The Out of Office Girl (23 page)

Luther looks at me sceptically.

‘Seriously. Something like
The Wire
– I haven’t watched it all, but I’ve seen it – it’s a work of art. In fact, I read in a newspaper that if Dickens or Shakespeare were alive today, they would be writing for American TV.’

He doesn’t even seem to hear me, just shakes his head and sighs. ‘Really,’ he says indifferently. ‘Let’s get back to work.’

We work until six o’clock. Luther goes off to have a workout, and I start my
evening’s typing. I’m only going to
do an hour or two tonight. Federico and Marisa are coming over for dinner, and I think I’ll actually be able to join them. We’ve now pretty much covered Luther’s entire story – except the time he went missing for a year. Brian has been working around the clock too, and we should have an early draft in the next few days. And once that’s done, we’re home and dry.
Luther will no doubt want to make changes, but at least we will have words on a page that we can publish – which is more than we had a week ago.

Poor Luther. It probably shouldn’t come as such a shock to me that a film star should be self-involved. It’s strange that he doesn’t seem to feel the intensity of being cooped up with me nose to nose like this, but it obviously doesn’t affect him in
the same way.

It’s probably not a bad thing if he knows nothing about me. The more anonymous I am, the more freely he can talk to me. It’s a strange, one-sided relationship, but I imagine most of his relationships are strange and one-sided. What on earth must it be like to be him? The more I think of it, the more horrifying it seems. It would be one thing if you had some sort of normality to
retreat to, like a happy marriage or a stable background, or a group of friends who had a foothold in the real world, but Luther doesn’t have that. He doesn’t have parents who want to tell him about their new electric mower.

As I sit down in front of the computer, I think of how compassionate I felt about Luther when I first learned of his troubled background. But the thing is: even though he’s
had a difficult upbringing, that doesn’t make him any less of a pain in the neck when he chooses to be – like begrudging me five minutes on the phone with my family. It explains it, but it doesn’t do away with the effect. I remember trying to decide whether he was a lost puppy or a selfish charmer. I suppose the truth is he’s both.

TWENTY-TWO

I’ve only been typing for twenty minutes when I hear my phone. It’s Olivia. I sit bolt upright. Please let her be pleased . . .

‘Hi, Olivia. Have you . . . what do you think of the material?’

‘I haven’t had a chance to look at it all yet, Alice,’ she says. ‘But I’ve been looking at the contract . . .’

Here we go. Oh God. I put my hand to my mouth . . .

‘And I’ve remembered, we need
to book Luther’s publicity days urgently. I can’t get hold of his wretched publicist and I thought Sam might be able to help. Can you ask him?’

‘Well – he probably could, but—’

‘Brilliant. I’ll leave that with you, then. Bye.’

My hand is shaking as I put down the phone. Thank God she hasn’t noticed the clause yet. Perhaps she won’t ever notice it, provided the manuscript is good enough. And
provided Sam doesn’t kick up a fuss about the content . . .

The door to Sam’s room is open, and he’s writing on a yellow foolscap. I’ve never been in here before – obviously. He looks around and sees me, then he turns back to his writing. The room is bare and tidy, with just a few manly things scattered around: a pair of sunglasses, car keys, an e-reader, neat piles of paper scripts on his bed.
I wait until he finishes,
watching him, or rather, watching the back of his neck. He’s wearing his glasses, which I think suit him, and there’s a small hole in his T-shirt, which is the grey UCLA one he wears all the time, and his hair’s grown a fraction longer . . . He turns around abruptly, and I look away just in time. ‘What’s up?’

I hope he didn’t see me staring. ‘Sam – I’d like us to be
able to co-operate on this book. Or at least, not be complete enemies.’

‘That sounds idyllic. What do you need?’

‘The publicity days.’

‘I’m glad you reminded me. That’s one thing we can lose the memo for.’

I sit down on the other chair. ‘Look, this book. Luther wants to do it, you know. He’s enjoying it. I think he’s finding the process . . . cathartic.’

‘He enjoys a lot of stuff that’s bad
for him,’ Sam says drily.

‘But is it such a bad thing?’

‘In a word, yes. His publicist has no idea what to make of it. I should give her these transcripts but she’d have a heart attack. As would his attorney, probably. But, do you know what I really worry about?’

