The Out of Office Girl (8 page)

Federico sits down
beside me, no doubt for want of anything else to do, and starts chatting away. I’m grateful for the company, but I’m a bit taken aback when he tells me his entire life story. First he explains how difficult it is to get the right kind of yacht these days. Then it’s the best places to buy clothes in Italy – Rome or Milan, apparently, not Sicily – then about his apartment and how beautiful it is,
and the stresses and strains of running the family business, which sounds as if it’s something like ‘semen’ – but that can’t be right.

‘I don’t think I know what that is,’ I say cautiously.

‘To make houses, roads,’ Federico says impatiently.

‘Oh, sorry. Of course,’ I say.

Unfortunately, cement doesn’t last long as a topic. I observe that Sicily is very beautiful, Federico agrees, and we lapse
into silence.

It is very hot and I do want to swim, but the thought of exposing myself in this hideous suit – in fact, the thought of stripping off in front of this gang at all – is daunting. Eventually, though, I decide to brave it. I abandon my T-shirt and head towards the ladder. I would normally dive in, but not in this thing – the straps have an alarming tendency to go walkabout.

The water
is beautiful, cool and silky under the hot sun. I feel instantly refreshed. I dip my head under the water, then swim away from the others. Swimming always makes me feel so free. As I look up at the sky, I manage to forget about everything for a few moments and just enjoy floating . . .

Suddenly, something thwacks against my leg, and I jerk upright into a treading-water position. My heart banging,
I look around to see if it’s a shark, but it’s Sam. He must swim like Michael Phelps; he was nowhere near me a minute ago.

‘Ow! That hurt,’ I splutter, though it didn’t really.

‘Sorry,’ he says ungraciously. ‘You know, you shouldn’t float so close to a boat. You can get sucked under.’

‘Or get kicked to death,’ I retort, under my breath.

I notice Sam glancing down, and follow his gaze.
Oh, God
. One strap of the stupid suit has come away, exposing me to his startled eyes. I adjust it instantly, and look up, but he’s already swimming towards the yacht, which is probably the best thing he can do, under the circumstances. As he hauls himself up the rope ladder, I notice two heads bobbing together in the distance, one dark and one gold: Luther and Annabel. Bugger.

We’ve come ashore
for lunch. Hiding in the tiny bathroom of the restaurant, and trying to make myself presentable, I feel as if I’ve reached a new low point. My T-shirt had a huge blob of sun-tan lotion down the front when I got back to the boat. Annabel looked all innocence, but I suspect sabotage. So I’ve changed into the brown dress, which is now damp from my wet hair. My nose is sunburnt, and there’s a huge red
burn on one shoulder. In fact – I lean closer – that’s not all that’s become burnt. I’ve forgotten to apply suntan lotion on my upper lip, and it’s now red to match my nose. That’s bad enough, but if it goes brown,
I’ll have a tan moustache. And, just to round everything off, Sam has seen me topless.

I look at myself in the mirror, and I can feel the panic rising in my throat. What am I doing
here? How am I ever going to get this book done? What happens if Luther just keeps on evading it and leading me on a dance around the hot-spots of Sicily? He’s being friendly enough in a distant way, but I’m paranoid that I’ve antagonised him somehow. I could call Olivia or Alasdair, but I don’t know what they could do. I’m on my own now.

Outside, everyone is already gathered around the table
on the restaurant terrace. The town is very pretty, with ochre and white houses tumbling down the steep hillside to a bustling harbour. The restaurant overlooks the marina, where sleek yachts are clinking away gently. On the water-front, crowds of beautiful couples, families and one intrepid roller-blader are gliding back and forth, seeing and being seen. Everyone, even the children, it seems, is
wearing sunglasses and beautiful light-coloured clothes. The men here are unbelievably gorgeous, but Luther still stands out – in my opinion anyway.

As I approach our group, I can see how glamorous everyone looks – except me, obviously, in my sackcloth. Luther’s got shades on and is facing away from the seafront: a couple of people have obviously spotted him and there’s a little ripple of interest
and buzz that ebbs and flows around him, but nobody has actually approached him. The others are lounging around looking bronzed and healthy. Annabel is making a big fuss about the fact that she’s facing the sun – she wants Sam to swap with her, but he refuses. In retaliation she moves her chair so that she’s out of the sun
and
sitting beside Luther, and is scanning the crowds hungrily – I imagine
for any signs of paparazzi.

