The Out of Office Girl (22 page)

‘I’d love to,’ I say. ‘Maybe in a while? I just need to do some work first. I hope you don’t mind.’

As soon as he’s gone, I try Marisa’s mobile again. She answers it with a flood of lively-sounding Italian, whether angry or happy, I can’t tell.

‘Marisa! It’s Alice. How are you? Listen, I need to ask you a big favour . . .’

Two minutes later, I’ve hung up the phone with a feeling of total bliss. She’s not free this evening, but she and Federico will come by tomorrow evening at seven, and take Luther out for dinner and drinks. Tomorrow evening, I’m off the hook. And the day after, Sam should be back. The relief is indescribable. Marisa really is my fairy godmother.

I look at my watch. It’s 8 p.m. now, and I should
start transcribing. I reckon it’s going to take me until at least 3 a.m. this time around. If only there were some computer program that converted audio tapes into words. I bet, in fact, that one either already exists, or will be invented as soon as I stop this typing.

As I resume my station at the computer, I realise I am shattered: bone tired. I think I’ll make myself some coffee; otherwise
I can picture myself falling asleep over the keyboard and waking up in the middle of the night with with asdfghj imprinted on my cheek. Maybe I should borrow some of Luther’s pharmaceuticals to stay awake. But that would mean knocking on his door, and I just can’t face him at the moment.

Wow. I never, ever thought I would feel that way.

As a treat, I take a quick look at Facebook. Ruth has declared
herself ‘In a relationship’ with Mike. Lucky Mike. Erica has posted pictures of her new kitten – it’s adorable. Out of habit, I find myself looking at Simon’s page. He’s posted pictures of himself at a party with his arm around some dark-haired girl –
not
Claudine. I’m just about to click
on her profile to see who she is when I change my mind. Why am I looking? I’m not even interested. I go back
to Simon’s page and click ‘delete friend’. Great! I feel much happier.

I’ve recently figured out how to log into my work email from here. Along with all the work stuff there’s a message from Ciara, asking how I am and when I’m coming home. It all makes me feel homesick; it will be so nice to get back to London and see everyone. I’m about to reply to her when I see that I have an email from Sam
– no subject. Feeling my heart skip slightly, I open it up. What is he going to say?

‘Alice: you still haven’t emailed me those transcripts. I need them a.s.a.p.’

Huh. That’s a very short, rude email. Doesn’t he want to know how we are, or what the weather’s like or anything? But then I realise I’m being ridiculous. This is what I wanted, after all. I’m winning, and Sam has to ask for my help.
I attach the most recent transcripts and press send, trying to ignore my irrational disappointment that he doesn’t have anything else to say to me.

TWENTY-ONE

‘I miss autographs. The thing is that when someone gets your autograph, that’s cool, that’s like you’re giving them something special. But when they just take a snap of you on their phone, and they don’t even speak to you – it’s like they’re at the zoo and you’re the monkey. You know?’

Luther is lying on the lounger, his eyes closed, his hand thrown over his head to shield himself
from the sun. He looks like he’s on a therapist’s couch. I’m opposite him on the chair. We’ve now spent most of the last few days in this position, and I know this back terrace as intimately as I know my bedroom at home. The red tiles on the ground; that crack in the wall where the gecko sometimes comes out; the windows that look into the sitting room, and Mount Etna in the distance . . . I’m probably
going to see it in my dreams for years to come.

Yesterday was so much easier. After his initial manic burst, Luther seems to be slowing down a little. We didn’t start until 9 a.m., so I got at least five hours’ sleep, and we talked until around 6 p.m., with a quick break for lunch. Then, Federico and Marisa came around in the evening, as promised, to hang out with Luther, letting me off the hook.
I was able to spend all evening typing up the interviews,
structuring them in rough narrative order, and writing notes for Brian. I finished up, again, around 2 a.m.

Brian seems to be holding up, thank goodness. His wife’s cancer is only at stage two, which is good news, and he sounded so much better than he did the day he left. He also said he was happy to have the book to focus on. He gave
me a list of questions to ask Luther.

‘These interviews are terrific, though,’ he told me. ‘There is going to be no problem with this. The book’s going to be a winner.’

