The Out of Office Girl (12 page)

If the view from the balcony was spectacular, the town itself is like a film set. We walk down through narrow,
winding medieval streets, catching glimpses of the sea at the end of little alleys where red and hot-pink flowers spill from black wrought-iron balconies perched up high on the walls. Stone arches and palm trees everywhere give the place an almost Arabic look. As we walk along, I realise how slow our pace is compared to how I normally walk in London. People here seem to stroll, or glide instead.
It must be partly because it’s so hot – I can feel my silk dress sticking to my skin already. Also, walking around seems to be just as much
of a social activity as sitting in bars or cafés: the whole town is one giant catwalk. Marisa seems to know everybody, and stops more than once to exchange ‘ciao’s and kisses. Each person she greets is more glamorous than the last and they all look at me curiously
as Marisa introduces me.

As we pass a church, a gorgeous woman with streaky dark blond hair, wearing a long black dress, comes out holding a baby and followed by a dark-haired man in a grey suit. Their chat seems amiable enough but I pick up on some kind of tension – I think Marisa is getting a little annoyed over something, though she doesn’t show it.

‘Who was that?’ I ask Marisa, after they’ve
gone.

‘I was in school with her. She’s always asking me when we’re starting our family, can you believe it? People are so rude.’ She looks infuriated, and I don’t blame her.

‘That happens to my sister Erica as well,’ I tell her. Funny that even in this place, which looks like paradise to me, people are bothered by the very same things as back home.

The restaurant where we’re meeting the others
is in an old stone building in one of the main squares. It’s like the square in Catania, but even prettier. Walking along with Marisa I get that same feeling of being in a film. I picture myself coming back here with Luther, late at night, his jacket over my shoulders . . . OK, I need to get a grip.

Inside it’s very slick and modern, with white walls and quirky artwork everywhere, and waiters
whisking around in black jeans and white T-shirts. The tables outside look very inviting, but apparently we have a private room indoors. As Marisa and I go inside, I can feel heads turning. Everybody is staring at her, of course, but I realise a few people are also looking at me. I can hear bits of Eurotrash conversation in English as we walk through the restaurant:

‘I know her. Isn’t she that
French actress? You know, the one that—’

‘French, my ass. Is that what she told you? She’s Lebanese.’

‘Did you know Luther Carson is here? I’m going to try and meet him! I heard he’s going to Tesoro later.’

Our party is in a private dining room, and everyone is already sitting down. Annabel’s even more bronzed this evening. She looks beautiful and extremely smug in a sleeveless, high-necked
black dress with a feather trim around the collar, and her hair done up in a fabulous beehive. Her face falls when she sees me.

‘Alice, you look so much better,’ she says, puzzled. ‘It’s astonishing.’

Luther gets to his feet. ‘That’s a very hot dress,’ he says, kissing me on the cheek. He’s never done that before, and it gives me a jolt, almost like a mild electric shock. He holds out the seat
beside him, and I slide into it. I feel a bit self-conscious as I slip the biker jacket off my shoulders – the dress really is very revealing. Luther’s about to take it for me, but a waiter beats him to it, pouncing on it immediately. He gives me a big gilded key which I presume is for the jacket. Sam has also done a double-take, and is staring at me.

‘So did you have a nice day shopping, Alice?’
Annabel asks me. ‘Brian’s been working hard at home. Still there, in fact.’

I’m about to reply, when Sam says, ‘As a matter of fact, I went and did some shopping myself today.’ He’s wearing a very smart-looking jacket and blue shirt. ‘I’m going to Venice for the festival in September, and I want to go undercover as a European.’

He does look surprisingly elegant, considering I’ve never seen him
in anything but a T-shirt before, and he’s not wearing his glasses.

‘Nice try, Elder Newland,’ says Luther, lazily hooking an arm around the back of my chair. I sit uber-upright, hardly daring to lean back. ‘You might be a closet Euro-fan but
you’ll always look like a Yank. I mean, look how tall you are, man. It’s not just the clothes, it’s the way you wear them.’

‘I agree,’ says Federico ponderously.
‘Style is very important to Italians.’ Marisa pats his arm approvingly, though I notice she’s not looking at him but at Sam.

‘Whenever I go visit my grandparents in Salt Lake, if I so much as wear a shirt that’s not plaid, people say I look very LA,’ says Sam. ‘I can’t win.’

‘I think I have an international look,’ says Annabel. ‘Though maybe I should get my teeth whitened again so I can play
Americans.’

