The Out of Office Girl (7 page)

As I listen to Annabel ranting on, it occurs to me that things would be
much easier if we were doing
her
life story: she’s certainly very ready with information.

This yacht really is something. I’ve never known what all the fuss about yachts is, but this is wonderful. We’re going fast, but you can’t tell – it’s so smooth, it’s almost like flying. The coast looks so beautiful and green from here, and the sea is intensely blue, except where it’s foaming white behind
us. The only thing that’s letting down the perfect scene is me.

I decided not to wear the scratchy linen dress, which felt a bit like a hair shirt. Instead I’ve thrown yesterday’s navy T-shirt on over the lime-green horror suit. Annabel, of course, looks sensational in a turquoise and blue bikini, with her hair in a cute turban. This suit is so indecent I have to stay covered up in my T-shirt,
probably looking like an Amish schoolgirl, with my white legs providing a lovely
contrast for Annabel’s tanned, smooth limbs. To add the finishing touch to my outfit, I’m carrying my handbag with the scratchy dress tucked inside it just in case. Annabel of course has a beautiful striped cotton beach bag.

Our host, Federico, is also extremely elegant in a natty orange polo shirt and shorts. He
is about Luther’s age or a little older, and handsome in a kind of cartoon-hero way, with crisp curly black hair and bright blue eyes, and friendly enough, but with a strangely blank expression. When he and I were introduced he looked at me in a puzzled way as if he wasn’t sure what I was doing there.

‘This is Alison,’ Annabel told him. ‘She wants Luther to write a book.’

‘It’s Alice, actually.
Hello,’ I put out my hand. As he shook it, he looked me up and down and I could tell he was wondering where on earth Luther found me. As far as I can make out, he and his wife are friendly with Sam and Luther, but how or why I don’t yet know.

Federico and Sam are now doing something manly with ropes towards the front of the boat. Luther and Annabel are lounging on the white sofa area below me,
drinking champagne. She’s putting her hand on his arm and laughing away at something he’s said.

I’ve crept away to the top deck to get a few moments alone just lying in the sun. I had hoped to talk to Luther some more, but Annabel kept bringing the conversation back to
Roman Holiday
and also some independent film she’s been in. I get the impression she wants Luther to do something to help the
film out. Sitting there with the two of them, I felt like a lime-green gooseberry. I just keep telling myself this is only a temporary hiccup, and I will get to talk to Luther properly at some stage. I decide to get some sun, horror suit and all, and take off my T-shirt.

I’ve had my eyes closed for what feels like about five
minutes, when a shadow falls across me. I look up; it’s Luther. Every
time I see him, it’s as if reality bends and I have to get used to him all over again. He’s carrying two champagne flutes – chilled from the fridge – and a bottle of Moët. It’s like a daydream. My first reaction is embarrassment that he’s found me skulking up here – but of course, I’m thrilled, flattered, and amazed that he’s tracked me down. I bet Annabel’s not pleased.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Can
I pour you a drink?’

He sits down gracefully beside me, one knee propped up, the other leg stretched in front of him, and leans against the little cabin wall behind us. He looks even better with his clothes on, if possible: frayed white knee-length denim shorts and a faded blue Penguin shirt. Even his bare feet are beautiful. Most men’s feet are not their best feature, but Luther’s are lovely.
I’m suddenly abashed again when I compare his lean, bronzed limbs to my pallid body. Why didn’t I get a pedicure, like Ruth suggested? I discreetly put the T-shirt back on, pulling it down over my thighs.

‘So what brings you up here?’ he asks. ‘Were you maxed out on movie talk?’

‘Not at all.’ I don’t want to sound rude. ‘I’m just enjoying the view.’

‘It’s so peaceful after Rome. It was a tough
shoot.’ He closes his eyes briefly. ‘I mean it’s a fun romantic comedy, but you’re doing it in the shadow of a huge classic. And there were some restrictions on the locations, so we had to shoot at odd hours – it was pretty exhausting.’

‘Oh, gosh, of course. Did you – think it went well?’ I feel uncertain asking him about his craft.

‘I hope so. She’s a tough director, though. Sometimes, in the
bigger scenes, we’d have to do thirty takes one after the other, without being told why, and then sometimes when it was just me and Natasha, she’d only let us have one.’

I nod, thinking I’ll have to get a handle on all this acting talk if I’m to bond with him.

