The Out of Office Girl (14 page)

I’m being papped! I’m just glad I’m dressed for it. I start smiling out of
habit, before I remember that we don’t like them, and frown mysteriously instead. Then I remember what I’ve read in magazines about putting your arm on your hip and angling your waist. I give it a go, but I’m far too drunk and Sam is dragging me into our car. I get in reluctantly, clamping my legs together in case they take some awful up-skirt shot. Once I’m in, I turn to look at Luther, but Sam’s
wedged himself in beside me instead.

‘That was unnecessary,’ he says to Luther, who’s on his other side.

‘It was fun for Alice,’ says Luther, sounding petulant.

Everyone is quiet except Federico, who’s become inexplicably chatty and launches into a long, boring monologue about Giancarlo’s success with the nightclub, and how he himself would like to do something similar. Marisa, who’s sitting
in the front with him, replies in monosyllables.

After we’ve dropped them, it’s only another fifteen minutes to our house. My eyes are beginning to close. The evening is running through my head again: the dressing-up, the dinner, the club, the paparazzi and oh, God, the dancing . . . the dancing was wonderful. Even if it was unwise, it was wonderful.

We’re here. The car drops us off, and the
three of us walk towards the house. It feels strange to be here without Annabel. Strange, and very nice. It’s as if the house has been possessed by a malevolent spirit, and now it’s been exorcised.
The bay is as calm as ever; the air is so lovely and fresh I can feel it instantly making me feel better.

‘Who’s for a nightcap?’ says Luther. ‘It’s only, like, two a.m. The night is young!’

I know
I should probably go to bed, but it’s so nice out here. I am definitely, definitely not going to get up to anything untoward with Luther. But it might be wise just to have one drink with the two of them, so there’s no awkwardness between us.

‘I’m fine,’ says Sam.

‘Can I have a Sprite?’ I ask Luther.

Luther shakes his head. ‘I’m disappointed in you both,’ he says, and he goes off inside the
house. A minute later he pops his head back out: ‘Have you noticed that I am getting you guys drinks? That’s very good of me, don’t you think?’ And he disappears again.

I collapse on one of the sunloungers and look up at the stars, which are perhaps rotating a little bit.

‘Goodnight,’ says Sam.

I look at him in alarm. ‘Are you going to bed?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to cramp your style.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You know exactly what I mean. Your speech yesterday about legal options and all the rest of it made you sound very committed to your work. Looking at the floor show you gave us tonight, I’m not so sure. Are you here to work or to score yourself a celebrity boyfriend?’

‘We were just dancing. What’s wrong with that?’ I can feel myself flushing. I know what was wrong
with it. And what was right with it.

Sam looks disdainful.

‘If that’s what you want to tell yourself, go right ahead. But I would have expected a little more professionalism.’ And he’s gone.

I glare at him, wishing I could think of a scathing reply. Bastard! Self-righteous pig. How dare he be so preachy? What business is it of his anyway?

I’m feeling rattled, all the same, and I should probably
go to bed. I haul myself reluctantly off the sunlounger, and head towards the house, where I almost collide with Luther. He’s got an open bottle of champagne under one arm, and two glasses in his hand, one of which is full.

‘Hey, not so fast,’ he says. ‘Where are you off to?’ He puts the champagne down on the table, and hands me the full glass. ‘Here’s your Sprite.’

‘Luther, I know that’s champagne.
And I’m going to bed.’

‘Oh, no you don’t. We’re going for a swim.’

‘A swim?’

‘Yeah, a swim.’ Looking at him, I realise this isn’t the romantic Jimmy from the dance floor any more: he means business. This time he’s not going to stop at a few twirls, and fainting won’t be an option . . . I still think he’s gorgeous, but I also feel as if I’ve got a tiger by the tail. He takes a step closer, and
takes my hand. And I see something clinging to the inside of his nostril; a minute white lump.

I mean, I’m not an idiot. I know what he’s been doing every time he spends a quarter of an hour in the bathroom. It’s not that that brings me to my senses. I am very drunk, true, but there’s a tiny, tiny part of me that retains the power to think. And it’s telling me I have two choices right now. I
could kiss him, sleep with him, maybe even have an affair with him. But if I do, I can kiss goodbye to his book, and to my career.

‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry.’ Before he can say anything, I crash past him, and stumble into my room. I hope that Sam hears my door closing.

TWELVE

I must be dying.

My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my head is full of pounding hammers, like a factory. I’m parched – even my hands and feet feel dry, as if my body has been completely leached of moisture. I’ve got to drink something. I lever my head up off the pillow and the pounding increases, as does my nausea. I think I’m going to be sick. I spot a half-empty glass of
water beside my bed – it’s like an oasis in the desert. With a huge effort, I lean out of the bed, successfully grab it and drink it down. It’s warm, but at least it’s liquid.

I’m still in my pink dress. My pillow is covered in mascara. I go cold and hot as I remember the horror. Oh, God. I was dirty dancing with Luther. I almost kissed him, and then I literally swooned in his arms. The humiliation
makes me curl up in my bed. I was papped with him, and then . . . Phew. We came home, and I went to bed.
Thank God
.

Through my nausea, I realise that I’ve had a very lucky escape. Sam, though – he thinks I’ve slept with Luther, I bet he does. And everyone will have seen me making puppy-dog eyes at him . . . slow-dancing with him . . . fainting . . . Suddenly there’s an unbearably loud cheeping
noise. I lean over and feel around on the floor for my phone. It’s
a text from Ruth. ‘How is it all going over there?? Is LC hot? Don’t do anything I wd!’ And there’s another from my dad, sent yesterday evening: ‘Glad all going well. How is book coming? Did you bring traveller’s cheques or are you using ATMs? If latter be careful re fraud.’

I groan, and drag myself out of bed. I have to have
something cold to drink. I manage to get to the kitchen by shuffling along very slowly in a semi-erect fashion. Everyone seems to be still asleep. I have no idea what time it is. I find some water and gulp it down. As I stagger back to my room, I see the swimming pool outside, and remember my resolve to do lengths every morning, before spending a civilised day working on Luther’s book.

There
are footsteps behind me. I turn around; it’s Annabel. I suppose I should be relieved that her Cro-Magnon brought her home instead of cutting her up into little bits and dumping her somewhere, but it’s a close thing. I’m pleased to see that, like me, she looks a bit the worse for wear.

‘Have a nice time last night?’ She steps right up to me, so we’re almost nose to nose. ‘Whose bedroom did you
end up in?’ she asks aggressively.

‘I can’t deal with you right now,’ I tell her, and I stumble off to bed. Gosh, that was feisty of me. Maybe I’m still drunk? I get back to bed and lie down carefully. Then I realise I’m definitely going to be sick. I hurry next door to my bathroom, just in time.

I feel marginally better afterwards. I contemplate having a shower, but that would mean standing
up. I decide the only thing that’s going to make me feel better is to go in the pool. My shopping bags are lined up neatly just inside my door, but it takes me ages to locate my new bikini and put it on – I almost don’t have the strength to pull off the tags. I inch my way outside, head down, moving like the Kia-Ora crow in the ad and squinting at the sun. As I lower
myself into the water, which
is blessedly cool, I can feel myself magically regenerating. Soon I can even swim a few strokes. That’s a bit much, though, so I just lie there on my back, floating motionlessly, letting the water heal me.

Suddenly I hear shouting. Someone jumps in and starts splashing towards me. Before I can even turn my head, I’m being hauled across the pool by a pair of incredibly strong arms.

‘What the—’
I splutter. It’s Sam. He lifts me out of the pool and dumps me on the side.

‘What are you doing?’ I finally manage to say.

‘I thought you were drowning!’ he yells, in a voice that cracks my head open again. ‘You scared the shit out of me!’

I put my hands over my eyes. ‘I was just floating,’ I complain. I squint at him. He’s crouched beside me, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He must have jumped
in fully clothed. I hate to admit it, but the wet T-shirt look suits him.

‘How was I to know that? And you did faint last night, in case you’ve blacked that memory out.’

I laugh weakly. ‘Did you think it was like the beginning of
Sunset Boulevard
, with the dead body in the pool?’ Then I start to cough. ‘Oh God, I feel awful. You made me swallow some water.’

‘You need it,’ he says tartly, ‘after
all the booze you drank last night.’

‘I wasn’t the only one, you know,’ I tell him. ‘What time is it?’

‘You’re lucky my watch is waterproof,’ he says, looking at his wrist. ‘It’s noon.’

