The Out of Office Girl (35 page)

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asks.

Of course I don’t mind: I don’t care. She doesn’t mention Sam again. But on my way home on the Tube, I keep thinking about what she said.
When a nice guy comes along, you run a mile, whereas a creep like Simon has your full attention
.

She’s right. I was so scared of getting close to Sam, and not just because I thought he was out of my league. It was also because he was real, and Luther wasn’t real – it was just a fantasy about rescuing him. I can remember the panic I felt when I woke up beside Sam – it wasn’t just panic that we had done something unprofessional: it was panic that once he got to know me, he
would stop liking me, the way Simon did. And that’s what happened – not just because of the thing with Luther’s story, but because I was horrible to him and ran away from him. And now, even if I send him all the emails in the world, it’s too late.

THIRTY-SIX

My first full week of unemployment is pretty awful. The worst part is telling my parents: I’ve been putting it off but it has to be done. They’ve never really understood my job anyway, and when I tell them I’ve been fired for leaving out a clause and sending the ghostwriter home (I’m not mentioning the magazine), they’re completely baffled, and indignant.

‘I’m putting you on speakerphone,’
my mum says. ‘I want your father to hear this. Graham! Listen to what’s happened to Alice.’

After some rustling at the other end, my dad comes on the line. ‘Have you asked Erica’s advice?’ he says after I’ve told him what I told Mum.

‘I have, Dad, but I don’t want to take any legal action—’

‘All right,’ says my dad. ‘Then we’ll try and resolve it informally. Why don’t we arrange a meeting with
your boss – I’ll happily come up to London and sit in with you, if you’d like – and just talk through things reasonably?’

It’s sweet of him, but the idea of Dad storming up to London in his Toyota Corolla has to be nipped in the bud immediately. ‘Dad! No! This isn’t school. You can’t just ask to see the headmistress.’

‘But there must be
something
we can do. This is just
disgraceful of them.
Completely unjustifiable. You’ve been a good employee—’

‘Graham, let me talk to her,’ I hear my mum say in the background. She comes back on the line, trying to sound reassuring though I know she’s really worried. ‘Don’t worry, darling. We’ll sort this out somehow. And meanwhile you can always move back home.’

My situation is bad enough, but to hear my parents so upset and helpless makes it
a hundred times worse. Then there’s the problem of having to explain, every time I apply for something, why I left my previous job. Erica’s given me some phrases to use, but they don’t sound very convincing. By Wednesday I can’t face doing any more proper job applications, and I find myself scanning my local noticeboards for things like babysitting and dog walking. I also apply for a job as a waitress
in a café down the road, but the man says he’s looking for someone with more experience.

On Thursday morning I wake up in a state of total despair. I know I should get dressed and start applying for things, but instead I turn on the TV and lie down on the sofa. I’m so engrossed in
This Morning
that I almost don’t hear my phone ringing.

‘Alice? It’s Alasdair White here. From Paragon.’

‘Muh-nhuh?’
I say, almost dropping the phone out of surprise and clearing my throat because this is the first time I’ve spoken all day. ‘Oh. Hello, Alasdair.’ I try to sound polite, but I’m freaking out. What on earth is he ringing about? Do they now want to sue me or something?

‘Is this a good time to talk?’

‘Ah . . . yes,’ I say, putting the TV on mute. Hopefully, if he heard voices he’ll think I was
in some kind of meeting.

‘Alice,’ he says, ‘this will probably sound surprising, but – we’ve reconsidered our decision to let you go. I think we’ve acted somewhat hastily. I was wondering if you would
like to come back and work with us again. Not as an assistant,’ he adds. ‘But as a commissioning editor.’

I’m so shocked that I literally can’t say anything. I can’t even make a sound.

‘I can
understand if that doesn’t appeal to you,’ Alasdair says. ‘If you’d like, there is an editorial vacancy in another company in the group, which I think you’d be perfect for. It would be the same role: commissioning editor, non-fiction, celebrity books.’

‘What?’ I manage to say.

Alasdair repeats, ‘There’s an editorial vacancy in another company in the group, and I would put in a very good word
for you. If you don’t want to come back to us, that is.’

‘But why do you – why have you changed your mind?’ I know it sounds blunt, but I can’t think of any other way to phrase it.

