The Out of Office Girl (6 page)

‘Alice’s luggage got lost on her flight,’ Sam tells Annabel. ‘Can you lend her some clothes?’

I look at him, surprised. That’s unexpectedly helpful of him.

‘I can
try
,’ says Annabel. ‘If I have anything big enough. But Luther, are we going on Federico’s yacht? Or do you have to do boring book stuff now?’ She looks at Luther with a sad face, pouting.

‘Hey, yeah,’
Luther says. ‘Let’s do that. Alice, my buddy Federico has a beautiful yacht, a Sunseeker – you like boats? He’s going to call in at our bay this morning, and we thought we’d take a little cruise, maybe round the headland as far as Lipari . . .’

‘Oh!’ I say. ‘But weren’t we—’

‘As far as Lipari?’ says Sam. ‘That’s over a hundred miles.’

‘A hundred bucks,’ Luther says immediately. ‘No, a hundred
euros. A euro a mile. That baby can go, dude.’

‘Whatever,’ laughs Sam. ‘I’ll swim there. Race you.’

With all this banter, we seem to be forgetting something: the book? I’m worried that a word from Annabel has made
Luther forget our plan for today, but I don’t see how I can tell him to cancel his friend’s yacht. Well, we’re getting on, so maybe I should just build on that. Then, when he’s in
a more receptive mood, I can coax him into some work.

Also: it is incredibly hot. It’s not even 10 a.m., and it must be nearly thirty degrees. I don’t think we would get much done if we stayed baking here. On a yacht, we’d at least get some air, and I could get to know Luther a bit better.

Annabel has been examining me closely while this conversation has been going on.

‘So, Alison, you’re an
editor,’ she says in her most patronising tones. ‘Does that mean you just sit around and read all day?’

‘It’s Alice,’ I say. ‘No, I have to—’

‘I love reading,’ says Annabel. ‘I was in
The Tudors
. But I get so many scripts to read, I don’t have time to read books.’

I’m confused. Does she think
The Tudors
is a book?

‘Oh, good morning, Alice,’ says a voice behind me.

I never thought I’d be so
happy to see Brian Reynolds, the ghostwriter, who is now shuffling towards us, looking as if he hasn’t slept in days. With his pink face, bald head and glasses, he is reassuringly familiar. It’s nice to have someone around who doesn’t look like a model. He responds to Luther’s high-five with a weak pat, and sits down heavily.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Brian says, and starts tucking methodically
into his breakfast – Maria Santa brings him tea. Brian enquires after Olivia, but I don’t go into huge detail – not that this lot cares what we’re saying. Annabel is talking to Luther in a low voice, very rudely, I think, and Sam is absorbed in his BlackBerry. Brian looks exhausted, and I notice he doesn’t seem especially thrilled to see Luther. I wonder, with Luther so charming, what on earth can
be going on with the book.

‘Brian, I’ve got those papers for you that you wanted,’ I say. ‘Do you want to come inside, and we can look over them?’

The others look at me, and I feel like a nerd. Annabel smirks; Sam looks watchful. Luther alone looks totally unconcerned. Brian, though, bless him, is already on his feet and coming with me.

‘See you all shortly,’ I say with a smile, and hurry off.

Inside, Brian and I find a corner of the big reception room, which is full of beautiful abstract art, with a low coffee table made of brown mosaic and thick red and blue rag carpets on the stone-tiled floors. We sit on an immaculate white sofa.

‘So, how’s it going?’ I ask. ‘He seems very nice and normal – is he just not being co-operative?’

‘Not really,’ he says. ‘I’m worn out. He talks a good
talk, but whenever we actually sit down to do any work, which isn’t very often, it’s like catching quicksilver. He’s very charming, and he chats away, but it’s impossible to pin him down on anything personal.’

‘But why not?’

‘I just don’t know.’ Brian looks despondent. ‘Maybe he’s in denial about the fact that he is actually doing the book. Or maybe he thinks I’m not an interesting enough audience.
I can’t get a handle on him, which doesn’t often happen. And his agent’s been a nightmare. He keeps sitting in on our interviews, interfering, trying to censor everything we talk about – it’s been very intrusive.’

‘I can imagine,’ I say. ‘Look, don’t worry. I’ll talk to Luther. We seem to be getting on so far, and I’m sure now that I’m here, he’ll realise it’s a real project and buckle down more.
It doesn’t look like he has any time this morning, but I’ll have a word with him later on.’

