The Out of Office Girl (13 page)

After a minute the tube-top girl comes over to talk to Luther, totally ignoring me. He chats to her for a few minutes, but it soon becomes obvious that he wants her to leave.

‘Listen,’ I hear him shout over the music, ‘I’m here with
some friends. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘What?’ the girl says, pretending not to hear him.

‘I’m here with my girlfriend,’ Luther says this time, indicating me. ‘I’ll talk to you later. It was nice meeting you.’ And with that, he turns away from her, ostentatiously putting his arm around my shoulder. The girl looks furious
and storms off. I’m in shock.
Luther Carson just called me his girlfriend
. It was part of a ruse, but still!

‘There you go,’ he says. ‘Now she’ll tell the nearest journalist what an asshole I am.’ He tops up my glass. ‘Thanks for being my alibi. I’m just going to head to the bathroom,’ he adds, getting to his feet slightly unsteadily, ‘and then I’ll be back, baby.’

He strokes my shoulder briefly with one finger as he goes. It sends a shiver down my entire spine. Oh,
wow. If he can do that with one fingertip . . .

I notice Sam, who is still opposite, looking at me and obviously taking in the entire exchange. Well, to hell with him. It’s Luther’s business who he wants to talk to. I see that on his way to the bathroom, Luther has met another girl, and they’re having a brief conversation. Oh, no. Is he chatting her up? But I can’t see, because the next minute,
a boy in a crazy-looking catsuit has materialised and is asking to take a photo of Luther. The girl turns on him, and during the ensuing argument, Luther slips away inside the bathroom.

I suppose this could be my cue to sober up, but I don’t want to. I know I’m drunk, but I feel as if my drunk self is full of wisdom that my sober self could learn a lot from. It’s telling me life is for living.
I worry about everything, all the time, and when has it ever done me any good? Ruth is always telling me to relax and not take things so seriously. I’m on a night out with a film star in a nightclub in Sicily. When has this ever happened to me, and when will it ever happen again? Why ruin it? As I’m thinking these thoughts, I’m gradually slumping down lower and lower in my seat, until I suddenly
realise I’m almost falling off the edge. I make myself sit up again before anyone notices.

Sam and Marisa come over and sit beside me, and the
next minute, Annabel appears, flushed with success about her Cro-Magnon catch.

‘He’s a millionaire! He’s really great,’ she adds hastily. ‘His name’s Nikos. He’s from South Africa. Or maybe Greece. He’s really, really into film and he says he’s interested
in finding out more about
Her Master’s Bite
!’

‘Finding out more about her master – what?’ I say. I know I’m not in full possession of my faculties, but that doesn’t sound good.

‘As in, to finance it, duh!’ Annabel says.

‘
Bella
, did he just tell you he’s a millionaire?’ asks Marisa gently.

‘No, it just slipped out,’ says Annabel. ‘It is true though.’ A look of doubt crosses her face, and she
turns to Sam. ‘Sam, how can we find out if he’s a real millionaire?’

‘I think there’s an iPhone app,’ Sam says.

A very handsome older guy with curly hair approaches us.

‘Hello, I’m Giancarlo, I’m the manager of this club,’ he says. ‘I’m very sorry not to introduce myself sooner – Mr Carson, it’s an honour,’ and he shakes Sam’s hand.

I’m expecting Sam to bite the guy’s head off, but instead
he just smiles and says, ‘That’s very kind.’

The music has changed, from ambient stuff when we first came in to more fun, danceable songs. The dance floor, even in our little area, has filled up. My foot has started tapping, and I’m dangerously close to chair-dancing myself – I can see Marisa and Sam are laughing at me, but I don’t care. Suddenly, my favourite song of the summer comes on.

‘I
love this song!’ I yell to Marisa and Sam.

‘So does my eight-year-old cousin,’ Sam says, but he’s smiling – for once. Annabel rolls her eyes.

‘Let’s dance!’ says Marisa. I jump up instantly. Sam and Federico are looking amused, but I don’t care. I love this song – I know it’s always going to remind me of this summer
– and we’re dancing, and I’m singing along, and thinking how true the words
are, about things being crazy and people being famous. That’s my life right now. Now Luther’s joined us. He’s found a cowboy hat from somewhere and he starts doing line-dancing moves, and people are watching and laughing. He’s camping it up madly, and I can’t stop laughing either.

‘You’re a great dancer,’ he shouts in my ear.

‘Really? No!’ I say breathlessly.

