The Out of Office Girl (28 page)

The water is heavenly. I’m a pretty strong swimmer, but I don’t always like swimming too far out in a sea I don’t know. With Sam beside me, though, I feel more adventurous than usual, and we make it all the way to the headland and back.

After we get out, we lie on the beach for a while to get dry. Sam forgot to bring a towel,
so I hand him my wrap.

‘But I’ll get it all sandy.’

I shrug. ‘It’s so hot, it’ll dry.’

‘It is true what they say about British girls. You are easy-going. I mean, not easy,’ he adds hastily. ‘Easy-going.’

As he lies down beside me, I close my eyes. I can hear the sound of the waves, and I can feel him beside me, close enough so that I could reach out my hand and touch him. I have the feeling
that he’s waiting for my cue, and if I gave him a sign, he would kiss me. I would, but should I? We should probably get back soon, but I never want this day to end.

‘What are you thinking about?’ he asks.

I laugh. ‘I thought only women asked that question.’

‘Not necessarily. I’m pretty nosy.’ He’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at me.

‘I was thinking how nice this is,’ I tell him truthfully.
‘I feel so relaxed.’

‘Would you like to take the rest of the day off? Go somewhere after this and have dinner with me?’

I squint up at him, shading my eyes from the sun.

‘Do you think Luther will mind?’ I say reluctantly. Then, to clarify, I add, ‘I mean, if we’re not back?’

He doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head.

‘Then yes. I’d love to.’ Seeing the pleasure on his face makes me feel
like a million dollars.

‘Great.’ He throws himself back on my wrap with a sigh. ‘Now I can relax,’ he adds almost to himself. Smiling, I close my eyes again and just lie there, basking in the sun, feeling incredibly happy.

‘Hey,’ Sam says. ‘You’re going to burn if you’re not careful.’

‘Really?’ I open my eyes to find he’s rummaging in my bag for my suntan lotion.

‘Roll over,’ he says.

‘Is
that how you normally talk to girls?’ I say, obeying.

‘Only if they’re very pretty.’

It’s not the smoothest line ever, but it makes me smile. This is what I love about Sam. Luther splashes his charm around indiscriminately, and it doesn’t mean a whole lot. I think Sam is just as charming, but it’s genuine, and you have to know him for him to turn it on. I like that: it feels as if it’s just
for me. I don’t know if Ruth or Poppy would necessarily see what I see in him, or why I prefer him to Luther, but it doesn’t matter. I can see it.

As his hands move over my back, shoulders and neck, I close my eyes and surrender to the feeling. Oh, God, those hands . . . I’m suddenly reminded of my first day, when we went swimming off the yacht and I accidentally flashed
Sam, thanks to that crazy
swimsuit.

‘Now what are you laughing at?’ he asks. ‘Ah, yes. I remember,’ he says, when I tell him.

I roll over and look up at him. ‘You looked completely horrified.’

‘Well. Not completely . . .’

I pretend to swat him, he grabs my hand, and there on the empty beach, we start kissing again. It’s not in the pounding surf, like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in
From Here to Eternity
, but it’s
still wonderful.

Later, we drive to a little town curled around a blue bay like a white cat dozing in the sun, with winding streets climbing up a hill and small houses glowing gold, orange and pink in the setting sun. We have a glass of prosecco in the main square, where children are running riot and screaming while their families stroll around and old men sit and nurse one glass of cognac for
hours. It’s so much fun just sitting and watching everybody. At one point, three very well-dressed young men nearby become embroiled in what sounds like a dreadful argument, complete with wild gesticulations: hands clasped in prayer, fists shaking, gesturing to the sky. One of them is giving the most incredibly impassioned speech I’ve ever heard in my life, and I wish I could understand: it must
be about religion or politics, or some terrible family feud at the very least.

‘What on earth are they talking about?’ I murmur.

‘Football,’ Sam says.

After a while, as the sun begins to go down, we walk a little way up the hill and we find a little restaurant with whitewashed walls and stone tiles and one fatherly-looking waiter with a big shock of white hair. The waiter shows us to a little
table in a back alcove, which he indicates with a
flourish, and then pulls out my chair for me. The whole place is done out so sweetly – there are all these braided mats, just like the one in Marisa’s house, on the floor, and there are little wooden carvings of sheaves of wheat on the walls. But it’s empty.

