The Out of Office Girl (4 page)

Have a good one. Have a good one? Have a
good
one?

I cannot believe Simon chose to break up with me with the phrase, ‘Have a good one.’ Simon wants to be a journalist, for God’s sake. Isn’t he meant to have a way with words? Couldn’t he have come up with something a little more appropriate? What does it even mean? Have a good what? Life? Rejection? ‘Can’t see you again I’m afraid.’ That
sounds as if he’s been taken to prison or something. He should be, for breach of relationship rules and common decency.

‘Maybe he means, kind of . . . go in peace,’ Ciara said cautiously when I showed her the text. ‘You know? Sort of, you’ll go your way, I’ll go mine, beautiful memories . . .’ She read the message again. ‘No, there’s no good way to spin this.’

‘Have a good one.’ I repeated.
I wanted to send him a text telling him exactly what I thought of him but Ciara said it was better not to. Two days later, on the plane, I’m still seething. I’d actually have preferred silence to a horrible, heartless, spineless text like that. I had no idea he could be such a pig. As well as being angry at Simon, I’m angry at myself. How could I have got it so wrong? I thought that, after all my
other disastrous relationships, this one was going to work out; but it was just another mirage.

At least I’ve had some distraction with the mad dash to get ready. After agonising over what to pack, I think I’ve managed it; some light shirts, shorts, sandals and a little black dress, in case we go out for dinner to talk about the book. Plus my swimsuit, as the villa has a pool: I plan to do some
lengths every morning, before we start work. Ruth was trying to persuade me to have a Fake Bake, but I’m not brave enough for fake tan. Anyway, it’s been too hectic. I’ve been in the office until eight every night for the last few days sorting everything out.

I didn’t manage to call my parents until last night. I was glad to have the good news about my work trip and possible promotion to distract
them from hearing about yet another failed romance. My dad kept talking about travel insurance and my mum asked me if Sicily was ‘safe’, which I told her I wasn’t even going to reply to. They both worry a lot – about me, that is. When Erica was twenty-six she was an associate in her law firm, was buying her first flat and was engaged to Raj. In contrast, I sometimes feel I haven’t got off the
starting-block.

I’ve also spoken to Olivia. In fact, she called from the hospital, right after she woke up from her procedure, to tell me it wasn’t her idea to send me at all.

‘I told Alasdair . . . to send Ellen . . . but he insisted,’ she rasped, her voice still hoarse from the operation. ‘He wants someone young and on . . . Luther’s wavelength.’

There was always the chance that she might
just have been delirious from the anaesthetic, but she sounded pretty lucid to me. It made me feel even less confident about going, and also somehow guilty. She sounded so feeble: it was as if some dying aunt had told me on her deathbed that she wished she hadn’t left me her favourite cameo brooch after all. But this is my big break, and I am determined to make it work.

What gives me hope is
that Luther has such an extraordinary story. I know some people think of him as a sort of pretty-boy action star, but I don’t think that’s right. I’ve read some really interesting and perceptive things he’s said in interviews, and I genuinely think he’s very talented. The scene I love so much in
Fever
, where they dance in silence, was apparently his idea. In any case, you don’t get the kind of
career he has without having a pretty good head on your shoulders.

So why on earth is Luther writing this book at all? It’s a very unusual move for someone who’s as big a star as him. It’s not as if he needs the money. I think there is more to this than meets the eye. Maybe it’s to do with his disappearance from the public eye for a year; maybe it’s something else, but there is definitely some
reason.

I get a little shock every time I remember: I’m actually going to meet him. Not just meet him: if everything goes well, I’m going to get to know him in the most intimate way possible – well, one of the most intimate ways. I’m going to talk to him about things he’s possibly never told anyone else, ever. With everything he’s been through, it’s not surprising he should want to look back,
reflect, talk to someone. And that person could be me.

