The Out of Office Girl (19 page)

I let him go on ahead while I send Olivia an update message. I don’t want to call her now, because I don’t want to interrupt the momentum with Luther. My text says: ‘Have
had breakthrough with Luther. He and I doing interviews. Expect good progress.’ I press send cautiously, hoping that will go down OK.

I approach the terrace, where Sam and Luther
are talking.

‘Do you know who they went with?’ Luther is asking.

‘Not yet. I’m finding out. I know it was out to Seph Banks –’

‘That guy! He wouldn’t know a good movie if it bit him in the ass. Screw it. Tell them I passed. Tell them I’m going to be working on my book instead.’

Sam looks aghast. ‘You’re working on your book,’ he repeats.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Look. Luther. This is a bad idea. No
good can come of it whatsoever.’

‘I don’t care! I want to do it. And I’ve told you that about a million times. So stop cock-blocking me, and trying to invent all these projects to distract me with, because it won’t work.’ He turns to me. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes!’ I say. ‘I’ll just get my tapes and things.’ I beam at Sam, and dash into the house.

Sam follows me, looking totally enraged. ‘I hope
you’re happy now,’ he snarls, once we’re inside. ‘You’ve got Luther started on the worst mistake of his career.’

I can see why he’s annoyed, but I don’t care.

‘Sam,’ I say, ‘it’s not your decision. Luther wants to write a proper book. So if you have a problem with that, you’ll have to take it up with him.’

He doesn’t say anything, and I know it’s because he can’t. If Luther has decided he really
wants to do this, there’s nothing Sam can do to stop him.

‘You’re going to show me transcripts of every single one of his interviews as they come out,’ he snaps. ‘Everything he tells you goes through me. No exceptions.’

As I watch him stalk off in a rage, I realise that I was almost beginning to like him. Not in a romantic sense, obviously, just as a person. But it can’t be helped. He’s had
his way; it’s my turn now. I gather up my stuff, and before I head to see Luther, I type out a very quick text to Poppy. ‘You might be right re Anne of GG. Fingers crossed – will keep you posted!’ And I hope and pray it doesn’t turn out to be premature.

EIGHTEEN

We’re on the back terrace. Luther is on a sunlounger, and I’m sitting opposite him on a chair. The Dictaphone is on. I can feel there’s something different about him. It’s his demeanour – he looks more serious than I’ve ever seen him before. It suits him.

‘So . . . maybe we could start with what you were telling me earlier, about when you had to move out of home. Was any of it – the
way you described it?’ I ask. I was going to say ‘true’, but I don’t want to emphasise the sad fact that he was lying earlier.

‘Well, sort of. It’s true that my dad left home when I was thirteen. And then we went to stay with a friend of Mom’s, maybe for a month or two. And she did have a brother, Amos, who Mom started seeing. And that’s when her friend asked us to leave. That was all true. And
we moved in with Amos for a while. But he didn’t ask us to come to Mexico, or anywhere else for that matter. One day he just disappeared. Mom was pretty upset.’

‘Oh,’ I say. Poor Luther, I think. Two father figures disappearing within the space of a few months.

‘We had to leave his place, so that was when we started sleeping in Mom’s car. It was hell. At first we didn’t tell anyone. We used
to just park it different places. My mom
was working in Walmart at the time and we parked in their lot. She used to sneak me and my sister in there at six a.m. so that we could wash and get dressed for school. The people on the night shift knew, but she worked days so she figured she could get away with it. But then they found out, and we had to move on.’

A shiver goes down my spine as I contemplate
Luther’s mother and the two kids, washing and dressing in the employee bathrooms.

‘What about your grandparents?’ I ask. ‘Didn’t you have any relatives in town?’

‘Not in Camden, because my mom is from Queens originally. And she fell out with her folks when she married my dad – they hated him. So, we were on our own.’

‘And did you go to school the whole time?’

‘At first. But my mom couldn’t
stand people knowing about us, where we lived. She was scared everyone in town would find out, though, to be honest, I think they already knew. She worked with a woman who used to go to Florida for harvests. She said she could get Mom a job, so my sister and I dropped out of school and we drove all the way there in Mom’s ancient Ford Maverick. You could practically see the road through the bottom
of that car.’

