The Out of Office Girl (2 page)

It’s not that I’m scared of Olivia exactly. But she’s unpredictable. Most of the time she’s
great, but occasionally she can go berserk over something completely unexpected. I call her back right away but there’s no answer so I just leave a message. I hope there isn’t some catastrophe at work and that I haven’t done anything wrong – again.

On my screen, Jimmy is paused with his arms around Donna, looking down at her as if he never wants to let her go. Donna is played by Jennifer Kramer,
who was a big star at the time but has never really been heard of since.
Oh, Luther
, I think.
How I wish I were on that dance floor with you right now, far away from my life
. But that’s not going to happen, so I finish watching the film, write up my notes for Olivia, and go to sleep.

TWO

As I rattle in to work on the Tube the next day, I can’t stop chewing over the whole Simon thing, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. He seemed so keen in the beginning, taking my number the night we met and texting me the very next day. I couldn’t believe it when he kept calling me – secretly I thought he was out of my league. He’s got a fairly hectic lifestyle: he’s a marketing
manager for a big drinks company that sponsors lots of events, and he does some freelance journalism on the side. He also was, is, gorgeous – very tall, taller than me for once, with dark curly hair and dark blue eyes. And he’s smart, and good company, and most of the time we had a lot to talk about – he reads a lot of interesting books and we used to discuss his freelance writing and all the high-profile
events he organises. So what changed? What did I do?

It’s true that he’s been a bit distracted lately, and our last date was a disaster. We went to an exhibition he had to go to for work, where he knew a lot of people. Rather than cling to his side, I tried to circulate as much as possible, but I didn’t know enough people and somehow I kept on being circulated back in his direction. Afterwards
we walked around Chelsea for ages trying to find somewhere to eat: everywhere was closed or too expensive and we ended up
in Pizza Express, which was bad because Simon hates chains. I should never have suggested going for dinner in the first place. He had a cold and seemed a bit off, and I was going on too much about a problem at work. He didn’t want to come home with me because he had an early
meeting the next day. In fact . . . he didn’t come home with me after our previous date, either. And the time before, he did come home with me, but—

Aargh. I’m not going to think about it any more: it’s too depressing. I reach for the copy of
Metro
wedged behind the man opposite me, smiling apologetically at him, and flip straight to the Guilty Pleasures section. There’s Luther, papped on his
way to the airport in Rome where he’s been shooting a remake of
Roman Holiday
. I happen to know he’s on his way to Sicily, to finish writing his book. He’s older now than in
Fever
– thirty-three – but I think he looks even better these days, with his brooding dark eyes and spiky brown hair. He’s effortlessly elegant in grey jeans and black cowboy boots, which would make any other man look ridiculously
camp. The publicity department will probably clip it, but I put it in my bag just in case.

The thing that gets me about Simon is that this always seems to happen to me. I go out with someone, he’s super keen at first, and after about two months I get dumped. I wish I knew what I was doing wrong, but the one person who could probably tell me is Simon, and I’m not going to ask him. Imagine if,
after a relationship ended, you had to fill in an evaluation form. I would score Simon quite highly on everything except the way he’s ended it. Even if he went off me for some complicated reason that has nothing to do with me, and even if we were only together two months, I deserve more than this silent treatment. I’m beginning to think I should send
him
a text saying there’s
no point getting
back in touch – he’s dumped. Though I suppose it might be a bit too late for that.

It’s early when I get into the office, and there’s nobody there but Poppy. She’s sitting at her desk, holding a hand mirror and placing something carefully on to her eye, mouth half open. If it was anyone else, I would assume they were inserting a contact lens or something, but I know that Poppy is putting on her
fake eyelashes. She must have something special on today; she doesn’t normally wear those in the office.

‘Morning, darling,’ she says out of the corner of her mouth, waving to me with one crooked finger.

Before I met her, I would never have believed that people like Poppy could exist, let alone be let loose in offices. Her clothes are mainly vintage or customised or both: often they’re almost
costumes. Today’s outfit, a white crochet mini-dress that looks very cute with her brown Afro and long legs, is pretty understated by her usual standards. She has what practically amounts to a dressing-up box under her desk, and she insists that we clock off every Friday at four for tea and cake. I didn’t know what to make of Poppy at first – I was a bit shy of her, in fact, as she has such a big
personality. But despite her frothy exterior she is totally down-to-earth, and by now she is a real friend. Unlike Claudine, who is my bête noir – appropriate because she’s French, as she frequently reminds us.