‘Yeah,’ says Luther, barely listening. Annabel’s jaw drops; I don’t dare to look at her. I’m acutely conscious of Luther’s arm on the back of my chair. I’ve seen him sit like this before, though; it doesn’t mean anything, he just likes to sprawl.

‘Alice, can I swap with you?’ Annabel asks me.

‘Um – why?’

‘I want to be able to see myself in the mirror,’ she replies. This is pretty
bonkers even by her standards, and I’m lost for words. Luther rescues me.

‘Let’s stay where we are,’ he says. ‘I want to order. What’s everyone having?’

‘Veal Marsala,’ says Federico.

‘Swordfish for me,’ says Marisa.

‘I can’t decide,’ I say. I’ve read the menu about five times, and I can’t take it in. ‘It all looks delicious.’

‘Would you like me to order for you?’ Luther says. ‘It can be
a surprise.’

‘Sure, why not!’ I say. Luther suggests white truffle risotto, followed by poached chicken with asparagus. I notice Sam watching me with a very sceptical expression, but I don’t care. When the waiter comes, I order exactly what Luther suggested.

The waiter has now reached Luther, who’s still studying
the menu. Everybody’s waiting, but he’s still reading. Then he says, ‘Can I get
a medium steak, with fries?’ I do a slight double-take: that wasn’t on the menu. But the waiter nods and hurries off.

The meal passes in a blur. Luther is on great form, pouring me endless glasses of wine, and making us all laugh by deciding that he’s going to learn to do an English accent. As the wine flows, a feeling of euphoria steals over me. I can see us all reflected in the mirror; we do
look like such a glamorous group. I look at the blonde girl in the pink dress, chatting to Luther. Is that really me? I wonder if people looking at us think that we’re in couples. In which case, with me sitting beside Luther, that would make me . . . I know this is all a bit of fun and a fantasy, but every time I look at Luther, I feel pretty overwhelmed at the way he looks back at me.

Annabel,
meanwhile, is acting like a spoiled toddler, issuing an endless string of demands: ‘This mineral water tastes weird. Can we get another bottle? I’m too hot. Can we get them to turn the air con up? Sam, I asked for this salad without oil – what’s the Italian for ‘without oil’?’

‘There is no Italian for ‘salad without oil’,’ he tells her.

A young English girl approaches our table. ‘Luther? I love
your films! Can I take your picture?’

Luther says, ‘Sure – just as long as you snap my date too.’

He puts his arm around me, and pulls me close, so that my face is touching his.

‘Thanks!’ The girl leaves, beaming. My heart is beating fast; I can still feel the brush of Luther’s cheek against mine.

‘Do you want me to have a word with the owner?’ says Sam.

‘Don’t sweat it, big guy,’ says Luther
lazily, grinning at me. ‘We should’ve asked her for a copy, right?’ he says to me, and it’s funny because it’s exactly what I’m thinking.

Annabel is looking more thunderous by the second, her black dress seemingly matching her black mood. She’s glaring at Luther who seems totally oblivious. I take another slug of wine. It’s hot in the restaurant, and I’m glad my dress is so skimpy, purely so
that I don’t melt.

The girl comes back, and addresses Annabel. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I forgot to say, I think I know you too.’ Annabel smirks modestly.

‘Aren’t you from that late-night shopping channel?’

Annabel doesn’t even bother to reply; she just blasts the girl with a withering look. I manage not to laugh, but as I look up I catch Marisa’s eye and we exchange smiles.

‘That is so tacky,’
says Annabel, once the girl’s gone. ‘And they haven’t even offered us champagne on the house. I’m never coming here again.’

‘I might get a coffee,’ says Sam.

‘No. Let’s go,’ says Luther.

As we get up to leave, I realise that I’ve had a lot to drink – the room isn’t spinning, exactly, but I can sense a very gentle tilt, like being on the yacht. I think I could have done with a coffee but it’s
obvious Luther is impatient to get going, so we all file out. I almost forget about my jacket, until one of the waiters rushes up after me after with it. I try and put it on but he insists on helping me with it, which is a good thing because I’m actually having trouble with the arms.

‘You certainly did make an effort. I hope you won’t feel overdressed in the club,’ Annabel says to me with a little
laugh, as we head towards the waiting car. ‘I notice the foreign girls always dress up loads, while the Italians are more casual.’ I don’t think this is true, from what Marisa said earlier, and she’s not looking especially casual herself, but I don’t bother to reply – in fact, I’m not sure I can: I definitely need a minute just to breathe. I had hoped the
fresh air outside would revive me, but
I’m still swaying slightly. Sam notices me half stumble but doesn’t say anything.