‘Yeah, you are,’ he says, and he
pulls me into a twirl. And we’re dancing together.

Even though I watch a lot of dance movies, I’m a pretty awkward dancer myself. But this is effortless. All I have to do is follow Luther wherever he leads, pulls or twirls me. I can vaguely register the others staring at us, but it’s like a dream; it’s just me and him, his arms around me, my dress flaring out, his eyes catching mine. He is an
amazing dancer – of course he is, I know he is, I’ve seen him on screen. But I had no idea what it would be like to dance with him. He makes me an amazing dancer too. He’s Jimmy in
Fever
, and I’m Donna, the uptight uptown girl whom he falls in love with and rescues . . . I realise now that I’m completely hammered, but that’s fine. That’s a good thing.

When the song ends, he doesn’t let go of
me.

‘That was fun,’ he says, as the music changes to ‘La Isla Bonita.’

I reluctantly start to move away, but he pulls me back. He holds me close against his body, moves me away, then pulls me in closer and sets a slower, sexier pace. I can feel the heat of his body, so close to mine, his hands on the silk of my dress. This is a little dodgy, but it’s fine. Friendly. Although, at this stage,
we’re pretty much dirty dancing.

‘You’re a very beautiful girl,’ he says. ‘Do you know that?’

I can’t believe my ears. ‘Oh, no . . .’ I say. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘Sure you are. You just don’t know it. You’re kind of an English rose type, you know? Sort of fresh faced and innocent . . . but not
too
innocent . . .’ His mouth is beside my ear as he’s saying this, and his lips are almost – but not quite
– brushing my skin.

I feel my eyes closing, then I open them suddenly and realise that absolutely everybody around us is staring at us. When the song ends, I decide through my haze that I need to get away from Luther right now, and pull myself together.

‘I’ll be back in a second,’ I tell him.

He says in my ear, ‘Don’t be long.’

I’ve never found a bathroom so fast in all my life. Thankfully
there’s no queue and I’m in and out in minutes. I check my reflection in the mirror.
You’re a very beautiful girl
. Did he mean that? My reflection seems to be moving from side to side ever so slightly, because I’m swaying a little, but I can see my make-up is intact; my eyes are wide and my cheeks are flushed but not red. Even my hair looks good. I had intended to use this bathroom break as a
time of reflection, but that doesn’t happen. I just don’t want to take the risk that Luther will leave or start talking to another girl. There are thoughts circulating in my mind that this isn’t wise, but those thoughts aren’t in charge right now.

I’m walking back out when I literally run into Sam – I almost crash into him, in fact. He disentangles himself, giving me that look again. I’m sick
of having to be polite to him. He hates me and I hate him; what’s the point of pretending?

‘Well, what?’ I ask him. ‘Are you about to lecture me or something?’

‘Would it do any good if I did?’ His eyebrows are raised, and he looks contemptuous. I try to match his stare, but I can’t so I just walk off. I can see that a little group of girls
has formed behind Luther, but he has his back to them
and is still talking to Marisa.

‘Hey, where have you been?’ Luther asks me.

‘Nowhere, I just—’

‘Let’s dance,’ he says.

He pulls me in close and slides his arm around my shoulder. They’re playing a slow song in Italian. I’ve never been held the way he holds me: so firmly, and so confidently. As we move together slowly, I breathe in the scent of his skin, his hair. His right hand is on my neck
now, and I can feel him gently moving it over the nape of my neck, under my hair. I inch my free hand up so it’s just touching the back of his neck. I can feel his body pressing against me. I can’t look at him. If I look at him, he’ll see how much I want to kiss him.

Kiss him
. . . I imagine his lips closing on mine, how soft they would be. Even though we’re hardly moving, my pulse is throbbing
and my knees are shaking. Suddenly I feel very strange – as if all the blood is rushing to my head and then draining away again, leaving me weak. I take a breath and the feeling goes away, then comes back. I suddenly have to hang on to him tighter, to steady myself.

He says something I don’t catch. ‘What?’ I ask, and I look up. Oh, no. I’m looking in his eyes. His face is so close to mine. He’s
bending down, and he really is about to kiss me—

Blackness.

ELEVEN

I’m lying on a couch, in some kind of office. There are some concerned faces hovering above me. Giancarlo is there – the manager – and Sam, and Marisa. I can hear music playing faintly outside.

‘What?’ I ask, bemused. ‘What happened?’
And where’s Luther
?