As late as that? Oops. ‘Where is everybody?’

‘Brian’s down on the beach. I think Annabel just rolled in from her, um, date. And I’ve been reading a script, and saving your life. And Luther—’

‘I haven’t seen
him since last night,’ I say quickly.

‘I know. He’s gone out with Marisa and Federico.’

Oh. From the way he says that, I think he knows nothing happened with me and Luther. But how? Did Luther tell him?

Sam gets to his feet. ‘I’m going to get changed. Try not to drown.’ And he’s gone, leaving me sitting on the edge of the pool, my relaxing swim well and truly over.

I’ve just thought of someone
else who might also be annoyed at me. Luther. He’s probably going to be furious with me for leading him on all night, and then for backing away at the last minute. What if his film star ego is in shock, and he takes it out on me? Why, oh why did I go to that nightclub with him in the first place? Why did I have to dance with him like that? I was meant to be getting to know him on a deeper level,
instead of – well, instead of what happened.

I pick up my phone and look at the date. This is my third full day, and I’ve managed to get myself into the worst possible situation I could have imagined – second only to sleeping with him. I groan out loud. To prevent the panic rising again, I start to think about damage limitation. If Luther is annoyed at me, there’s not much I can do, except cast
myself on his mercy. I’m going to have to make an appeal to his better nature. I’ll tell him we need him – I need him. I’ll tell him how much we want to hear his story . . .

Then I remember – he’s already given me some of the story! The curtain call with the high school play, and the local lawyer who signed the contract for
Fever
. It’s only a page or two, but it will at least be something for
Brian to work on.

As Sam had told me, Brian is down on the little shingle beach that belongs to the house, trying to skim stones into the sea. I suddenly feel desperately sorry for him. I bet he
wishes he was at home. Since I arrived, things have probably been even worse for him.

He turns around to face me, and I get a real shock. Even though he was at home last night, while we were carousing,
he looks absolutely awful – his normally ruddy face is pale, and he has huge bags under his eyes.

‘Brian! What on earth is wrong? Are you ill?’ I take a step towards him.

He shakes his head. ‘Just a few – just some things on my mind. I’m fine. How was your evening?’

I hang my head. ‘It was all right. But it’s not getting us any closer to the book. When Luther gets back, I’m going to – talk
to him. I swear. Meanwhile, I’ve got some little bits for you to write up, if you don’t already have them.’ I tell him the high school curtain-call incident and the lawyer story.

He nods. ‘Thanks. It’s not much, but I can weave it in – for what it’s worth.’

While Brian’s working, I pace up and down the terrace, psyching myself up for Luther’s return. I’m not going to think about last night.
I am going to get him to do some work. I
am
.

Annabel’s installed herself on the terrace, where she’s sunbathing and listening to her iPod. Sam is beside her, still reading his script. Now she’s applying her expensive suntan lotion – bloody cow. Sam glances up from his script, and looks at her. I wonder if he’s going to ogle her, but instead he keeps reading.

Seeing Sam read his script obviously
stirs Annabel’s competitive instincts. She zips into the house, and before long she’s reappeared with her own script. She ostentatiously marks – I count them – three lines, and starts muttering them under her breath.

At about 3 p.m., there’s a crunch on the gravel outside.
Luther’s back – alone, thankfully. He comes in, wearing his shades and looking a bit crumpled and unshaven and very much
as if he’s been out on the town the night before. It’s a particularly devastating look for him, but I’m going to try not to think about that.

‘Hey, lady,’ he says, and walks right past me.

Oh, shit. I hurry and catch him up.

‘Luther – can I talk to you? I really, really need your help.’

‘What’s up?’ He pulls down his shades, and I’m relieved to see he doesn’t look particularly annoyed after
all, just exhausted. OK. This is a good sign.

‘I just—’ I’m about to mention last night but I decide not to. ‘I need two hours of your time this afternoon. To work on the book.’

He gives me a long, cool look. Amazing how his hangover makes him look like a sexy, hot mess, whereas I just look a mess. I plough on.

‘We’re all such fans of yours. Everybody I work with is so thrilled that we’re going
to be telling your story. I promise there doesn’t have to be anything in it that you don’t want,’ I add, throwing caution to the wind. ‘But we are nearly out of time. And, to be honest, my job’s on the line. I really, really need you.’