The Out of Office Girl (11 page)

‘How do you and Federico know Luther, Marisa?’ I ask.

‘I met Sam at Cannes a few years ago, and then one of his clients was in a movie I produced. We kept in touch . . . and when he came to Sicily with Luther, he called me. And now Federico and I are very happy to know them both.’

‘I didn’t know you worked in movies.’

‘Yes,
I was a producer for five years, in Rome. We did many co-productions with UK and French companies, Japanese and Korean companies . . . many beautiful films, with incredible directors.’

‘And what happened?’ I ask. ‘Why did you decide to leave?’

‘We went bankrupt.’

‘Oh.’

‘And then I married Federico. His work is here. He can’t leave Sicily, so I left Rome and moved back here.’

‘Aren’t there
any films in Sicily?’ I ask.

‘Not really. The Italian film industry is quite small compared to France or Spain, and most of it is in Rome. There is very little work here in general. It’s beautiful, as you see, but not very rich. Almost everybody I grew up with has left our town, and moved to Palermo or Messina, or the mainland.’

I’m shocked. Has she given up her entire career for Federico? But
I can’t ask that, so I just say, ‘So you’re from Sicily?’

‘Of course. You’ve met my mother!’

‘Have I? When?’

Marisa looks mischievous. ‘You didn’t see her at breakfast this morning?’

‘Maria Santa? Is she your mother?’ I’m amazed, but now that I think of it, it seems so obvious – there is a real resemblance. ‘How come she works in the house?’

‘Mama is retired, but she and my father used to
run a
hotel, in Cefalù, on the northern coast. Since my father died, she likes to be out of the house from time to time. I was telling Sam this, and he asked if she would like to come and work in the villa. So she did.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘We even have the same name, you know – Marisa, it’s short for Maria Santa. A few years ago, I think looking after Luther would have been too much trouble for
her, but from what Sam says, it seems he’s better. Not too much party.’

I’m thinking about Sam. It was quite nice of him to give Maria Santa the job, I suppose, but is there anything he doesn’t micromanage? I realise, with a terrible lurch of guilt, that I haven’t thought about the book for hours. I’ve thought about Luther, certainly, but not the book.

‘So
bella
, how is everything going with
Luther? Is he doing his work?’ Marisa asks me, as if reading my mind.

‘Well, not just yet.’

‘Ask Sam to help you,’ says Marisa. ‘Sam can get things done.’

‘Right,’ I say non-committally.

Marisa smiles. ‘Don’t you like him? He is a great guy. Not at all a typical Hollywood agent.’

‘Really?’ I’m dubious, on both counts. ‘To be honest, I think he’s very rude and . . . unhelpful.’

‘No! Alice,
you have no idea how lucky you are. Sam is so reasonable, so trustworthy. He’s just being protective of Luther. Once you have him on your side you can do anything.’

I definitely don’t recognise this glowing version of Sam. And more importantly, I don’t have him on my side.

‘Luther’s not a bad person,’ she continues. ‘Really, he is very easy, compared to how he could be. But he’s powerful, and
he’s not used to working on anything that’s not movies. So you need to go gently with him, but be firm. He likes
you, that’s important. Once you have his trust, you can push him, and he’ll follow your lead. Believe me,’ she says, seeing me droop. ‘I’ve worked with many actors. They all want a director.’

I just wish that all the people who gave me advice about handling Luther had to handle him
themselves. But it is a good point, and I can imagine Marisa being quite formidable in a work setting.

‘Do you miss producing?’ I ask her curiously. I normally wouldn’t ask such a question, but I’m on my second glass of wine.

‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Yes, probably. But this is the choice we make.’

I wonder, exactly, what choice she has made. She doesn’t seem madly in love with Federico – in fact,
there seems to be something very amiss between them. And I wonder: does she have some kind of interest in Sam? Hardly, or she wouldn’t have praised him so openly. Would she?

‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘Never mind about all this. Tonight we’ll go to Tesoro, we’ll have a good time, we’ll all make friends and tomorrow your artistic collaboration with Luther will begin!’

She raises her glass, and we toast
to me and Luther.

NINE

Marisa suggests that, instead of going back to the villa, I should get changed in her place, which is on the edge of Taormina. We drive back there, listening to the radio and chatting away. The drive is beautiful, all along the coast, and we climb ever higher until ahead I see a small and very picturesque town clinging to a cliff way above the sea – the same town I saw from our villa.