The car, a huge jeep, is already revving up as we arrive, and we all pile in. Luther’s heading to the front seat but at the last minute, he says to Sam, ‘Hey, man, you’re the tallest – you ride in front.’ Before Sam can protest, he scoots around the back and gets in beside me.

I can smell his aftershave and, during
the entire drive, I’m acutely conscious of his body pressed beside me. ‘Gotta love these bends,’ he says to me, smiling wickedly. Having him so close to me is completely dizzying.

The club is seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and looks like a private house at the end of a long drive, where we park. As we walk closer, the noise of crickets is gradually drowned by the deafening sound of music.
There’s a long queue of beautiful people, smoking and chatting as they wait, but we are rushed straight in through a back entrance. A man wearing a headset shows us to a smaller, cordoned-off area upstairs, where there are a few other tables with little groups of even more beautiful people. Everyone has seen us coming in, but they immediately pretend not to have noticed, though all of the women
are staring at Luther.

We’ve barely sat down when several bottles of champagne arrive in silver buckets, distributed by very efficient-looking young men with headsets. I suddenly realise I need a glass of water, and I ask one of the young men, who says, ‘
Pronto, signorina
.’
Pronto
! I could get used to this.

Luther comes over and sits beside me, and the next minute, Annabel is right behind him,
practically stepping on me in her haste to sit on his other side.

‘Luther, guess what,’ Annabel says. ‘Tessa called and she thinks she can definitely get Martin, I mean Marty, to screen
Her Master’s Bite
. Isn’t that great?’

‘Yeah, excellent,’ Luther says vaguely. He pours me a glass of champagne, then drains a full one himself. Federico and Marisa come over and they all start chatting. Annabel
looks insanely furious. She glares at me, and for a second I wonder if she might hit me or something. Instead she purses her lips and starts looking around the room.

‘Now
there’s
an attractive man,’ she says loudly. I follow her gaze towards a man in a cream-coloured suit. I suppose he is handsome enough, but he has a very low forehead which gives him a slightly prehistoric look. He sees her
looking and lifts his glass to her in the most cheesy way imaginable.

‘I’m going over to say hello,’ she says and, shooting an evil glance at Luther, who doesn’t even notice, she stalks off towards her prey.

‘Good riddance,’ I think, and then realise I’ve said it out loud. Luckily no one seems to have heard. A girl has come over on the pretext of talking to Federico, but really to stare at Luther.
Luther turns back to me.

‘Hey, lady,’ he says. ‘What do you think of Tesoro?’

‘It’s fantastic!’ I say, looking around properly for the first time. It seems to be made to look like a cave, but with lots of Perspex tables and chairs, red velvet carpets, and big gilt mirrors everywhere. From our upper room, we can look down on the dance floor below, which is already filling up. My glass of water
hasn’t arrived, but I see I have some champagne, so I knock that back instead. It will hydrate me, sort of, I suppose.

‘Good old Moët,’ says Luther. ‘I hate that Cristal crap.’

He’s sitting very close to me, and has his arm around the back of my chair again. Because of the music, anything he says practically has to be said right into my ear. Sam is sitting opposite us, chatting to Marisa, but
I can see he keeps glancing over in our direction.

Despite my hazy state, I decide we should probably be having a conversation, so I say to Luther over the music, ‘Is it true your favourite drink is a frozen margarita?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I hate tequila. But I do talk dirty in Spanish.’ He gives me another one of his wicked, wolfish grins. I don’t get it, but I smile back anyway.

Three of the
girls have started to dance to Shakira. Their dancing seems slightly weird and stilted to me, but they’re all gorgeous, and they all appear to be performing for Luther, especially one very stunning one in a white tube top.

As I watch them dance, I think: they’re so lucky. They’re free just to enjoy themselves on a night out without having to be on their best behaviour or worry about work. Isn’t
that what being young is all about? I drink more champagne, savouring the sharp, bittersweet taste, and the bubbles. Suddenly the strains of the last few days – weeks, years – seem irrelevant. I’m here with Luther. It’s going to be fine. Luther starts talking nonsense to me about Shakira, making me laugh. I know I should pay attention because Shakira is on Olivia’s list of people she’d like to
write autobiographies, but I can’t quite follow his story, which is something about meeting her backstage: I’m just gazing at him. He is so outrageously handsome.