‘What was Florida like?’

‘It was OK,’ he says. ‘It was good not to be cold any more. It got pretty cold in that car. Though I got sick of eating oranges – we had about ten a day each. In the evenings, we went out, me and my sister, and got more money. Like I told you we did in the cult.’ He laughs.

‘Um – how?’

‘We used to perform to the tourists. We’d sing songs, make up sketches.
I had this whole speech from
Back to the Future
memorised.’ He shakes his head. ‘My mom had a new boyfriend by that time and she was a little distracted.
But when she found out, she came down on us like a ton of bricks. And soon after that, she made it up with her folks and we moved to Queens to live with them. But that was when I first discovered how much I liked to act, I guess. It was a way
of getting attention, but also it helped us escape whatever was happening at home.’

My editor brain is registering that this is brilliant material. But at the same I’m feeling incredibly sorry for Luther, and his family. I can’t imagine an existence on the edge like that.

As the morning wears on, Luther smokes his way through an entire pack of cigarettes. He tells me more about his early years,
before his dad – whom he seems to have worshipped – left. He got into endless trouble: skipping school, shoplifting, trying to steal cars. He tells me about his mother, who seems to have alternated between being very affectionate and being wrapped up in her own chaotic life, and his grandmother, who was much more stable. I hadn’t realised she talked him into doing dance classes, which helped him
get the part in
Fever
.

‘What was it like?’ I ask him. ‘I mean, we have all the facts and everything, but how did it feel?’

‘It was a dream come true,’ he says simply. ‘It just felt like – all of those trailers and cables and lights and make-up people and caterers, and the director and the assistant director, and all of the crew and the extras, and even the rest of the cast – they were all there
because of me. Because I was the star. It was all up to me to make the movie a success.’

‘That sounds scary.’

‘No,’ Luther says, leaning forward. ‘It should have been terrifying, but I was so clueless, I loved it. I was addicted to the whole thing: the costumes and the script and the choreography – everything. I had no idea what I was doing – they had to keep reminding me not to look in the
camera.
But I had good direction and somehow I pulled it off. I basically wasn’t acting, I was just playing myself. And then when the movie went crazy, I just went crazy with it. But the comedown, once the movie had been out for a few months, was horrible.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was over. I would never have that particular experience again. I’d already signed for
Stars on the Water
, but there was
no guarantee that it would be as big a hit as
Fever
. And I was beginning to realise how out of my depth I was. What if it all ended and I had to go back home with my tail between my legs? It was terrifying. In a way, the fear that I should have felt while I was shooting
Fever
only really hit me after it was over.’ He thinks for a minute. ‘I guess I also . . .’

I wait.

‘The whole time I was going
to acting classes or auditions, I sort of hoped that, some day, if I made it as a movie star or a TV actor or was even in a commercial, my dad would see me, and would maybe . . . I don’t know what I expected. But that he would think I was an OK kid, I guess, or at least get in touch and let us know if he was alive or dead. But that never happened.
Fever
opened and I did a ton of interviews, and
I was on magazine covers, but nothing.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

‘Honestly, not a clue. He could be dead, for all I know,’ says Luther. ‘Or he could be, I don’t know, living on welfare or in a trailer park somewhere. I have a feeling he’s not, though, because if he was alive, I don’t think he would be shy of getting in touch.’

‘To see you?’

‘No, to ask for money.’

‘Oh.’ I can’t imagine
how horrible it must be to have to think that of your own father.

‘I know that, considering he walked out on us, I should think of him as an asshole,’ he continues, ‘but actually I remember him as being pretty cool. He was always laughing and joking and he had so many buddies – the room used to light up whenever he came in. He used to play baseball with me for hours. He gave me my first beer
when I was twelve. But my big sister doesn’t remember him like that.’

‘No?’

‘No. She says it all depended on what kind of mood he was in when he got home. That she and my mom would pray that he was in a good mood, because otherwise it would be hell. But, if he was in too good a mood, it would mean that he was boozing.’ He shakes his head. ‘She first told me all that after the premiere of
Stars on the Water
. We were at the after-party. I was telling her I wished he could be there, and she just blew up at me, and it all came out. I guess she was right. I did hate him for leaving my mom and for leaving us, but at the same time, I kind of felt – I remembered him as being a pretty cool guy, and I didn’t just want to forget about that. But I guess he was an asshole. I don’t know. I don’t
remember, really.’