‘There are various factors,’ he says. ‘I know that, ah, Luther is keen to continue working with you. He feels that your input was crucial in helping him write his book.’

I look at the TV, where Phillip Schofield
is laughing away about something on mute. Is this
really
happening? Has Luther really insisted on having me back on board? I’m feeling shocked, amazed and baffled, all at once.

‘Um . . . Alasdair, thank you, but I’m going to have to think about this,’ I tell him. ‘I mean – it’s quite a surprise.’

‘I understand,’ he says. I hear his dog beginning to bark, and he sounds as if he’s standing up.
‘You can take as long as you like, Alice. And on behalf of the company, I do apologise. I think we had legitimate concerns but we over-reacted. We would like you to come back. I hope you’ll think about it.’

He hangs up, and I’m left blinking at the phone, open-mouthed. I can’t believe it. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the dog barking in the background, I would have thought it
was a hoax. It’s
like those daydreams where you’re suddenly thin and gorgeous and your ex begs you to come back. It certainly feels like a dream come true – my long-awaited promotion. I might even get my own office. Alice Roberts: commissioning editor, non-fiction. It’s the answer to all my prayers!

Or . . . is it? Would I want to go back again after what’s happened? It was nice that Alasdair apologised – eventually
– but what about Olivia? What does she think about it all? Maybe I should take that other job working on celebrity books. Although . . . the idea of going near a celebrity book ever again fills me with dread and despair. Which isn’t exactly promising. The conversation’s made me feel more energetic, though, and I suddenly feel galvanised to fire off my CV to Caroline Brady. I’ve spent the past
two days drafting and proof-reading my email: now I need the balls to press send.

After I’ve done that, I hop in the shower and get dressed. The whole time, I’m thinking about the idea of going back to work, and about Luther. If he did say that he wanted me back, it’s incredibly nice of him. Or . . . maybe they just realised they were being unfair? Is that possible? I can’t fathom it.

‘That’s
great news,’ says Erica, when I ring her. ‘They’ve obviously realised they were out of order and they’re terrified you’re going to sue. So now you can have the promotion and keep quiet, or you can definitely bring a case for wrongful dismissal.’

Oh, God. I have to say neither one of those options sounds all that enticing.

‘I’m going to have to think about it,’ I tell her.

After I’ve sent one
more application, I clean the bathroom, tidy my bedroom, and then go to Ine Ood to buy a Crunchie. After I’ve had my Crunchie with a cup of tea, I sit again for
a while, staring into space. Ironically, I find the days go very quickly when you have nothing to do: somehow it’s already five o’clock. I could do it right now: I could just pick up the phone and tell Alasdair ‘Yes’. I could go back to
work tomorrow. I wouldn’t have to worry about what I’m going to live on next month. In fact, I’d have more money than I’ve ever had before. It’s very, very tempting, but . . . Aargh. I just don’t know what to do. I’m drawing up a list of pros and cons, when the phone rings. It’s Poppy! Brilliant: exactly the person I want to talk to.

‘Congratulations,’ she says in mysterious tones. ‘I hear you’ve
been made an offer you can’t refuse. Or maybe you can. What do you think?’

‘I have no idea what to think! Tell me everything, do you know why they’ve done it?’

‘Well,’ she says, ‘they’ve obviously realised they were fools to fire you. And of course you have a big fan in LA, baby.’

‘So it was him! I can’t believe it. It’s so nice of him. Do you know what he said?’

‘I do. It was when he emailed
through the acknowledgements. He was praising you to the skies, saying that if it hadn’t been for you the book never would have been written, and that if you did come back, he would recommend Paragon to all his A-List friends, etc. etc. It sounded like the carrot to end all carrots.’

‘Wow,’ is all I can say.

‘There
might
also have been an element of stick.’

‘
What?
As in, give Alice her job
back or there’s no book?’ I don’t like the idea of owing my job to strong-arm tactics.

‘Well – not in so many words, but that was the implication,’ Poppy says. ‘That’s a secret, though. Well, the whole thing’s top secret. I was accidentally copied in on an email, and I know that you weren’t meant to know about it, ever. He made that very clear. So don’t tell him I told you, please.’

I just can’t
believe it. The idea of Luther going to these lengths for me is so ridiculously touching. Especially since he probably had some strong opposition from Sam.

‘I think he must have told them to tell you it was Luther’s idea,’ Poppy is continuing.