‘You look nice,’ I say, hanging up my jacket. ‘Is that dress new?’

‘Thanks!’ She sounds pleased. ‘It’s from a charity shop in St John’s Wood. Full of lovely rich ladies’ cast-offs. We
should go there some time.’ Poppy is always finding gorgeous things in charity shops – a useful skill when you’re
on a salary like ours. She puts down her mirror and turns round to face me.

‘How are you? Any word from Mr Dempsey?’

‘Nope,’ I say. ‘I think that means it’s over.’ I’m glad no one else is around and that I can just tell her privately now. Somehow the humiliation is as bad, or worse,
as the missing-Simon part.

‘Oh, that’s rubbish,’ Poppy says sympathetically. ‘I can’t believe he hasn’t even called you, what a bast— what a pity. I’m so sorry.’ It’s nice of her to say that because I don’t think she ever really liked Simon, for some reason.

‘Is there any chance he might be unwell or something?’ she asks. ‘Trapped under something heavy? Amnesia?’

‘I wish. That’s what I thought
at first, but it’s never that, is it?’

‘No. They’re never dead, they’re just not calling.’

Poppy can always make me laugh, even when I don’t feel like it. While I wait for my computer to wake up, I slip out of my ballet flats and put on the slightly less flat shoes I wear for work. Poppy nearly died laughing the first time she saw me do this. In contrast to hers, my desk is pretty boring, just
endless piles of proofs and papers. My only decoration is a giant poster of Luther that she and the other girls gave me when we got the book. They meant it as a joke, but I like having it up there to inspire me.

‘Are you free for lunch today?’ I ask. I’m suddenly craving a carb-and grease-fest.

‘I’d love to, but I’ve got an agent lunch,’ Poppy says. ‘Could do tomorrow, though?’

Poppy was promoted
to editor last month, so she’s doing more grown-up lunches these days. I have to admit, I was jealous at first. We joined around the same time – in fact, she joined a month after me. But she deserves it: she’s incredibly bright, and she works very hard. With her
bargain-hunter’s eye, she’s just snapped up a brilliant first novel and everyone is excited about it. Anyway, I hope that if I keep my
head down and work hard, I’ll be promoted some time in the next year. I’ve been here long enough; four years is make-or-break time. I want to make editor before I’m twenty-seven; so I still have about six months.

My emails have loaded now. I can feel the stress rising in my chest as I see them queue up relentlessly. Olivia tends to copy me in on her emails, and then people copy me in to their
replies, so it all adds up. My title is assistant editor, which means that I edit a lot of Olivia’s books, and then I’m also her assistant, which means a lot of juggling. It’s all good experience, though. I hope so, anyway.

‘Cup of ambition?’ says Poppy, waving her coffee mug.

‘Yes, please.’ Come to think of it, where is Olivia? She’s normally in by now. And what was she calling about last night?
I have had my fair share of disasters over the years, but I thought I’d done quite well lately. None of her emails look too serious – there’s an agent complaining about a cover, and an author who’s upset about his Amazon ranking, but nothing catastrophic.

It must be something to do with Luther’s book. That is a code orange situation: it’s running very late and everyone is getting panicked about
it. We’ve just had the first draft in, and it’s terrible. It skips over all the interesting parts – such as his relationship with his father; the drugs and rehab; his whirlwind marriage and divorce; the time he disappeared for a year . . . I think Olivia’s been slightly taken aback by how much I know about Luther Carson. It’s not that I have a crush on him exactly. Well, OK, of course I do – who
doesn’t? – but I also think he’s a very intriguing character. In fact, I was the one who suggested him as a subject for an autobiography.

I decide to try Olivia again. There’s still no answer: that’s
strange. Just after I hang up, my phone rings. I wonder if this is her now, but the display says Daphne Totnall – our managing director’s PA.

‘What does she want?’ I ask aloud.

‘Who?’ Poppy asks,
coming back from the kitchen.