‘Oh no,’ I say involuntarily.

‘What?’ asks Sam, looking concerned.

‘Just – it’s so lovely,
but we’re the only people here. I hope they’re not struggling for customers.’

‘No, it’s just pretty early by local standards. People won’t be eating for at least another half-hour.’

‘Oh,’ I say, relieved. I hate seeing nice places do badly. I can’t explain why but it makes me almost feel like crying. It’s worse when they do cute things, like drawing pictures on the specials boards, or putting
flowers on the table, or folding menus into glasses. In fact, even when a place is thriving, these things can make me feel melancholy.

‘That’s a very intense reaction,’ says Sam, when I tell him. ‘I know what you mean, though. I feel the same way about pet stores. There’s one near my apartment that had a sign recently saying, “Puppies at fifty per cent off”. Can you imagine? I almost bought the
lot of them.’

There aren’t any menus. Sam talks to the waiter and finds that they can offer us either pasta followed by fish – he’s not sure which fish – or pasta followed by lamb. I opt for lamb. The food, when it arrives, is absolutely spectacular – a melting pasta dish with aubergine and ricotta, followed by the thinnest slivers of lamb, with baby courgettes and tiny roast potatoes. We wash
it down with thin, sweet red wine – Sam insisted that we should have red because I’m having lamb, even though he’s having fish.

‘It’s fun to eat dinner with people who actually eat,’ he remarks. ‘No one eats in LA. Except sushi. Sushi is very big.’

‘You never told me why you speak such good Italian.’

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’

‘Mob connections?’ I ask
in a low voice.

‘No. I was a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.’

‘You are joking.’

‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you the short version. My family live in Colorado right now, but I actually grew up in Salt Lake City, Utah, which has a big Mormon population. My parents aren’t super-observant – they certainly didn’t expect me to do a mission. But, after I messed
up my knee and left UCLA I was feeling very lost. I went home for a while, and I decided to do my mission. I got assigned Italy, had intensive training in Italian, and got sent to northern Italy.’

‘Gosh.’ What else can I say? ‘How long did you spend there?’

‘It was meant to be two years, but I only did eleven months. My dad got very sick, so I came home early.’

‘Oh, no. What happened?’

‘He
had a heart attack and he had to have several operations. He’s a doctor, which almost makes it worse, because he knew exactly how serious it was. They didn’t tell me at first, but when I finally found out – I can remember exactly where I was. I was at a public payphone near the Piazza dei Signori in Vicenza, in my suit and everything. I just walked straight back to our apartment, got my bag and left
for the airport.’

‘Did you get in trouble?’

‘Sure. But I didn’t care. Things were such a mess at home. My little brother was having a hard time for various reasons, my sister was going off the rails, and my mom was struggling with everything. I felt really guilty for being away, and
I sort of threw myself into things, trying to look after everyone. I probably ended up driving them crazy. But
it was the right thing to do. There was no way I wanted to be over on the other side of the world if people needed me at home.’

‘Is your father OK now?’

‘Yes, he’s fine. Thanks. And the mission wasn’t a bad experience in a lot of ways. Spending a year trying to convert devout Catholics is pretty good preparation for selling stuff in Hollywood. Plus I got to live in Italy. My paternal grandfather
was from northern Italy, near Venice, so I had a feeling at the time that it was a sign.’ He shrugs. ‘Now I just think it’s a coincidence.’

‘Your paternal grandfather? But what about your surname?’

‘It was Terranova, which means “new land”. He changed it to Newland when he came to the States. What are you thinking, with that expression?’

‘I was just thinking how everybody I meet these days
seems to have had a complicated past, unlike me.’

‘Really?’ says Sam. ‘Nothing? Come on, you’ve got to have some dark secrets. I’ve just told you my crazy story. It’s your turn.’

‘Nothing as dramatic as yours,’ I say. But I find myself telling him about secondary school, and about the girls who bullied me for four years, before I made friends with Ruth – my first friend since primary school.
Actually, Ruth and I bonded over our crush on Luther, but I don’t mention that.

‘What did they do?’ he asks gently.

I just give him edited highlights of the less awful parts; how one game was to hide my shoes, because they thought it was hilarious that I wore size eight, and how they used to call me names.

‘What names?’