‘Yes, I know,’ I say, without thinking. Then I do a double-take. ‘Luther’s idea? What? I thought it
was
Luther’s idea! Who said that?’

‘Sam did! Who
did you think I meant? Sam got you your job back.’

‘Sam?’ I whisper. I’ve been walking and talking with the phone, but now I have to sit down. ‘But . . . Poppy, that’s impossible. He hates me. Last time I saw him, he would barely look at me. Unless he believes me now! But how did he find out I’d been fired? And why would he do it, does he just feel guilty or what?’

‘Alice,’ Poppy interrupts
me, ‘You know how I love to chat, but – don’t you think you should be asking Sam these questions?’

She’s right, of course.

‘OK. I’ll email him.’

‘Do, or you could call his hotel. I’ve got the number right here.’

‘
What?
He’s
here
, in London?’

‘Yes, for the premiere of
The Deep End
. He and Luther are at the Dean Street Townhouse. But they’ll be leaving soon – I think it starts at six-thirty.’

‘And when are they flying back?’

‘I’m not sure – some time tomorrow morning. Listen,’ she whispers, ‘Olivia’s back. I’d better go. Good luck!’

I open up my email, and type, ‘Dear Sam.’ I don’t know what to put next. I can’t believe he got me my job back. I would have preferred to get it back by myself – or, ideally, not have been fired at all – but I’m still very grateful. I want
to thank him
but more importantly, I want to know
why
he did it when he was so mean to me last time I saw him. And – when I was so mean to him. Perhaps I should call him, as Poppy suggested? But what would I say? Maybe I should email and suggest meeting. But there might not be time, before his flight. I stare down at my list of pros and cons about taking the job. Maybe I should write one about different ways
to contact Sam too.

Suddenly I realise something. While I’m writing my pros and cons, drafting emails and biting my nails, Sam is
here
– here in London, just a few miles away, for one night. Tonight is probably our only chance to meet face to face, and talk properly. It’s twenty past five. If I leave now I can just about reach him before he leaves his hotel. OK, I’m going to do it. If I don’t,
I’ll always regret it. Without giving myself time to talk myself out of it, or even bothering to change out of my jeans and T-shirt, I grab my bag and run out the door.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Of course, this has to be the day that the Piccadilly line decides to have a meltdown. We sit at Knightsbridge for ages in a packed, sweltering hot train while I look at my watch and realise this was a really stupid idea. By the time we inch into Leicester Square station it’s a quarter past six. I’m sure he’ll have left by now. And even if he hasn’t, I imagine myself rocking up and
finding him in the middle of a massive entourage, up to his ears in Luther stuff, asking me what I think I’m doing there . . . OK, I’m going to stop thinking about it and just do it.

I try to take a short-cut through Leicester Square itself but it’s packed solid with people waiting for the premiere to start. The irony is not lost on me. For a mad minute I wonder if I should just stay there and
try and wave at Sam from the crowd, but that would be too humiliating and, also, he might not see me. Instead I do a detour, into Lisle Street, across Shaftesbury Avenue where I’m almost mown down by a rickshaw driver, until finally I arrive, red-faced, sweaty and panting, at the hotel.

‘Can I speak to Sam Newland?’ I ask breathlessly. ‘He’s staying here.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t have a guest by
that name, madam,’ says the dark-haired receptionist politely.

‘What? But he’s here! He’s with Luther Carson.’ I lower
my voice. ‘I know him. Could you just tell him I’m here? Or has he left already?’

‘Madam – I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong information.’ In the mirror behind her I can see myself, hair dishevelled, cheeks fiery red, eyes staring. She probably thinks I’m a crazy stalker
or an aspiring actress.

I’m about to try again when a voice behind me says, ‘Alice?’

It’s him. He’s alone, and he’s looking devastatingly handsome in black tie. At the sight of him, I can actually feel myself going weak at the knees, heart pounding. Oh God, I really hope I don’t faint again.

‘Are you – looking for Luther?’ he asks.

‘No, I was looking for you. I wanted to . . .’ I trail off.
I had a whole speech prepared, but now that I’m face to face with him, I’m so nervous I can’t remember any of it. Should I thank him? Ask him why he did it? Then I notice two things: one, he’s staring at me as if he can’t believe his luck, and two, he seems incredibly nervous too.