‘You fainted,’ says Sam. ‘While you were, ah, dancing with Luther.’

I close my eyes. I
do
not believe this. It’s clear from his tone
that by ‘dancing’ Sam means, ‘making a complete show of yourself’.

‘Take some water,’ says Marisa, handing me a glass. I sip it.

Sam starts barking questions at me: ‘Have you taken anything? Are you prone to fainting? Are you hypo-glycaemic?’ He pauses. I bet he wants to ask if I’m pregnant.

‘I just have low blood pressure. I’ve fainted before in the Tube,’ I say. ‘But never at a nightclub.’
The full mortification is just beginning to creep over me. Oh, my good God. I fainted like a schoolgirl in assembly.

‘You were lucky Luther caught you before you hit the floor,’ says Sam.

‘Where is Luther?’ I ask quietly.

‘I don’t know,’ says Marisa. ‘Oh, look, here he is.’ I look up; Luther’s coming in through the door, drink in hand.

‘Hey, lady! You gave me quite a fright.’

‘Sorry. I’m
fine,’ I say, sitting up, with an effort.

‘Let’s get a car and take you home,’ says Marisa. ‘Giancarlo –’ she addresses him in Italian and he nods and leaves the room.

Now they’ve all left, leaving me alone with Luther. I feel utterly extinguished with shame. I can barely meet his eye.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’ve never made a girl faint before. I hope it wasn’t my breath.’

‘I have fainted once
or twice before, but never in a nightclub. Maybe I’ve had a bit too much to drink,’ I admit. ‘Or a lot too much.’ My head is already starting to throb, and I’m really thirsty. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Why? It’s flattering.’ He pushes my hair back from my face. I shiver at his touch, but I’m amazed. How can he still like me?

Just at that moment, Sam returns. He takes in the scene, but says nothing except,
‘The car’s ready. Are you guys good to go?’

‘Sure thing,’ says Luther. ‘Come on, baby.’ He holds out a hand to me, but I pretend not to notice and stand up alone. As we walk out, I am cursing myself.
What
an idiot. I know why I fainted: it was the drink, sure, but I was also, literally, knocked for six by Luther. And now he knows that. What was I thinking? Do I have some kind of career death
wish? He is my
author
– my very difficult, important author who I need to get to buckle down asap. I need to earn his respect, not snog him in a nightclub.

As we join the others, I can see there’s a bit of a scene going on. Annabel is having a hissy fit, just for a change.

‘I’m just not,’ she’s saying. ‘You lot can suit yourselves.’

‘Fine,’ says Sam.

‘Sam, we can’t,’ says Marisa.

‘What’s
going on?’ I ask.

‘She doesn’t want to go home. She wants to stay here with her new friend,’ says Marisa.

‘So why don’t we let her?’

‘I don’t think we should,’ says Marisa.

Oh, for God’s sake. ‘She is a grown-up, pretty much,’ I say tetchily. I’m suddenly almost swaying on my feet. ‘Look, if you guys want to stay, do. I can get the car alone.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ says Luther.

‘Whatever.
Just go!’ says Annabel. ‘Take Cinderella with you before she turns into a pumpkin.’ She turns her back on us and marches over to her new beau, who’s now taken over the VIP table we were at before.

A pumpkin: that’s quite witty, I think foggily, as we make our way out. My sobriety seems to be coming and going in waves, I realise, as I nearly crash into a big red velvet chair. I brace myself as
we pass the mirror, but in fact I still look good. Wow! I wish Marisa could get me ready every night. Everybody seems to be staring at us. They probably think I collapsed from drugs, which is fine by me – it’s better than the truth, which is that I passed out from the unfamiliar proximity of a devastatingly attractive man.

We’re nearly at the back entrance when one of the headset-wearers rushes
up and says something in Italian to Sam, glancing at Luther.

‘There are photographers outside,’ says Sam. ‘Let’s go out the front.’

‘That’s great,’ says Luther. ‘I was starting to think they’d forgotten me. Come on, baby, this will be fun,’ and, slinging his arm around my shoulders, he marches towards the door.

As soon as we go outside, the flashing starts. I think there are only about half
a dozen men, but I can’t be sure. It seems like more. The barrage of lights isn’t as overwhelming
as I’d expected; it’s the shouting that gets me, mostly Italians speaking English but a few English accents as well:

‘Luther! Over here!’

‘Luther, who’s your friend?’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Sweetheart, give us your name?’