I was so happy to hear this, I actually jumped up and down on the spot. I’m beginning to hope that this book isn’t just going to happen: it’s going to be really good. The only thing that worries me is that I still haven’t heard
anything from Olivia, even though I’ve been copying her in on all my emails to Brian.

Luther is on a detour right now, so I want to nudge him back on to what he was originally talking about, which was the
Roman Holiday
shoot.

‘By the way, what was it like working with Natasha Pullman? I never asked you.’

‘It was magical, fantastic, such a generous talent, blah blah. Actually, she’s a little
witch. Can we say that she’s a little witch?’

I laugh. ‘Is she? Well . . . we could say that you didn’t bond, or that you’ve had other co-stars you’ve clicked with better. I mean, you can express opinions about people as long as they’re just presented as your opinion, not fact . . .’

‘Uh-huh,’ he says, losing interest. ‘No, let’s just not give her any air time. That’s what she’s going to do
to me. Wait till you read her publicity. She hates this romance they’ve manufactured about us, and she’s not going to say one word about me in any of her interviews. She’s one of the least supportive co-stars I’ve ever worked with. I could barely
even talk to her; everything had to go through the director and her ten managers and PAs.’

‘Oh dear.’ I’m getting slightly tired of Luther’s gripes.

‘She’s just obsessed with making it very clear who the star of this movie is. I mean, fine, she’s number one on the call sheet, and – she is a bigger star.’

I’m very surprised to hear him say something like this. I wouldn’t have said that this was the case, at all. I’m about to ask him what he means, but then I decide that whatever it is, it’s probably not something I want to get into right now.
Luther’s anxieties about whether he’s a big star might be good in a print interview, but not in our book, which needs to end with him ‘in a good place’. So I just say, ‘That’s crazy. I think you’re much bigger than she is. Hey – you know, we’ve been talking for an hour and a half. What about taking a quick break?’

‘Yeah? Has it been that long?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘That’s OK,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Don’t
forget, I’m used to fourteen-hour days.’

But I’m not
, I want to say. ‘I need to change the tape,’ I say artfully.

He gets to his feet. ‘Fine. Let’s take ten. But no longer! I’m going to take a leak and maybe a dip in the pool. But not at the same time, don’t worry.’ And he’s gone.

I’ve closed my eyes and am taking a few deep breaths when the peace of the morning is shattered by some ear-splittingly
loud music – I think it’s Aerosmith. Luther sometimes does this when we take a break. It’s annoying but I suppose he needs to let off steam. Anyway, it’s a small price to pay for what he’s giving us: his story. Finally. I drift off for a second into a daydream:
Sunday Times
bestsellerdom for Luther, promotion for me, a launch party at which Poppy and I can spot celebrities . . .

I’ve acquired
a nice biscuit-coloured tan, just from sitting
out here with Luther, and I’m admiring it through my sunglasses when Sam appears in the doorway. He’s obviously come straight from the airport. He’s looking very tired and unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes – he must have got up at the crack of dawn to be here. I’m surprised at how pleased I am to see him. I sit up a little straighter in my
chair, feeling glad that I had time to wash my hair this morning, for once.

‘Welcome back! How was your trip?’

‘Short,’ he says, tight-lipped. Oh, God, what now? ‘As soon as I read those transcripts, I decided to come back early.’

‘Oh. How come?’

‘How come? Well, let’s see. There’s the kiss-and-tell. The tales of Luther’s bad behaviour, all those stories about other actors. The drugs. The
boozing. Do you want me to go on?’

‘But—’

‘I don’t expect you to know this,’ says Sam, ‘but there’s a certain understanding among people like Luther that you don’t repeat gossip about your friends. What you get up to on your down time is your own business.’

How patronising can he get? ‘I don’t expect you to know this’ indeed.

‘But the stories aren’t about Luther’s friends,’ I object.

‘No?
That trip to Mexico with Colin Farrell? The unnamed but completely identifiable actress who supplied him with coke on set? The idiot actor who broke up with his girlfriend via his assistant?’