‘No . . .’ I’m not sure I want to know either.

‘I worry that people will think Luther’s doing this book because he needs the money.
It’s the kind of thing that a has-been would do, quite frankly.’

‘What about Michael J. Fox? And Patrick Swayze?’ I say triumphantly, before remembering that poor Patrick Swayze died before his book came out. ‘They’re not has-beens,’ I add, more uncertainly.

‘It’s funny you should mention them. Do you know what the head of our agency said when Marc produced this book deal for Luther? He said,
“Is he dying? Is he paraplegic? Does he have Parkinson’s? No? Then why is he doing a fucking book?”’

‘But that’s just—’

‘The point is those guys had specific issues they were writing about. Whereas Luther’s specific issue seems to be his loose cannon past, which I’ve spent the last year and a half trying to play down.’

Ouch.

‘I’m also wondering how Dominique Rice is going to react when she
comes across her ex-husband’s description of her smoking heroin like, quote, a fucking Chinese gangster, unquote. Among other things.’

‘Well, we don’t need to use those exact words . . .’

‘Dominique is a powerful woman. She and her husband have a very good relationship with one of the biggest studios. If she reacts badly to this book, it’s possible that Luther will never work on one of that
studio’s films again. They might even decide to extend that favour to all my other clients – not that that’s relevant to you, but I’m just letting you know; it might not just be Luther’s career you’re harming.’

‘Doesn’t it help that it’s only being published in Europe?’

He sighs. ‘Maybe. I’m praying it will be like one of those whiskey commercials you do in Japan and that nobody has to know
about.’

‘And – the other stuff. I mean, the famous friends stuff. Maybe they’ll take it as a compliment? Like having a cameo in
Entourage
, or something? He could contact them all, put it as a favour . . .’ I’ve heard about
Entourage
from Luther; he’s a bit sore that they’ve never asked him to do a cameo.

‘
Entourage
is fictional,’ Sam says.

‘I know,’ I say, annoyed. This is his problem, after
all, and I’m only trying to help.

Sam looks out of the window, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.

‘I suppose they might OK it. It’s more the general impression it creates.’

‘You mean – the book making it seem like the end of Luther’s career?’

‘I never said that,’ he says quickly. ‘I said that that’s how some people
could
see it. He’s got a long career ahead of him.’

‘Of course he does.
And maybe this book could mark the beginning of a new phase.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The point of these books is that they have a happy ending. Not the end of your career – but, you know, the end of a certain kind of life. We’re spinning it as Luther looking back on his bad-boy past – emphasis on the past – and putting it all behind him. Doesn’t that help you?’

‘Huh,’ says Sam. He doesn’t sound convinced.

‘And it could work quite nicely, couldn’t it? If he does the TV part. That’s another new phase for him. It’s a very different part to any he’s played before. I think he would be great doing a more complex, comic role.’

‘I’m glad you approve,’ he says sarcastically.

‘I do. I think the show sounds great. I’ve told Luther that. And I’ll tell him again.’

Sam doesn’t say anything for a while. He
doodles on his pad, and without looking up he says, ‘I can’t talk Luther out of this. So I’m going to have to trust you. Can I trust you?’

‘Trust me to do what?’

‘Not to screw Luther over. Not to make him look bad. Not to produce a tacky book that will damage his career, or mine: all that kind of stuff.’

‘Sam, honestly. You can trust me.’ I give him my most sincere, trustworthy expression –
which for some reason makes him laugh. He throws down his pen, shaking his head.

‘OK, fine. I will help you and Luther with this car-wreck of a project. I’ll read the book through and point out the
biggest trouble spots. And I’ll get the manuscript to Dominique to try and smooth things over, and I’ll give you the three publicity days. And you will show me everything you’re doing, and keep talking
the TV show up to Luther. Are we good?’

‘We’re good,’ I say. I really am picking up so many American phrases.

As I’m going out the door, he says, ‘I forgot to ask you. How’s Brian and his wife?’

‘They’re doing all right. It seems like the prognosis is hopeful. Thanks for asking.’

‘Sure.’ He turns back to his work.

I go straight back to my room, delighted that I can give Olivia some good news.

‘Olivia? The publicity days are sorted. Sam will call you to arrange them.’

