airport.’

This sudden kindness, coming on top
of what I was going to do to him, pushes me over the edge; I can feel tears collecting in my eyes and a lump in my throat. Sam snaps, ‘OK, fine.’

I escape to bed before I break down completely. I’m so relieved. Sam hates me now, but I know that if I can just talk to him properly, I’ll be able to explain. I hope so, anyway. I fall asleep practising the way I’ll phrase it.

THIRTY

I’m packed. I’m ready. I’ve looked under the bed and in all the drawers, and I’m leaving in twenty minutes. I’m leaving the brown hair-shirt here – I’d like to have a ceremonial burning of it, but I’ve left it a bit late. I’ve decided the neon swimsuit is something Poppy might be able to carry off, so I’m taking it with me. I’ve just come back from saying goodbye and thank you to Maria
Santa when I see Marisa, jumping out of her car and running towards the house.

‘What’s up?’ says Sam, who’s just emerged on to the terrace with Luther.

‘I just talked to Annabel on the phone,’ Marisa says. ‘She sounded terrified. She’s in Nikos’s apartment. She says they’ve had a fight, and he’s really scared her. She wants someone to come and get her.’

‘Tell her to get a taxi,’ says Luther.

‘Did he hit her?’ says Sam.

Marisa shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. There wasn’t time. She said she couldn’t talk for long, so I just said we would come and get her. Sam, please will you go and collect her? She told me where his house is.’ She looks at me. ‘Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re taking Alice to the airport.’

‘No. I think I should help Annabel,’ Sam says. And hearing this, I know that I’ve
lost him for good.

‘Damn,’ says Luther. ‘I knew I should’ve packed my piece. Never mind, I can go hand-to-hand. Take that Nikos guy down.’

‘Easy, Starsky. You’re not coming. Forget it,’ says Sam, going inside the house.

‘What are you talking about?’ Luther’s following him. ‘You need back-up. You’re a Mormon, for Chrissake. What are you, going to preach him to death? You need someone from the
street, like me.’

‘No! Your publicist hates me enough as it is.’

‘Come on,
bella
,’ Marisa says. ‘I’ll take you to the airport.’

I knew it. I knew this would happen. Even if Annabel is in some kind of danger, which personally I doubt, her timing sucks. We go inside, where Sam is putting on his shoes and Luther is practising gun-pulling poses in the mirror.

‘Hey, so we need to say goodbye,’
says Luther. ‘Alice, it’s been real.’ He punches me gently on the arm, then he seems to change his mind and lifts me up in a bear hug. ‘Have a safe trip home. Give my love to the Queen.’

‘Goodbye, Luther.’ I have a lump in my throat.

I turn to Sam. ‘Thanks for all your help.’

‘Bye,’ he says curtly, without even looking up. I walk away quickly, putting my sunglasses on before anyone sees my
eyes brimming.

We get into the car, and Marisa starts the engine. Luther comes out, and waves for a second before disappearing back through the archway. As we go up the drive, it hits me: it’s all over. I’ll never see him again. When Marisa asks kindly, ‘Is something wrong?’ it’s fatal. I try to reply, but I’m crying too hard.

‘I’m – sorry,’ I say through gulps. ‘It’s – just – all been so intense.’

‘I know. But –’ she’s smiling but nonplussed – ‘you completed the book! What a success.’

I just shake my head.

‘Why is Sam being so strange with you?’ Marisa asks. ‘Did you have an argument?’

I breathe in quickly and drink some water out of my bottle. I realise I have to get it together, or they won’t let me on the plane.

‘We just argued about the book.’

‘Ah.’ Marisa looks thoughtful. Then
she changes the subject, and for the rest of the drive, neither of us mentions Sam at all.

At the airport, I give her a huge hug. I also ask for her address; I’m sending her champagne, or flowers, or an elephant or something.

‘Here’s my email address,’ she says, writing it down for me. ‘It’s best you get in touch with me this way first, because . . . I might be moving quite soon.’

She looks
down as she says this, blushing slightly. That sounds pretty definitive. She must be leaving Federico for Sam. Perhaps she’s even moving to LA. Well, they’ll make a good couple. I take a deep breath, determined not to show her how upset I am.

‘Thanks so much for everything, Marisa,’ I tell her. ‘I honestly could never have done this without you.’

‘
Niente
,’ she says. Nothing. She kisses me, and
then waves me off to the departure gates.

The people beside me on the plane keep staring at me. I know I look a sight with my red eyes. I have to order a gin and tonic just to get through the flight. It comes in a nasty plastic sachet and costs about five euros. The plane lands in Stansted at 2.30 p.m.: a random place at a random time. As I shuffle out into arrivals and see all the people being
met, I try not to think of Sam meeting me at Fontanarossa. After the heat and light of Sicily, England is so depressing.
It’s raining and grey, one of those summer days that might as well be March or October. I’m freezing in my stripy blazer and navy skirt. One of the cash machines is broken, so I queue there for ages before waiting for the bus to Victoria. The queue for the bus is a mile long;
there are children crying behind me and the man in front of me is having an argument with the ticket collector. The longer I stand there, the more it seems as though everything that’s happened in the past fortnight has just been a dream.

The journey home from the airport seems to take almost as long as my flight. I have to get the tube all the way across town. I arrive home and dump my bag in
the hall, and go to get a glass of water from the kitchen. The sink is piled high with dishes. I can hear football in the background. Martin, my flatmate, trails into the room, wearing a Real Madrid T-shirt.

‘Oh, hi, Alice,’ he says. ‘How was Spain?’

‘It was fine. I mean, Italy was fine.’

‘Good stuff.’ Martin takes a head of lettuce out of the fridge. After inspecting it for a minute he pulls
off a leaf, spreads peanut butter on it, rolls it up and starts eating it.

‘Um – is Ciara home?’

‘Nope. Out with some bloke, I think.’ He wanders out of the kitchen, leaving the fridge door open.

I close it automatically. I should be happy that Ciara has met someone, but at the moment it just makes me feel more alone. What to do now? I could make a cup of tea, call Ruth or my parents, unpack,
do my laundry, check my emails, but I don’t have the energy. I fetch my bag and head into my bedroom, passing through the living room where Martin is watching football. Everything is just as I left it. Here I am again, alone in my room with my DVDs, looking at my cardboard squares. The past two weeks – not even two weeks, in fact – are over, and it’s back to real life.