‘And it’s been kind of non-stop – a couple of other people from the cast were here last weekend, and with Annabel still here, it’s almost
like I’m still on set.’

‘Oh! So there was a group of you?’ I’m pleased to know that Annabel didn’t get a special invitation.

‘Yeah, Annabel’s stayed on. She’s a good kid. I like British girls.’ He glances at me, half smiling. Wow. Is he flirting with me? I must just be imagining it.

‘Anyway, we had fun. There were some dance scenes; that was interesting to do. It’s a while since I did any of
those.’

‘Of course! I know! I loved you in
Fever
,’ I say sincerely. ‘I am such a big fan of dance movies, and I think it’s one of the best. You were amazing in it.’

He looks very pleased.

‘Yeah?’ he says. ‘Thanks.’

‘There are such great social undercurrents in it. Like, when all the couples are lining up after the formal dance, and the principal won’t shake your hand . . . that was so moving,
and such a terrible indictment of society in those days.’ I shake my head, realising, as I do, that the champagne is going to my head.

‘It’s interesting you should say that. You know, something a lot like that happened to me in high school,’ he says.

‘Really?’ I’m enthralled. This is more like it: personal reminiscences! I sit up, and tuck my legs under me, tugging the hem of the suit down as
I do.

‘Yeah. I had this real ass of a principal . . . I was going to be in the school play, which was
Our Town
, and the week before I got busted with a buddy who had some weed on him. We weren’t even on school property – we were just outside in his car. But anyway, we got caught – I didn’t have anything on me but they claimed he was selling it to me.
There was a huge row and the principal – Mr
Spelling, can you believe that was his name – wanted me suspended and out of the play.’

‘What happened?’

‘The drama teacher said it was impossible because there wasn’t an understudy, so he let me be in the play. But, if you’ll believe this, he wouldn’t let me take the curtain call.’

‘No!’

‘Sure thing. The rest of the cast came out and took their bow and everything, but I had to stay backstage
in the naughty corner.’ He swigs some champagne. ‘I didn’t give a damn but my mom and grandma were in the audience, and I felt bad for them. People were talking about me and what happened, this nosy neighbour lady gave them a hard time . . . it was such bullshit.’

‘So what were you doing while they were taking their bows?’

He grins. ‘I was backstage getting high!’

I can’t help laughing at this;
the champagne makes it seem even funnier. I’m thrilled that he’s already talking about two of the things in the contents clause: drugs and childhood – sort of. That could be Chapter One, in fact – though we’d have to change the principal’s name, of course. We’re still laughing when Sam emerges on to our deck.

Somehow, what with the champagne and my state of undress, I feel like we’ve been caught
doing something illicit. But after a quick glance at us, all he says is, ‘Hey, Luther. I talked to Paula and they’re sending over the
Fur Coat Blues
script.’

‘Yeah?’ says Luther. ‘I don’t know, man. It sounds so weird.’

‘I think you should read it. I’ll let you know when it’s here,’ says Sam, and disappears. God, he’s bossy. Does Luther just let him talk to him like that?

‘Sam is a great guy,’
says Luther soberly, once he’s gone. ‘He’s saved my ass so many times. And he got me
Roman Holiday
which is a terrific part. If you decide to move to Hollywood and break into movies, Alice, make sure he’s your agent.’ He raises his glass in Sam’s direction, then clinks it with mine.

‘I don’t think I will,’ I say. ‘Move to Hollywood, I mean.’ The champagne doesn’t seem to be helping my repartee.

‘It’s hard to get in with the real agents,’ Luther says. ‘A lot of kids coming to Hollywood end up with crappy managers instead. They just set up from their bedrooms. They’re not allowed to find work for you, but they all do. Some of them take huge percentages on crummy jobs they didn’t even get for you, charge you for headshots – some of them are basically just pimps.’

Wow. I’m not sure what
to say to that, so I just nod, thinking how unbelievably handsome he looks, frowning, with his hair ruffling in the wind, and the sea behind him. I decide to try and turn the conversation back to him, do a little gentle probing.

‘So . . . who was your agent, when you did
Fever
?’

He shrugs. ‘I didn’t have one. My mom found me a lawyer who read the contract – though I doubt he knew what the hell
he was doing, because all he mostly did was fake insurance claims. And we signed it. That was it. It seems incredible now, when I look back. The truth is I was lucky.’