And if that’s the case . . . I would die if anyone knew I was thinking this, but maybe, just maybe . . . something could happen. After all, actors fall for their PAs and their make-up artists all the time, because they’re the people who are closest to them. Why not their editor? I treat myself to a daydream about the two of us, after a hard
day working on the book, having a romantic dinner together, Luther confiding in me all about his life: ‘I’ve never been able to talk about this before . . .’ I’d have to go back to London, but we could go long-distance for a while. Then I’d move to LA and we’d live in a little house in Malibu – wherever
that is . . . I’m pretty sure there are literary agencies in LA where I could work . . . I
have a blissful vision of Simon opening up a magazine and having to read about my new celebrity romance, or seeing a picture of me and Luther and wishing he could have me back . . . but then I snap out of it. I couldn’t even keep Simon interested for longer than eight weeks: I’m certainly not going to end up with Luther Carson.

Bing-bong! It’s another bilingual announcement. We’re landing. I
can see Sicily: the coast with its lights, and the sea in darkness, and more darkness in the interior of the island. It’s my first time in Italy, and I’m excited. As is everyone else – people clap spontaneously when we land. The Italian girl beside me puts away her book and we start chatting. She’s been working in London but she’s thrilled to be home; in fact, when we finally step down from the plane,
she touches her fingers to the tarmac and kisses them joyfully. I’ve never seen this at Gatwick.

It’s ten o’clock at night and dark, but the air is still balmy. Entering the airport, I’m surprised to see lots of military-looking types swaggering around in light blue uniforms, brandishing sizeable weapons. Our bags take ages to arrive, and I have the usual fear that mine has got lost, though as
yet this has never actually happened.

Twenty minutes later, it has happened. There is, officially, no bag for me. An Italian family is also missing a buggy, and I tag along with them to enquire. The father rants and raves, but all we get is a long form to fill in. As the arguing reaches a crescendo around me (the father is gesturing at me, I think to illustrate some point about helpless foreigners
let down by Fontanarossa airport) I decide to postpone my meltdown. I will cope. Everything crucial is in my hand-luggage, including Luther’s manuscript and a jar of Marmite that Brian, the ghostwriter, has asked for. And at least it
means the queue for passport control has shortened, though my passport is checked very thoroughly, the guard’s eyes flicking up and down between me and my terrible
passport photo.

‘
Inglese
?’ he asks.

I can guess what he’s saying. ‘English, yes,’ I reply. He shrugs, as if to say, ‘Can’t be helped,’ and gives me back my passport.

‘
Grazie
,’ I say.

Emerging into arrivals, I feel like a giantess – the tallest person, as well as the palest, by a mile. Everywhere there are short, snappily dressed men and gorgeous women talking their heads off. There’s a lot
of bling: white jeans; designer T-shirts, and barely a flat shoe to be seen.

I look around for someone with a sign – I’ve organised a driver. I could have hired a car, but it’s expensive and I’m not totally confident about driving in Sicily. I don’t see anyone likely, though. Just as I’m wondering whether they’ve left, a tall man with brown hair, wearing glasses and a faded grey T-shirt that
says UCLA, steps forward.

‘Olivia?’ he says.

‘No, I’m Alice Roberts,’ I say. ‘I work with Olivia. Um . . . are you from Italicar?’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘No. I’m Sam Newland.’

Oh, God! It’s Luther’s monster uber-agent. I’ve seen some very scary emails from him. I had pictured him in his forties, but he can’t be that much older than me. What is he doing here? He’s meant to be in LA.

‘Oh, sorry.
I had no idea you’d be here.’

‘Clearly,’ says Sam. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, either.’

‘Well, Olivia’s unwell, so I’ve come instead.’ How does he not know this? I told him, or at least I told one of the entourage.

Sam is looking at me as if he’s ordered prime rib and
has just been served a steak tartare. I obviously look way too young to be handling Luther. Well, he’s not exactly an old-age pensioner
himself. He’s fairly good-looking in an identikit American way: tall, well-built and tanned, with perfect teeth and a square jaw. His only unusual features are his slanted grey eyes, which are slightly bloodshot. He doesn’t look like a Hollywood agent, more like a preppy college boy or a young banker let loose to play football on the weekend. Ruth would probably love him, but he is definitely
not my type.

Sam is tapping a foot and looks impatient to get going. ‘So are you good to go? Where’s your bag?’ he asks.

I explain, and before I can stop him or ask him what he means, he’s gone off to buttonhole an airport official in what sounds like rather fluent Italian. He gets no further than I did, which makes me feel relieved. It’s bad enough to lose my luggage and find he’s installed
himself here, without him instantly sorting out my travel disasters.