I remember about Brian’s Marmite and go back to my room and present him with it; he goes off to show it to Maria Santa and to make a phone call. I’m about to head back out to the terrace to do some more bonding with Luther when Annabel floats in, presumably on her way back to her room. And I remember:
I have nothing to wear on Federico’s yacht – or indeed, anywhere else.

I ask her again, very reluctantly, about borrowing some clothes, and to my surprise she’s suddenly all smiles. ‘Of course! Come with me.’

Where is she going to take me? She’d better not be sharing a room with Luther. But there’s no sign of anyone male in her room, which is bigger than mine with the same view of the sea. Instead,
it’s like a girl bomb has exploded: brushes, tubes, lotions, hair straighteners, giant rollers and huge professional-looking make-up cases are crammed on to every surface and all across the floor. A big full-length mirror is propped awkwardly in one corner – it looks as if it’s been taken from some other room in the house. Piles of colourful clothes are also strewn around, falling out of every
shelf and hanging in the wardrobe. If she wanted to, she could probably have an entire fashion show here.

Annabel roots around, and produces what looks, at first, like a bikini, but what I then realise is a swimsuit: one of those scary ones that plunge right to the navel with huge cut-outs at the side. It’s a neon lime-green colour that would look fantastic on someone very skinny with a tan,
and I absolutely know, without even trying it on, that it will look horrendous on me, with my pale skin and chunky thighs.

‘Now this is cute! The straps are adjustable, so it
should
fit,’ she says, sounding dubious.

‘Thanks,’ I say helplessly.

‘No problem!’ She turns away and sits down at her
dressing table, and starts slapping on some expensive-looking lotion.

‘Um . . .’ I hate to ask her
another favour, but for the moment I don’t see the alternative. ‘I don’t suppose you could lend me – a T-shirt or something? Just to have something spare, until I can sort out getting my suitcase back, or buy something . . .’

‘Oh.’ She gets up reluctantly. ‘Oh, dear, oh dear.’ She sighs and flicks through some rails. ‘I’m not too sure what I have that will fit you . . .’

Is she for real? We’re
not
that
different in size, surely. I have never met anyone as breathtakingly rude in real life – not since my all-girls school, anyway.

‘You
could
try this . . . it’s elasticated so it might work.’ She hands me a wrinkled linen knee-length brown dress, with cap sleeves and a white frill around the neck. It’s pretty hideous, but the look in her eyes tells me there’s not going to be anything else
on offer.

‘Thanks,’ I say. And then I remember about my Factor 45; that’s the only thing I definitely can’t do without. ‘I hate to be a pain, but do you have any spare suntan lotion? Don’t worry if you don’t . . .’

‘No,’ says Annabel. ‘I mean, I have this Sisley stuff but it’s extremely expensive.’ She just looks at me as if no further explanation is needed. Which it isn’t.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll
manage. Thanks again,’ and I make an exit.

What a cow. I know it must be annoying to have a stranger ask to borrow things, but still. Thankfully, Brian has some waterproof Factor 50 for kids. It’s very white and gloopy, and difficult to rub in, but at least I won’t get burned. He won’t need it, he says, because he’s not going on the yacht.

‘I don’t want to get sunburnt again,’ he says. ‘My head
got burnt the other day and it was terrible. I am going to
reread this draft, and see if there is anything remotely salvageable in it. Could we just make it all up, Alice, do you think?’

I leave him setting up his laptop in the shade, under the canopy. Maria Santa has brought him more tea and some little lemon biscuits, and I’m consoled to think that, even if he is having a terrible time, he
has a nice place to have it in.

I stand for a minute on the terrace, drinking in the scenery. It’s like being on the prow of a ship. I’ve never seen anything so blue. To the left I can see a town high up on the cliff-top – that must be Taormina. In the terraced garden below, I can see chickens scratching among the olive and lemon trees. Aside from the chickens clucking, the only noise is the
hypnotic sound of the sea. I’m picturing how lovely it will be on the yacht when I remember, to my horror, that I still need to ring Poppy and find out about the clause. I hurry back to my bedroom and close the door and the window so nobody can hear me: I can just picture Sam lurking outside in the bushes.

Thankfully, Poppy answers her phone after a few rings.

‘Alice!’ she says. ‘Ciao, bella!
How is Italy? What’s going on? It is such a miserable rainy day here! You’re so lucky to be—’

I’ve just noticed I only have one bar of battery left, so I cut her short.