We
park near Marisa’s apartment, which is a modern building on the edge of the town. Federico’s not home. It’s not very big, but it feels spacious, and they (or presumably Marisa) have done it up with real style – there are flowers everywhere, a big paisley-patterned silk scarf is thrown over one of the white sofas, and there’s a beautiful rag-worked rug on the stone floor that looks as if it cost hundreds
of pounds.

‘My aunt made it,’ Marisa says, when I compliment her on it. ‘Would you like a Campari?’

I don’t actually know what this is, but it sounds extremely sophisticated, so I say yes. Marisa tells me to go to the terrace, and she’ll bring it out. Before I do, I remember to plug in my phone – I’m so happy I was able to get a charger. I have a ton of messages. There’s a text from Erica wishing
me luck, and
three
texts from my mum – one asking how
I am, and one telling me about some friend of a friend of hers who lives in Rome, who I should get in touch with if I need help, and one asking why I haven’t replied yet. Honestly, it’s as if I was in Outer Mongolia. I text her and Erica the same message: ‘All well. Place beautiful, Luther v nice, book going well.’ It’s mostly true. There’s
also a missed call from Olivia. Oops. I’ll wait till I’ve had a quick sip of Campari, and then I’ll call her back.

I step outside, on to the terrace, and my jaw drops. I can see the entire town spread out before me in a jumble of red-tiled roofs, stone arches and beautiful old houses, coloured golden, ice-cream pink and peach. There are two golden beaches far below, curving like scimitars and
meeting at a point in the middle, where there’s a tiny green island. The sea is navy blue, dotted here and there with white yachts ploughing across the bay, their white trails criss-crossing. The town is perched on a cliff-top that’s lush with pines, cactuses and the ever-present palm trees, falling steeply down to the coast. With all the exotic greenery, it almost looks tropical. Below me I can
see a Greek amphitheatre spread out on the edge of town. If I look further to my right, there’s Mount Etna again with its snowy top. I wish I had my camera.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ says Marisa, coming outside with our drinks.

‘I can’t believe you actually live here,’ I tell her, taking my Campari. I take a sip, and almost gag; it tastes like cough medicine. Marisa sees my face and laughs.

‘Campari’s
not for everyone,’ she says. ‘Would you like some lemonade?’

‘No, it’s OK. It’s an acquired taste, but it’s growing on me.’ It still tastes medicinal, but I’m finding it refreshing – it makes a change from white wine. And it feels exactly the thing to be sipping on this balcony, looking down at
this beautiful view. We spend an hour or so lounging on the terrace, drinking and chatting, until Marisa
suggests we start to get ready.

She has an actual dressing room, with a dressing table and built-in wardrobes on two sides. It’s not just for her clothes, though; one whole side is full of Federico’s suits and shirts. I can’t decide between the pink and the blue dress – the blue dress is stunning, but I feel it’s too much of a dramatic leap from how I used to look. With all the beading, it feels
a bit like fancy dress.

‘It’s a very fancy nightclub,’ Marisa points out.

But I feel the pink dress is more me. It really is very pretty – it clings seductively, and the colour flatters my pale skin. It’s such a pity about my sunburn. I’ve never worn anything with such a low back before, and I’m taken aback to see how sexy it looks. I can’t wear a bra with this either, but I think I can get
away with it – that’s one upside of not having much cleavage to speak of.

‘You’re lucky,’ says Marisa, shaking her head. ‘Without a bra, I look like a monster.’

Anything less like a monster than Marisa would be hard to imagine – she looks a million dollars in an emerald-green strapless dress, with a thin diamond bracelet around one slender brown wrist. I watch, fascinated, as she does up her
hair in heated rollers and wraps a silk scarf over them while they cool.

‘Would you like me to do yours?’

I shake my head. ‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t suit curly hair.’

‘It won’t make you curly. It’s just for volume. Come on.’

She’s like a girl with a doll, as she sits me down and puts some big Velcro rollers in my hair, and blasts me with a cold hairdryer. I’m dubious, but I’m going to trust her.

‘And now, your make-up! Can I do it?’

I’m not sure if she’s joking or not.

‘I’ve already done it,’ I tell her. I’ve covered up my red nose and lip with concealer, and put on mascara, brown eyeshadow and lip gloss. Can she really not see it?