‘That’s better,’ she says, shaking out her blond mane and
re-adjusting her silk headscarf. ‘I don’t want to get lines. But then I think it would be nice to have a tan in my new headshots. And I do take the sun very well.’ She looks at me with false concern. ‘You’re
very
red, though. And – is that a sunburn on your upper lip? If it goes brown you’ll have a moustache.’

‘I’m fine,’ I mutter, sitting down beside Federico. This brown dress is the worst possible thing to be wearing on a day like today; I am literally roasting in the sun.

The waiter arrives with our food. I’ve ordered linguine with scallops and cream, and I’m famished, not having had anything at breakfast. My linguine is delicious; silky and creamy, with a touch of lemon, and beautifully meaty scallops.
I know it’s misery eating, but at the moment I feel only food can cheer me up. The prices are sky high, and I’ve belatedly realised I never agreed an expenses budget for this trip. Are they going to expect me to pay?

‘Is that pasta nice, Alice? You’re going to end up in a carb coma if you’re not careful,’ says Annabel.

‘In Italy we eat everything,’ says Federico ponderously. ‘And we smoke. I
love to smoke.’

‘Oh, yes, absolutely, I eat what I want too. Life’s too short,’ says Annabel, carefully fishing a crouton out of her salad.

‘Nobody smokes in LA,’ says Sam. ‘It’s illegal almost everywhere. Even the bums have given up.’

‘Except weed, that doesn’t count,’ says Luther. ‘And I smoke, and Dominique smokes.’

‘Does she?’ I’d like to hear more, but Annabel is saying, ‘I hope it won’t
be smoky in Tesoro.’

‘I don’t think we’re going to Tesoro, Annabel,’ says Sam.

‘We could go,’ says Luther. ‘What the hell.’

‘You’ll get papped,’ says Sam, and, seeing Annabel’s face, I realise that’s exactly what she’s hoping.

‘What’s Tesoro?’ I ask Federico discreetly.

He waves his hand. ‘It’s a nightclub, near Taormina, very nice, very . . . not everybody can come. I know the owner. Yes,
let’s go.’

My heart sinks even further. More outings for Luther. Even if he’s not raising hell, he’s certainly not going to be tucked into bed at 10 p.m., eager for an early start on his book tomorrow morning. This project is slipping completely out of my control.

‘How about tonight?’ says Annabel.

Luther shrugs. ‘Sure, why not?’ He turns to me. ‘Do you want to go, Alice?’

‘I don’t think I
can,’ I say. ‘I’ve basically only got this dress to wear. I’ll have to go shopping at some point, but I can’t go if it’s tonight. Don’t let me stop you, though.’

‘Yes, I imagine they have a strict dress code,’ says Annabel. ‘It’s such a pity none of my stuff would fit you,’ she adds, so nicely and normally that, for a second, I wonder if I’ve forgotten some sort of trying-on session. Even once
I’ve remembered, I can’t believe that she’s actually lying. I have a new-found respect for her acting skills.

‘No, I forgot,’ says Federico. ‘It’s closed tonight. Open tomorrow.’

‘Then let’s go somewhere else tonight,’ says Luther.

‘We can go to Pearl Bar,’ says Federico. ‘They have a private room, it’s quite nice. I’ll ask Marisa.’

‘Great,’ says Luther.

‘So I’ll reserve a table for five
. . . six? You’re coming?’ Federico asks me.

‘It sounds like Alice isn’t up for going out,’ Sam says. ‘But count me in.’

My mouth is still half open. Thanks, Sam, for telling me what I want to do. I’m suspicious: does he want to keep me out of things deliberately?

‘Let’s get out of here,’ says Luther, and everyone starts getting up to go.

‘Um, did we pay?’ I ask, confused.

‘We don’t pay for
stuff here!’ says Luther, standing up. He says this in a generous way, as if I’ve had a cup of tea at his house and he’s telling me not to wash up.

We do, though, because I can see Sam signing something and taking back a card. Great. Now it’s official: he’s paid, and he’s in charge of this trip.

‘Hey, it’s a pity you can’t make it tonight, Alice,’ says Luther jovially, punching me gently on
the arm. I’m so relieved that he doesn’t seem to be cross with me any more.

‘But we’ll go again,’ he adds.

Smiling at him tentatively, I think: that’s what I’m afraid of.

SEVEN

As we drive back that evening, my heart is in my boots. It’s all the fault of my stupid luggage. If only I hadn’t checked it in: why didn’t I just carry it on? But even if I did have my clothes, what good would it do me? I’d still be following Luther around, asking him if he could spare a second for the book, which he clearly has no intention of doing. I’ve been here a whole day, and we’re
no closer to working on it than we were before I came. I might as well still be in London.