‘Hello,’ says Daphne. ‘Can you come up and see Alasdair please?’

‘Of course.’ I hang up. What the hell is happening this morning?

Poppy hands me my coffee. ‘What’s up?’ she asks curiously.

‘The MD wants to see me,’ I say. I’m already walking towards the lift. More people have arrived by now, including the horrible Claudine, who is channelling Audrey Hepburn today
in skinny black trousers and pearls. They all hear Poppy call after me, ‘Good luck! Don’t jump!’

As I ride the lift up to Alasdair’s office, I wipe my clammy palms on my skirt and examine myself in the mirrored wall. What possessed me to wear a black skirt with a white shirt? I look like a waitress. Otherwise, I look the same as ever: straight, long blond hair, embarrassingly pink cheeks, anxious
expression. Daphne barely looks up from her spreadsheets as she tells me to go straight inside.

I’ve never actually been in here before. The office is enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a panoramic view over the Thames. There is Alasdair’s spaniel, asleep in a basket beside the window. And there is Alasdair himself getting up from his desk.

‘Alice. Thanks very much for coming up,’ he
says smoothly, shaking my hand and motioning me to sit down, just as if I was a powerful old buddy of his. He is about my dad’s age, with badgery grey hair, twinkly dark eyes and a deep tan from his frequent sailing and shooting holidays.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he says.

What bad news? Am I being fired? But if I am, there should be someone here from HR, surely. And shouldn’t I have
had a few warnings first? I’ll have to call Erica . . .

‘Olivia has to have emergency surgery,’ Alasdair continues, ‘for a double hernia. She’s in hospital and they’ll operate as early as they can tomorrow. She’ll be out of action for at least two weeks, maybe more.’

I put my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘That’s awful.’ Poor Olivia. That sounds gruesome. Though I have to say I’m also
relieved that I’m not going to be fired. How did this happen? She was completely fine yesterday.

‘We’ve just spoken on the phone, about her various projects,’ he continues.

‘Of course.’ I know Olivia’s schedule by heart, so I can help him with this. It’s going to mean a lot of extra work. I imagine I’ll keep working on the books I have already, and take on most of the others – maybe we can farm
some out . . .

I suddenly find that Alasdair is talking and I haven’t been listening.

‘. . . Luther Carson. I believe the manuscript isn’t up to scratch?’

‘Oh! Well—’ Now I realise I have my arms folded, and my legs crossed and folded round the chair legs, like a pretzel. Slowly, so it doesn’t seem too obvious, I rearrange myself into a more confident-looking posture. ‘No, it’s not. It’s just
not personal enough. It leaves out all the most interesting parts. Brian’s very good, so I’m sure he’s done his best,’ I add quickly. Brian is the ghostwriter. ‘It just looks as though he hasn’t had any proper input from Luther yet.’

‘Well, we’ll have to fix that,’ Alasdair says. ‘I’m not expecting
The Moon’s a Balloon
. But it’s got to be readable. It’s got to have drama; it’s got to have a bit
of misery – not
too much, but we have to have his lows as well as his highs. He knows that. It’s in the contract. We put in a specific clause stipulating that there would be significant content relating to his childhood, the drugs and the divorce, and the time he disappeared for a year.’

I nod. The mention of this clause gives me a strange, uneasy feeling – I can’t quite put my finger on it though.

‘So, as you know, we need a finished manuscript in about . . .?’ He looks at me expectantly.
Get it right
.

‘Four weeks.’

‘Four weeks at the latest, in time to have copies in early September. We need this book to turn over a million pounds this Christmas, or we won’t make budget.’

I do know all this, but it sounds extra scary when Alasdair says it.

‘So, as you know, we’ve provided Luther with
somewhere to stay in Sicily – a very nice place, near Taormina, at our expense, to sort the book out. The ghostwriter is there with him. Before Olivia got ill, she and I talked about her going over there to help him, to apply some pressure, edit the book as it comes out. I think you should go.’

What? Me go to Sicily? Has he lost his mind?

‘Well, of course, if you think that’s the best thing,’
I hear myself saying. ‘And work with Brian?’

‘No, work with Luther. Sit him down and exercise your influence and generally sit on him until he finishes this book.’