‘It must have been exciting.’

‘Yeah, it was great. But I’m at the stage now where I do need a team. You know, I hate that whole Hollywood circus thing. I’m not one of those people who’s like, this is my manager, this is my manager’s
manager, these are my seven agents . . .’ He pauses, looking at me and I nod.

‘I only have one agent now, and that’s Sam. And I have my publicist Sandy, I guess. And my attorney and my
accountant. And my assistant. So maybe it’s a little circus, but that’s it. No nutritionist, no Feng Shui expert, no trainer. At least, I do have a trainer but I haven’t seen him for a while. But for this trip,
I decided to go solo.’

I nod again. I know enough to realise that this is genuinely unusual for a Hollywood star. He could have a far bigger entourage. I was right after all: he is down-to-earth.

‘So is your assistant . . .’

‘My assistant is back in LA, looking after my dogs. I’ve got a Rhodesian ridgeback and a greyhound. They get the blues if they’re left alone. You want to see a picture?’

‘Of course!’ I’m not the biggest doggy fan, but these are not just any dogs. He whips out an iPhone and shows me some pictures, and I think,
I’m looking at Luther Carson’s dogs
.

‘But it’s definitely good to have Sam here with me. You know, the cool thing about Sam is, he has integrity, you know? He’s not all, “Sequel, bitch”. He lets me say no to stuff.’

I’m sure he does. ‘No’ is probably Sam’s
favourite word. I’m a bit at sea, and it’s hard to know what to ask next. So I ask the first random question that springs to mind.

‘So did you ever have a manager?’

‘Oh . . .’ Out of nowhere, it’s as if the temperature has plummeted. Instead of his usual eye contact, he’s looking very interested in the far distance. ‘No, I never went there. Hey, it looks like we’re stopping. You want a swim?
I might take a dip.’ He gets to his feet and holds out a hand for me. I take it. It’s a pretty dangerous thing to do, because I instantly want to keep holding it, but thankfully I manage to let go.

My head is whirling as we go downstairs, and not just because of the champagne. I wish I’d taken a Dictaphone or notebook, but on second thoughts, that would seem a
bit crass. But this is all such
great material. Despite what Brian said, he’s already given me two great scenes: the curtain call he couldn’t go to, signing the contract with the two-bit lawyer . . . But why did he react like that when I asked him if he had had a manager? Oh, no. Was I showing my ignorance – is it so terrible to have a manager? Surely it can’t be that unheard of. I watch as he heads to the rail, and looks out over
the water. Maybe he just wanted a swim? No, there was definitely something that he didn’t like about that question.

‘Alice!’ says Federico, coming out from the bar. ‘You should swim.’ He looks at me dubiously. Maybe he’s wondering if I
can
swim.

‘I don’t think I will,’ says Annabel. She’s reclining on a sun lounger, wearing enormous sunglasses. ‘I’m all slippery with sun factor and I can’t be
bothered to reapply.’ Luther turns away from the water. I can see him giving her a good long look, and I can’t blame him – she looks stunning.

‘Suit yourself,’ says Sam. ‘I’m going in.’ He’s already wearing his swimmers, and seems to have abandoned his glasses somewhere. I notice again how athletic he is: broad shoulders, powerful arms and a flat stomach. I know some women love that type, but
it just makes me think of all the hours he must spend in the gym. Simon didn’t have a six-pack, but unlike Sam he had interesting conversation, which is far more important, if you ask me. Sam dives off the boat with barely a splash, and Luther and Federico cheer.

‘OK, I’m there,’ says Luther. He starts stripping off there and then, and I notice Annabel is sitting up to watch him, as am I. This
is something you don’t see every day. He’s utterly divine: not too muscular, just lithe and gorgeous. Absolutely no need for body doubles there. He dives off the boat, and starts ploughing away with a vigorous front crawl.

Annabel casually sits up and stretches. ‘Perhaps I will go in after all,’ she muses, and takes off her sunglasses. How can she be so obvious?

Federico and I watch as she lowers
herself down, her beautiful arms flexing on each side of the ladder, until she releases the last rung with a dainty squeak at the cold, and starts swimming straight towards Luther.

‘Are you going to swim, Federico?’ I ask.

‘No! I have to look after the boat.’ He pats the rail proudly. I suddenly realise that my initial impression of him was correct: he
is
a bit empty-headed.