She shakes her head. ‘Invisible make-up is fine, but not for the night,’ and she gets to work.

I’m worried she’ll make me look like a drag queen, but she
doesn’t. She uses some of my own stuff, but she applies it with her own brushes – she has a set of about ten of them – and she spends ages brushing, blending and shading. By the end, I look like me, but better: my eyes are bigger, my lips look fuller, and my skin looks absolutely flawless – even my cheeks look flushed and pretty rather than just pink. She also uses my foundation, mixed with body
lotion, to cover up the burn on my shoulder. Finally she takes out my rollers and shakes out the groomed waves. I hardly recognise myself: I look so different. I’m exclaiming over the result when my phone starts ringing.

It’s Olivia. Oh, shit. I take it out into the hallway.

‘Alice!’ the line is crackling. ‘Finally! I’ve been calling and calling you!’

‘Oh – I’m so sorry, Olivia. I lost my charger
–’

I can hear her sighing all the way from London.

‘Alice, you’ve got to learn to be more careful. So how is it going? Have you made any progress? We’re all waiting to hear, you know.’

‘Um –’ My expression in the hall mirror is guilty. I’m infinitely relieved that she can’t see me, dressed up to the nines with a Campari in my hand. ‘Well, I’ve mainly been getting to know him.’

‘Getting to
know him?’ Olivia sounds incredulous. ‘And how much progress have you made on the book?’

I shut my eyes briefly and take a deep breath.

‘Olivia, I’m doing my best. But he’s tricky. He’s just finished shooting a film. He’s got a few friends with him,
and he wants to relax. At the moment I’m just trying to build a rapport with him, and then I hope we—’

‘A rapport! Alice, you don’t have time to
build a rapport. The point of you being there is to put pressure on him. You need to sit him down right now and make him do some work.’

While this speech has been going on, I’ve taken the phone into the living room. I’m kneeling on the edge of a chair, staring out of the window where the sun is glowing over the golden town.

‘I will, Olivia. I promise. I’ve only been here two days.’ I know I
sound like an idiot. What I want to do is to ask her how to do it –
how
to make him buckle down – but I can’t.

She continues, ‘If I weren’t banned from flying after my surgery, I’d be over there right now sorting it.’ There’s a bad-tempered pause.

‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.

‘I’m all right. But I’m still not very mobile. And I’m very worried about this book.’

I take another deep breath.

‘It’ll be fine, Olivia, honestly. He’s very nice, and he does seem keen to do the book. I think I just need another day or two, sort of building his trust.’ As I look at myself in the mirror, I can see myself blushing, because, if I’m honest, I don’t know if I’m dressed to build his trust or do something else.

‘Well, get on with it,’ says Olivia. ‘And use his agent. He’s there, isn’t he? Get him
to lean on Luther for you. Remind him about the contents clause.’

‘I will,’ I say, feeling sick. Oh, God, the clause.

‘I can’t do everything for you, Alice,’ she says. ‘You’ve got to learn to take control of things and to make decisions.’

‘I know,’ I say humbly.

‘I’ve got to go.’ She’s hung up.

‘Everything OK?’ Marisa’s appeared behind me.

‘Oh, fine. Just my boss asking about Luther.’

Marisa obviously sees the glum look in my eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘There’s a Sicilian proverb, “How we trouble . . .”’ She’s obviously trying to think of the right translation. ‘“How we trouble ourselves, and then we die.” In a year’s time, what will this matter?’

Well, I want to say, it will matter if we haven’t got the book and we’ve lost millions of pounds and I’ve been fired for incompetence.
But there’s no point going into all that right now.

‘Can I have another Campari?’ I ask.

TEN

As we walk down the apartment steps in our high heels, both spritzed with Marisa’s
Acqua di Gioia
, I’ve pushed Olivia’s call to the back of my mind, and I’m feeling excited about tonight. Finally, I can be seen in something other than the hair shirt. It suddenly hits me: I’m going out for an evening with Luther! I may not have seen him all day but it was time well spent. I’m finally going
to be able to keep up with him, and get to know him on an equal footing, in a relaxed, informal setting. And tomorrow, we’ll do great work on the book. I almost forget about my shopping bags, but Marisa says one of her cousins is going over later to see Maria Santa, and can drop them off.