‘Oh . . .’ I’m going red. I have literally never, ever told a man this.
‘White Rabbit, because I had braces. Also Big Bird.’

‘Are you serious? Those are the lamest nicknames ever,’ Sam says. ‘Couldn’t they come up with anything better?’

‘I know. Compared to what girls today probably get called, it almost sounds affectionate, doesn’t it?’ I don’t know why it’s never occurred to me before how ridiculous that part of it was. He’s laughing, which makes me start laughing
too. I’ve never been able to laugh about it before. It’s a good feeling.

For the rest of the meal we chat about other random things. I don’t want to talk about work in any detail but, for some reason, I tell him about Poppy and Claudine, and their tussle over the manuscript.

‘She sounds like one to watch,’ he says. ‘Pushy and ruthless. It’s an effective combination. Don’t make her your assistant,
whatever you do.’

‘Yes,’ I say. Shit. I feel dishonest not telling him that I
am
an assistant, but it’s too late now. The thought of Olivia and my disastrous mistake crosses over me like a dark cloud, but I put it out of my mind. I’m determined to enjoy every second of this day with Sam. We talk about our birthdays and our ages. Sam is twenty-eight – the perfect age. He’s too polite to ask me
how old I am, but I tell him I’m twenty-six. Then we talk about films again, and I tell him how much I loved
Fever
when it first came out.

‘You certainly know your dance movies,’ he says. ‘Have you ever taken classes?’

I’m about to tell him I can’t dance, when I remember that’s not true – I did dance, with Luther.

‘No, I’ve never got round to it,’ I admit. ‘But I would like to. Maybe some day.’

We finished eating a while ago, but the waiter has tactfully let us linger. After he finally clears our plates, he brings
us over two little glasses with a bright yellow liqueur. He says something very charming-sounding, beams at us and waddles away. The liqueur is ice-cold and tastes intense and sweet.

‘It’s delicious. I normally hate liqueurs but this is great. What is it?’

‘Limoncello,’ he
says. ‘You get it everywhere in Italy. This was on the house.’

‘Oh, how sweet. What was he saying about it?’

‘It’s hard to translate, but something like “A golden drink for a golden, beautiful girl”.’ He smiles at me. I’m about to make a joke about how that would never happen in London, but I decide not to.

We’re the last people to leave the restaurant, and we were the first to arrive. Sam
insists on paying, and I let him.

‘You can pay for our next dinner,’ he says, which makes my heart leap.

As we stroll down through the town, I wonder what exactly he meant by that. I’m really glad he thinks we’re going to have dinner again. But when, and where? The book is nearly finished; I’ll be going home soon. He did say that he was coming to the Venice film festival in September. Perhaps
he could stop off in London en route? Or – or I could go to Venice with him? I wish I could ask him, but I don’t want to crowd him. It’s probably better to play it cool.

We’re heading down a flight of little winding steps towards the main square, when we pass a gorgeous girl with long dark brown hair and huge brown eyes, wearing a long white cotton dress that shows off her astonishing figure
– the kind of girl who would turn every head in London. Sam glances at her, and she gives him a look of distinct interest back.

He’s busy telling me some story about something that
happened to him and Luther at the Oscars this year. I can’t concentrate, though. Was he looking at that girl? If he was, I couldn’t blame him. She was gorgeous. Is it my imagination, or is he being a little distant?
He’s not holding my hand or anything. I’m suddenly paranoid that he’s pulling back.
Stop it
, I tell myself,
you’re being crazy
. But I can’t shake the feeling. Why is he talking about the Oscars, anyway? Is he trying to remind me not-so-subtly that we have different lives and that he lives on the other side of the world?

We’re walking through the square, which is now full of kids running around
and beautiful men and women catwalking up and down. Right now, with me dressed up and with a tan, and Sam wearing a T-shirt, we probably look like a normal couple on holiday. But we’re not. In real life, Sam is a Hollywood agent, who can have any woman he wants, and I’m a scruffy assistant who never has any luck with men. Even if he did decide that he wanted to see me again, I would never be able
to afford to visit him, or keep up with him when I got there. He knows Sienna Miller, for God’s sake. When he says I can pay for our next dinner, he probably doesn’t mean Pizza Express. I think of showing him my bedroom with my home-made cardboard squares, and shudder.