When we get back, everyone goes off on separate errands. Federico has gone home to meet his wife – I knew she existed but he didn’t mention her during his monologue to me earlier. Luther has disappeared: from the sounds I can hear from behind his door, I think he’s playing a video game. Sam is making more
of his endless hiring-and-firing phone calls. Annabel has gone to pamper herself and choose from her million outfits for her night out: soon the sound of Madonna is pounding from behind her door. I love Madonna and irrationally, I’m annoyed that Annabel likes her too. Brian comes out to meet me from the reception room, his glasses shining in the dusk.

‘Any progress?’ he asks hopefully, in a low
voice.

‘Not just yet,’ I say shortly, going past him. After all my
talk of how I’m going to bond with Luther! He must think I’m a total idiot.

I’m going to have to ring Olivia. I’ll come clean, explain the situation and ask her what to do. I get to my room, compose myself and dig out my phone from my bag.

It’s dead. And where is my charger? Why, it’s in my luggage, of course. I sit down on
the bed for a minute and look at myself in the mirror, as anxious and pink-cheeked as ever. What would Olivia do? Well, whenever there’s a problem, you talk to the agent. I’m going to tackle Sam. We might disagree about the content of the book, but he has to accept his responsibility to make Luther deliver a proper manuscript.

On my way out, I notice that Brian is sitting in the corner of the
reception room. He’s talking very quietly on his mobile, and saying, ‘We can only hope for the best. I know, I know. Let’s just take it one day at a time.’ Who on earth is he talking to? Olivia? Are they talking about me and how badly I’m doing? I hurry out before I can hear any more.

Sam is standing on the terrace, talking on his BlackBerry as ever, making a big noise about the size of someone’s
trailer. Honestly, who cares how big a trailer is? Across the bay, a spectacular sunset is glowing orange and gold over the water. Behind us, Maria Santa is setting the table and lighting candles for dinner. As I walk over to him, I think how idyllic this place could be, in another context, with a completely different set of people who didn’t hate me and whom I didn’t hate. Sam hangs up, puts
his phone into his pocket, and sees me standing there.

‘Sam, I need to talk to you.’

He turns back and leans against the balustrade, looking at me. I wish he wasn’t so tall.

‘Shoot.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Look. I know I’ve only been here
a day, but it’s pretty clear to me that Luther is not prepared to focus on this book.’

‘So?’

‘So I’d expect that as his agent, you would use your influence
to make him fulfil his obligation to us.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ I’m stunned. ‘Because he signed a contract! Because he’s already accepted an advance, and he’s meant to have delivered a publishable book about six weeks ago.’ I try to keep my voice down, in case Luther is anywhere near us.

Sam shrugs. ‘We can return the advance.’

‘It’s a little late for that.’ I hesitate, not sure if I should say what
I’m about to say, but then continue regardless. ‘If we don’t get it, we’ll certainly investigate legal options.’ I’m totally bluffing here, because there are no legal options – not the ones we want anyway.

‘Go ahead. We’ll bankrupt you.’

‘But why did you let him sign this contract in the first place?’

‘I didn’t. He signed it through his commercial agent without consulting me.’

‘Was that Marc?’
This was the person we dealt with before Sam, who disappeared one day without a trace. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He’s no longer with us,’ Sam says in a bland tone that sounds very ominous. ‘Look, Luther isn’t one of your home-grown nobodies who are desperate for exposure at any price. He’s a star. I know you wouldn’t hesitate to exploit him if it meant you could impress your boss with a trashy
kiss-and-tell, but it’s not going to happen. As far as I’m concerned, Luther’s delivered what he promised and now he needs a vacation.’ And he walks off, pulling out his phone.

For want of anywhere better, I start walking towards my
room. My heart is thumping. I’m furious. How
dare
he say I’m out to exploit Luther? And simultaneously, I’m terrified. I feel as if I’m falling down a very steep
cliff, at the bottom of which is the company in ruins, the missing clause discovered, disgrace, my career over . . .
What if there is no book?

‘You look like you just saw a ghost.’

It’s Luther. He’s emerged from his room, which is opposite mine, looking heart-stoppingly handsome. He’s dressed for going out, in a grey linen jacket over a blue T-shirt and narrow jeans, but his hair is all messed
up, as if he’s been having a nap. He’s carrying a FedEx package.