‘Poppy. I think I’m having a disaster. I need you to check something for me . . .’ I explain as quickly as I can. Poppy says, ‘Give me five minutes. I’ll go and look.’

As I wait for her to get back to me, I fan myself with my
passport. It’s a little cooler inside, but I’m still melting. I’d love a dip, but can I really brave Annabel’s neon horror suit? I think longingly of my faithful black M&S swimsuit, which is now having a holiday of its own somewhere . . . But then I reproach myself. This isn’t a holiday. If this clause
is missing, I’ll have a lot more to worry about than unflattering beach wear.

‘OK, I’m back,’
says Poppy. ‘Look, it’s not there.’

‘What’s not there – the contract?’

‘No. The clause. I’ve read it through twice. I’m sorry.’

I close my eyes and sit down heavily on the bed. I knew it. I remember now. Olivia emailed me at the last minute, asking me to do a whole load of things and at the very end was the clause. And I
forgot
.

‘Alice? Are you still there?’

‘Just about.’

‘Look, it’s not
necessarily the end of the world. He could end up telling you about these things in the clause anyway.’

‘But he doesn’t have to. It means we can’t hold it over him as a threat. And if the book goes wrong we have no legal redress, and it will be my fault and I’ll be fired.’ I feel so sick, I can barely talk.

‘You won’t be fired. People make mistakes. It’s not ideal but it happens. I think you
should just tell Olivia, or Alasdair, so then at least they know, and they’re prepared if there’s a hitch.’

I knew she was going to say this. Poppy is so straightforward. I don’t know if she’s confident because she’s straightforward, or straightforward because she’s confident, but she’s both, and the truth is I’m neither.

‘I can’t.’ I add miserably, ‘Olivia already thinks I’m not up to it.’

‘What?’

I hadn’t planned on telling her about my deathbed conversation with Olivia, but it all comes out.

‘Well, that’s Olivia for you,’ Poppy says bluntly. ‘She’s not exactly supportive. Look, you won’t get Luther’s story out of him with legal threats anyway. You’ll just have to get him onside another way.’

‘I suppose,’ I say unhappily. ‘Listen, I’d better go. We’re about to go on the yacht
and I think everyone’s waiting for me.’

‘There you go! You’re already bonding with him. Just be your charming self and get to know him properly, and you’ll have him eating out of your hand.’

My despair gets even worse once I climb into Annabel’s horror suit. It looks every bit as horrific as I’d imagined; the green colour makes me look like a plague victim and I’m falling out of it, too: the
straps give me a hideous side cleavage. Maybe I should just wear the linen dress instead? Unable to decide, I get back into my own clothes, and go back to the terrace to try and calm myself down by admiring the view.

‘Did Annabel lend you something to wear?’ a voice behind me asks.

It’s Sam. Looming behind him is a huge, snow-capped mountain, seemingly right behind the house, though I know it’s
miles away. This must be Mount Etna: I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it before. It looks sort of ominous, actually.

‘Oh – yes. I mean – she did, but I think I’ll still try and get my bag back.’

‘Don’t bother. It’s probably halfway to Beijing by now. You should just borrow more stuff from her; she arrived with about eight suitcases.’

I can tell he doesn’t like her either, but I don’t care.
Why this sudden interest in my clothes? I’m not a child. I can look after my own wardrobe, for God’s sake.

‘It’s fine. I don’t need a huge wardrobe to edit Luther’s book,’ I say shortly.

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But if you get tired of wearing your pyjamas all day, let me know.’ And he walks off.

I no longer think he’s being helpful about my clothes:
he is
horrible
. Do my trousers really look like
pyjamas? I thought they were fairly smart, but then I didn’t envisage them having to last for the entire trip. I suddenly wish I was here with Simon, on a romantic holiday instead of on a stressful work trip. But before I go into another slump over Simon, I remind myself: I’m about to go on a yacht with Luther Carson! I’m not going to let a hitch with the contract, or his nasty agent, stop me from
getting to know him.

SIX

‘. . . So I don’t know if you knew this, but it came down to me or – guess who? Rosamund Pike. And the director doesn’t like Rosamund Pike. He hates her! He thinks she’s awful! He can’t stand her! But he was forced to have her because she’s a big name. He would have much preferred me though. It’s a real shame for him.’