The Out of Office Girl (32 page)

THIRTY-ONE

I really have to psych myself up to force myself out of bed and into the shower the next morning. I’m almost too scared to go into work, thinking of the wrath that is probably going to descend on my head. As I get dressed, I try to think of reasons to be cheerful. Number one: we got Luther’s book; number two: they might forgive me now that everything’s turned out OK; number three .
. . I’ll see Poppy again. Those will have to do.

Olivia’s already at her desk when I arrive. She looks very pale and even thinner than usual; her Orla Kiely dress is hanging a bit loosely on her. With a flicker of guilt, I realise how stressful it must have been for her, being here and unwell in London while I was on the loose in Sicily. I take a deep breath and go and knock on her door.

‘Good
morning,’ I say quietly.

She looks up briefly. ‘Oh. You’re back.’

I’ve brought her some almond biscuits I picked up in the airport, along with Poppy’s olive oil, as a peace offering, but now I realise this looks stupid. I’m about to walk away when she says, ‘Alice, can you come in and see me at twelve? Just catch up on everything else until then.’

‘Of course.’

Well, that wasn’t so bad. I go
back to my desk, hopeful
for the first time that this whole thing might not end in total catastrophe.

‘Morning, Henry,’ I say to one of the other assistants, as I turn on my computer.

‘Oh – hi,’ he says evasively. Normally he would stop for a chat, but he scuttles off, straight back to his own desk.

That’s odd. In fact, the atmosphere in general seems odd; I feel people are avoiding me. But
maybe I’m just imagining it. It’s often the way when you come home from holidays: everyone is interested for five minutes, but naturally enough they’re wrapped up in their own lives. Poppy is pleased to see me, but she’s in the middle of a nightmare editing job, so she just gives me a quick wave and says she’ll catch up with me later.

When twelve o’clock comes around, Olivia puts her head out
from behind her door.

‘Alice? Can you come in please?’

I walk into the office, and I’m surprised to see a woman there I vaguely recognise. She has chestnut-coloured hair in a bob, and glasses. She’s wearing a grey pinstripe skirt and a blue cardigan. And she’s holding some kind of file or folder.

‘This is Kim Lewis, from HR,’ says Olivia.

And that’s when I realise something very bad is about
to happen.

‘Alice,’ Olivia says, ‘this isn’t going to be easy for anyone, so I’ll keep it brief. We’ve had a number of problems recently with you, over this Luther Carson book, and I’m afraid they are so serious that we have no choice but to end your employment with us.’

‘What?’ I say. I don’t get it. For a second I wonder if they’re transferring me to another department or something.

‘You’re
being dismissed, for unprofessional conduct,’ Kim says.

I’m being fired. I knew it was possible, I had imagined it, but now that it’s actually happening, I can’t believe it. Olivia glances at Kim, who clears her throat.

‘Firstly, there was your decision to fire the ghostwriter,’ Kim intones formally. In a detached way, I find myself noticing that she has a very soothing Scottish accent which
must help cushion the bad news. I wonder if that’s why they picked her for this.

‘I didn’t fire him,’ I say as politely as I can. ‘I told him to go and work from home—’

‘Yes, but you knew you had no authority to do that,’ says Olivia. ‘And then, there was the incident with the clause.’

‘Leaving out the clause was a mistake, we know,’ Kim says smoothly, and I wonder if they’ve practised this
together. ‘But it was negligent not to tell your manager about it as soon as you knew.’

They both look at me, as if they’re expecting me to say something. But I can’t think of anything to say. I feel as if I’m at a play, or watching some kind of double-act, where my participation’s not needed. I just nod for them to go on.

‘Then there was this picture,’ says Olivia.

This is new. What picture?
Olivia gets up and looks in one of her wire in-trays. She takes out a celebrity magazine, one of those cheap £1 ones. What is this? Has Luther done something awful? Or – did someone spot me and Sam? Now I’m really scared. My heart is hammering. Is there a picture of me and Sam kissing on that beach?

She hands it to me open at a page. I don’t believe this. It’s me and Luther, stumbling out of
that nightclub. His arm is around my neck with his fingers dangling towards my cleavage in a very lewd way, and I look smashed out of my mind, smiling a weird
Valley of the Dolls
smile. The caption says that Natasha Pullman is distraught because
Luther has been seen hanging out in Sicily with a ‘mystery blonde’. I can feel my face growing hot.