‘Fine,’ Olivia says. This is one of those things about her; sometimes, even when you do a good job on something tricky, she sounds as if she doesn’t care either way. ‘And I’ll start reading the material tonight. I’ll check it against the –’ I hear rustling – ‘contract too, to see how we’re doing on length and on . . .
the content . . .’

Oh no. Please, no.

‘The content clause . . .’

I’m holding my breath. Should I hang up? Pretend I got cut off?

‘Where is it? I’m looking at the contract, and I don’t see that clause.’

It’s happened. The thing I’ve been dreading for so long has finally happened. I could lie and say I have no idea why it’s missing, but what’s the point? With the sensation of jumping off a
cliff, I say it quickly before I can change my mind.

‘The clause isn’t in the contract.’

‘What do you mean, it’s not in the contract? Why not?’

Deep breath. ‘I forgot to put it in . . .’

Apparently there is a French expression: a bad quarter of an hour, meaning an unpleasant experience. This is what happens to me now. I just concentrate on holding the phone, staying upright, and counting the
tiles on the floor, while Olivia’s words flow over me like a tidal wave. I try not to listen too closely but I hear things like ‘stupid’, ‘unbelievable’, ‘incompetent’ and ‘lack of trust’.

‘You knew this clause was missing?’ she says at one point. ‘You’ve known all along, and you didn’t tell us?’

I nod, before I remember she can’t see me. ‘Um – yes.’

‘This is just – we could be within our rights
to dismiss you. Do you realise that?’

I say yes.

‘This is serious, Alice. I don’t think you realise just how serious it is.’

I apologise once more, but it just seems to set her off again. Her final words, which she hisses at me before she hangs up, are: ‘This manuscript had better be
outstanding
.’

The ringtone sounds really loudly in my ear. I put down my phone carefully; the battery is nearly
gone, so I plug it into its charger. For want of anything better to do I decide to get changed for dinner. I put on a green dress Marisa gave me: it’s very pretty, pistachio-green with a low neck. I think I’m still in shock; I just can’t bear to think of everything Olivia said to me and what’s going to happen next.
Very serious indeed. Dismissal
. I start putting on some eye makeup.
You’ve known all along and you didn’t tell us
. At least she said she
could
fire me. So that means she probably won’t. Hopefully. If I don’t do anything else wrong. I pile my hair up in a sort of French roll, which luckily works first time. I can hear the others arriving outside. Good. I need a drink.

TWENTY-THREE

I walk out on to the terrace, and I’m almost surprised to see everything looks normal: sun, swimming pool, sea, just as I left it. Except for Brian, the gang’s all here: even Annabel has graced us with her presence, and she’s brought Nikos with her. She seems to have gone for the Eurotrash look, with a white dress with tacky ripped cut-outs all down the side. Nikos is looking sleazy
in the tightest of tight white T-shirts, showing off his steroid arms – I can never understand how straight men think they don’t look ridiculous in those. I sit down opposite them, reluctantly, since there is an empty seat. After I’ve just been blasted by Olivia, Annabel should be easy enough to deal with.

‘You look exhausted, Alice,’ Annabel tells me in satisfied tones. ‘Sort of . . . washed
out. Or maybe it’s just that colour.’

Nope. Can’t deal. I get up again, and move around the table to get as far away as possible from them, ending up opposite Marisa.

‘
Carissima!
’ Marisa kisses me. ‘Good to see you. I hear you are making great progress and Luther’s working hard.’ She drops her voice. ‘What did I tell you? He just needed a firm hand.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I say. I pour her a
glass of wine, and then myself. I am not going to think about Olivia, or Luther,
or the trouble I’m in. I’m just going to drink this glass of wine.

Sam approaches the table next. He seems to hesitate over where to sit – there’s an empty seat beside Luther and opposite Federico – before sitting down beside me.

‘I just spoke to Dominique’s manager,’ he tells me. ‘Apparently Dominique is in Capri
right now, taking a few days’ vacation, so we can FedEx her a copy there and she might even have time to read it this week.’

For a second I almost forgot who Dominique is. ‘Oh, goody,’ I say. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’

‘Um . . . sure,’ he says, exchanging a slightly puzzled glance with Marisa.