He looks so downcast, lying back on the sunlounger. In fact, he looks incredibly handsome right now, and, seeing this side of him . . . I quickly get a grip, and ask him about his current relationship with his family.

‘Mom and I get on great now,’ he says. ‘She’s been married for about ten years, to a good guy. Life is just easier for her now, you know? I bought them a house
as a wedding gift. I think he felt a bit weird about taking it, but I don’t care.’

‘And your sister?’

‘That’s a whole other story. We were pretty tight when we were kids, but now, not so much. I think she feels I took up a lot of Mom’s time with my dramas, while she was doing her own thing. But she’s done well. She’s married,
has three kids, lives in a nice neighbourhood. She never lets me buy
her stuff, but I give the kids presents, so that’s cool.’

This is good to know: we need to know who’s likely to complain and who isn’t.

‘And your grandmother?’

He’s silent for a minute. ‘She died, actually. The whole time I was shooting
Fever
, she was dying of cancer. I still feel guilty that I didn’t spend more time with her. I went to see her as often as I could but it wasn’t often enough.
In fact, of all the shitty things I’ve ever done – I think that’s the one I regret the most.’

Poor, poor Luther. So that explains why he reacted the way he did when I mentioned Brian’s wife. I feel so bad for doubting him earlier.

We talk for another hour or so, until I realise that I can’t see my notes any more because it’s getting dark. I’ve been so absorbed I’ve completely forgotten the time.

‘Luther! Can you believe we’ve been talking for over six hours?’

‘Yeah? Did you get what you wanted?’

‘Absolutely. You’ve been fantastic. Well done and thanks so much.’ I’m about to stand up, but he stays looking at the ground, his head bowed. In the dusk, I can see that he looks a bit overwhelmed and very sad. Oh, God . . . I just feel the impulse to put my arms around him and tell him I’m
sorry he’s had such a rough time.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Luther says, looking up. ‘It was pretty good to talk through that stuff. We could go on for longer, you know.’ He glances at his watch, and I feel torn. I’m exhausted myself, but if he does want to talk, I want to be there for him.

‘Actually, no, let’s take a break,’ he says finally. I nod.

Luther heads off to find Sam, while
I stand up and stretch slowly. I realise my neck, shoulders and arms are aching, even though all I’ve been doing is listening and making notes, and occasionally changing the Dictaphone. But it’s brilliant. Today he’s given me at least 30,000 words, and it’s the most interesting stuff we’ve had on the book so far.

I find Federico and Marisa talking to Sam and Luther. They’re all planning to go
out for dinner and drinks in Taormina. They look very smart, whereas I’m a scruffy mess from working all day.

‘Are you coming, Alice?’ asks Federico. Marisa and Luther look at me too. I notice that Sam pointedly looks away. He probably doesn’t want to be around me right now.

‘I can’t, I’m afraid.’ I explain that I have to type up the transcripts of today’s interview with Luther, and email them
to Brian. I’ve realised this will be more efficient than sending tapes.

‘Are you sure?’ Marisa asks me. ‘My cousin Giulia speaks very good English. She could help you with the typing.’

‘No, thanks all the same, but I have to do this myself,’ I say. I’m the only one who knows what needs to be flagged up for Brian, and what can be left out. Not to mention that this is highly confidential material
and I don’t want anyone else handling it, no matter how many forms they sign. I want Olivia and Brian to be the first people to see this.

I’m relieved when they’ve all gone out, and left me to think.

I’m still dazed from everything Luther’s told me. I’ve learned more about him in the past six hours than I have in the whole time I’ve known him. His childhood sounds terrifying. To lose your home
and have to live out of a car; to have your father walk out of your life one day and never reappear – no wonder he’s mixed-up. Anyone would be. I’m still trying to square the person I know with the things
he’s told me. I hadn’t realised he was so self-aware or perceptive about his own motivations – like when he was describing his feelings of anti-climax after
Fever
ended, or his disappointment
that his dad never got in touch. That was heartbreaking.