‘Then there was also an email that went around after
the picture came out,’ Olivia says. ‘One of those gossip circulars, about how a certain editor was seen canoodling with her famous author, etc.’

Kim glances at Olivia. I wonder if ‘canoodling’ is in her approved vocab. And more importantly: what the hell is this blanket media coverage? Why has nobody told me about it? Has it been on the nine o’clock news?

‘The email was particularly disturbing
because it goes to so many media people. We had lots of calls about it and Alasdair had to go to some length to suppress the story. It has made the company look very unprofessional,’ Olivia says.

‘It’s not appropriate. It doesn’t live up to company standards. It damages the company’s reputation,’ Kim explains, as if I don’t know what ‘unprofessional’ means. I know exactly what it means. It’s
just about the worst word you can use, isn’t it?

Kim now starts talking in legalese, about consultations, and security, and instant this and that. ‘Do you have any questions?’ she asks finally, in her soothing tones.

‘Um . . .’ I don’t actually, but I suppose I’d better ask something. ‘How much notice do I get?’

Kim and Olivia exchange looks again.

‘You will be paid until the end of the month,’
Kim says. ‘But it’s probably best if you leave after today.’

‘There’s a lot of handover to do. Who should I . . .?’

‘Just leave written instructions,’ Olivia says. ‘We can access your email for anything vital.’

I nod again, and get up to go.

‘Alice,’ Kim says. I turn around. She’s brandishing a box of Kleenex. ‘Tissue?’ she says, in sepulchral tones.

‘Um – no thanks.’

I turn around and walk
back out. I’m not quite sure what to do or where to go or how to look. People are looking at me, and I realise the rumours have obviously been going around. They know something’s up. But I still can’t believe that I’ve been fired.

A big commotion is happening at the other end of the floor. Everyone is gathered around Claudine’s desk, and there’s much whooping and celebration. If I go back to
my desk it will look as if I’m sulking, so I walk over as calmly as I can. At first I think it must be her birthday, but then I hear the word ‘promotion’. Maybe it’s my imagination, but people seem to stop talking and stare at me as I arrive.

‘Congratulations, Claudine,’ I say.

‘Oh! It’s our movie star!’ Claudine leans over and gives me a very unwelcome hug. Then she immediately launches back
into her story, which is all about how surprised and amazed she was finally to be made editor. I smile as serenely as I can as she meanders on. I notice I’m not the only one: Henry, the other non-fiction assistant, is looking daggers too. Poppy’s expression gives nothing away, but she glances over and raises one eyebrow.

I slip back to my desk as soon as I can. I sit down and open up a blank
document which I call ‘Handover notes’. I stare at it. Where to begin? Then suddenly I do a double-take and realise: I’m not going on holiday, or taking a sabbatical or voluntary redundancy.
I’ve just been fired
. I don’t want to write them handover notes.

I stand up and leave the document open, cursor flashing. I start gathering my bits and pieces together. There’s so much, it would take hours
to sort everything out. But I don’t want to stay for hours. I stuff my ballet flats into my cotton bag, and add my spare lip balms and a few other bits and pieces, some cards from authors, a book or two,
and that’s it. Four years’ work in one crappy cotton book-bag. I’ll be sorry to leave my spider plant, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself by taking it. I’m definitely leaving the poster
of Luther behind. I don’t speak to, or look at, anyone. I just walk out, ignoring everyone’s stares and the murmur of conversation that gathers to a crescendo behind me. I see a flash of Orla Kiely print as I pass Olivia’s office, but I don’t look at her.

I’m waiting for the lift when I hear heels clacking towards me. It’s Poppy. She’s wearing a blue denim jump-suit and silver stilettos, and
looks like something out of
Top Gun
.

‘Alice! Where are you going? What happened?’

‘I’ve been fired,’ I whisper.

‘You’ve been what?
Why
? Why have they fired you?’ At the sound of the concern in her voice, I start to cry again, for the second time in twenty-four hours.

‘Come on,’ Poppy says, bustling me into the lift. She’s even had the presence of mind to bring her bag with her. ‘You and I
are going for a big drink.’

‘What about work?’

‘I’m on strike,’ says Poppy, darkly.