‘I did organise a car,’ I say as we head to the exit.

‘Yeah, I cancelled it.’ Sam is easily the tallest person in the airport, and I’m struggling to keep up with him as he strides along. ‘I wanted us to have a chat and get a couple things straight before you arrived.’

That sounds ominous. We arrive at a dusty little rental
Fiat – what, no Porsche? – and Sam opens my door for me before walking around to the driver’s seat, though I get the feeling this is done out of habit rather than any particular desire to charm me. As we get into the car, he takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes.

‘I haven’t been boozing, by the way,’ he says. ‘My eyes got a little bloodshot in the pool today.’

It’s nice to know he’s been enjoying
himself in the pool, but I wish I knew what he was doing here: not just at the airport but at the villa. And what does he want to talk to
me about? I thought I would have the drive to prepare myself for everything, instead of being plunged into it like this. I also realise, looking surreptitiously in the mirror, that I’m a mess; my hair is all over the place from dozing on the flight and I look
tired and tiny-eyed.

Before long we’re on a motorway. Sam has the air conditioning turned up full blast and I’m glad I still have my wrap. Maybe I can wear it as a kind of sarong tomorrow. Or maybe there will be some curtains at the villa that I can convert into dresses, like in
The Sound of Music
. I keep thinking of important things that were in my luggage – like my medicine bag; swimsuit; my
phone charger and, oh no, my huge bottle of Factor 45 suntan lotion. Like Miley Cyrus, I have literally hopped off the plane with a dream and a cardigan, except that in my case it’s a dream and a pashmina.

‘Is the villa nice?’ I ask, trying to make small talk. We’re paying for the villa, but Team Luther chose it.

‘Sure,’ says Sam. ‘Luther wanted someplace quiet after Rome and he asked me to
pick a spot. He was thinking Sardinia, but that’s too much of a party island – we’ll be more private here.’

He might not have finished charm school, but he obviously has a lot of influence with Luther. I’d better get him onside.

‘Where did you learn to speak such good Italian?’

‘I spent some time here at one point,’ he says, in a tone that doesn’t invite any more questions. I’m trying to think
of some more subtle enquiries, when he beats me to it, launching into a series of interrogations.

‘So . . . what exactly did you say was wrong with Olivia?’

I explain about the double hernia.

‘Right,’ he says, sounding as if he thinks she should have pulled herself together, popped a few aspirins and got on
the plane. ‘Why didn’t she let me know you were coming in her place?’

‘Didn’t Brian
mention it?’

‘No, he just said that Luther’s editor was coming. Which I understood was Olivia.’ There’s a loaded pause. ‘You’re the out of office girl, aren’t you?’ he says abruptly.

‘What?’

‘I mean, you’re the person who’s named on her out of office email.’

‘Oh. Yes.’ Shit. Shit. Now he knows I’m her assistant. ‘Yes. I . . . I work very closely with her.’ I hope that sounds sufficiently vague.

‘Right,’ he says again. ‘Well, whatever. You’re here now.’

And it’s lovely to meet you too
, I think.

‘The thing is, though, there really wasn’t any need for you to come,’ Sam continues. ‘Luther is already working with Brian. And he’s delivered a perfectly good book. They’re just polishing it.’

‘Well –’ This really isn’t the way I wanted to bring this up. ‘It needs a little more work, to be
honest. We just need some more personal detail to bring it alive. If I’m here with Luther, it means I can work with him more closely.’

‘But we never intended for this to be some kind of kiss-and-tell. Even if Luther did have any skeletons in his closet, which he doesn’t, by the way, he’s a pretty private guy and he wouldn’t be comfortable sharing.’

We’re off the motorway now and winding around
some hairpin bends; mountains tower on our left and I can see the sea and some steep cliff edges, a little too close for comfort, on the right.

‘Well, we don’t want this to be a kiss-and-tell either.’ Oh dear. Should I have said that? ‘But it does need to have more life than it does at the moment – and he needs to give us more on things like his relationship with his father,
and rehab . . . it
doesn’t have to be salacious.’
Although salacious would be great
. ‘Luther does have a great story. And I presume he wants to tell it, or he wouldn’t have signed up for it.’

I look at Sam, whose eyes are fixed on the road. I’m feeling sick from nerves; or it could be all the bends.