THIRTY-TWO

Poppy suggests the Dog and Duck, but that’s always full of work people, so instead we go to the Queen’s Head. She orders double gin and tonics and burgers and chips, though I won’t be able to eat a thing. I insist that we go to the darkest, most obscure little booth; I don’t want anyone from the office to see us.

‘I can’t believe they’ve fired you,’ she keeps saying. ‘The bastards!
It’s so unfair.’

I manage to keep it together, and tell her everything that happened – just about the job, though. I can’t mention Sam; it’s too painful.

‘I mean, I knew it was a possibility, ever since the clause thing, and Brian, but – I didn’t know about the picture, or the email. Did you?’ I ask.

‘Yes, I did,’ she says uncomfortably. ‘I saw the picture, and I heard someone talking about
the email. It was just on one of those
blindbeast.com
gossip circulars. You know nobody takes them seriously.’

‘Have you still got it? Can I see it?’

Poppy gets out her iPhone and after a few minutes she finds it for me.

After paying a reputed two million dollars for a celebrity autobiography, there must be red faces at this publishing house following rumours that their editor has joined the star’s list of conquests. It seems she’s fired his ghostwriter so that she can have him all to herself, and they’re hiding out in a holiday villa, where they’ve been seen getting very intimate in a nightclub. Let’s hope he tells all in the autobiography.

It’s like one of those nightmares where you appear in the supermarket with no clothes on.

‘You could sue them, probably,’ says Poppy. ‘It’s
obviously completely made up.’

I wince at her last words, and put my head in my hands. ‘The thing is – it’s not. We were sort of – I mean, it was only one time, but we
were
sort of intimate in a nightclub.’

Poppy puts down her gin and tonic. ‘
What?!
Tell me all immediately.’

I look around first to check that nobody is listening, and then I tell her: about Luther, and the champagne and dancing,
and how I almost kissed him but didn’t.

‘Good grief,’ says Poppy when I’ve finished. ‘You know, that makes me take my hat off to you. He’s a hot famous man, he tried it on and you said no. That’s amazing!’

‘No, it’s not amazing. I shouldn’t have been there in the first place, drunk, in a nightclub; I shouldn’t have sent Brian home – I should have handled the whole thing differently. I was an
idiot,’ I say, adding quietly, ‘I deserve to be fired.’

‘Alice!’ Poppy cries. ‘Would you listen to yourself?
You got the book
. There
was
no book before you went, and you got it and it’s going to earn the company millions. So what if you danced with Luther and some stupid photo got taken? And Brian – the man’s wife has cancer. What were you supposed to do, chain him to his desk? Who cares how
you did it? You got Luther to write his book!’

I’m crying properly now, but I’m so grateful. What would I do without Poppy?

‘I think they’ve been complete bastards,’ she repeats. ‘You should sue them. And I’ll come out and strike in solidarity.’

‘No, don’t do that.’ I know Poppy is just as broke as I am.

‘How are you for money? I can lend you . . .’

‘Oh, no. That’s sweet of you, but I’ll
be fine for a few weeks. I’ll ring Erica. She’ll probably help me out.’

‘And she’s an employment lawyer,’ Poppy reminds me. ‘I bet she’ll help you sue, and you’ll win a landmark victory.’

I blow my nose on a paper napkin, and shrug. I’m too depressed for a landmark victory. I want to go home and watch
Murder She Wrote
.

‘Hey. This might not be the moment, but – I’ve got something for you. It
might cheer you up – or just give you a few laughs . . .’ Poppy rummages in her squashy ponyskin bag and unearths what looks like a condom wrapper.

‘Good grief,’ I say. ‘I know I’ve been a bit indiscreet lately, but there’s no need for the sex ed.’

‘No, no,’ says Poppy. ‘It’s the invitation to the
Bitch Done Me Wrong
opening. It’s on Friday evening.’ Of course: her ex-boyfriend’s exhibition.
I can see now it’s not a real wrapper, just a little square foil that for some reason is made to look like a condom.

‘It’s pretty gross, isn’t it? Typical Crippo.’

When I heard that name, I knew there would be trouble. His real name, I’m remembering now, is Crispin, and he’s a lot posher than he likes to let on.

‘I’m going to do a quick sweep while in disguise,’ Poppy says. ‘In and out, an
hour tops. Then a drink. What do you think? It might be a distraction . . .’