‘But – that’s just –’ I want to say that it’s just good clean fun, though I realise that’s not the phrase I want. ‘But we’ve deliberately kept it light. I mean, relatively speaking. Most of the book is Luther’s
story – his childhood and teenage years and everything. As for the Hollywood stuff – it’s not that scandalous compared to the stuff on Gawker or
whatever. It’s colourful, but it’s all pretty good-natured. It’s not as if anyone’s privacy is being compromised.’

‘What about Dominique Rice?’

I don’t know what to say to that.

‘I mean,’ Sam continues, ‘there is no way she’s going to OK what he’s
said about her. Your lawyers will be telling you that soon enough.’

‘Yes, of course, and we can make the changes they recommend. But beyond that, it’s Luther’s book, and he can say what he likes.’

‘And if Luther never works again because of this book? What kind of success story will that be for you?’

‘But that won’t happen,’ I say, uncertainly.

‘Really? Can you think of another actor like
Luther, who’s done a book like this and survived it?’

That idea makes me feel very bad. But I can’t let that stop me.

‘Look, it’s Luther’s career. I can’t imagine that this book will end it, but if he wants to do it, doesn’t he have the right to?’

Neither of us has noticed Luther approaching. He slings an arm around us both.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I don’t want Mom and Dad to fight.’

I can’t help
laughing. Sam looks completely unimpressed.

‘You said you had some news for me,’ Luther says to Sam.

‘Yes,’ says Sam, recovering himself. ‘Very exciting news. Seth’s been given a heads-up about a pilot—’

‘Uh-oh. No. Not Seth. Not pilots.’

‘It’s a great part,’ Sam says.

‘No how. No TV. I don’t do TV. I am big screen.’

‘Luther, everybody does TV. Glenn Close does TV. George Clooney. Laurence
Fishburne. Chloë Sevigny. Gabriel Byrne. Rob Lowe—’

‘No! Don’t say Rob Lowe! I never made a tape!’

‘And the money is good. Do you know how much they’re offering, per episode?’

He tells Luther, and I gasp.

‘I’m not in this business for the money,’ says Luther.

From the look on Sam’s face, I can tell he wants to strangle Luther. I sympathise because I know exactly how maddening Luther can be.
Sam starts talking about how acclaimed the writers and the producers are.

‘Luther, Dustin Hoffman is doing TV now,’ he says. ‘Don’t you think there’s something in it?’

‘I’ll leave you guys to it,’ I say, discreetly backing away.

I’m hoping that I can just have a sandwich by myself before I write up some of this morning’s interview. I’ve felt rude leaving Luther to eat lunch alone, but now that
Sam’s back, I’m off the hook. I am worried about what Sam said about Luther. I don’t want Luther’s career to be in ruins. And I’m annoyed that Sam is taking it out on me when none of this is my fault.

There’s nobody in the kitchen, but half the cupboard doors are open. It’s like that scene in
The Sixth Sense
. I know why this is; Luther has been in here earlier making a snack, and he wouldn’t
think of closing a cupboard door after himself. I close them all, and then I cut myself some bread and cheese and tomatoes, and take a plate out to the front terrace.

Just as I start eating, my parents call. I haven’t spoken to them since I arrived, and it’s so nice to catch up. They’ve just been to see Erica and Raj and met their new kitten, and they’ve bought an electric mower, even though
our lawn isn’t really big enough to warrant one. My dad is already addicted to riding around on it. ‘I suppose it’s cheaper than a new car,’ says Mum. ‘By the way, have you got enough Factor 50? I’ve been looking at the forecast in Sicily. It was thirty-five degrees yesterday!’

Just then Luther comes out and sees me on the phone.
I cover it quickly. ‘I’m sorry – it’s my parents. Can I just take
five more minutes?’

Luther looks annoyed. ‘Well, I’m ready now.’ He turns around and leaves.

‘Mum, I have to go,’ I tell her.

‘Is everything all right?’ She sounds alarmed.

‘It’s fine. I’ll call you later.’

I follow Luther to the back terrace, where we resume our positions. He’s looking a bit depressed, hunched up on his bench and smoking a cigarette.

‘TV, huh?’ he says.

‘Oh, Luther. I’m
sure it’s a good part. What’s the series?’

‘It’s about estate agents in LA during the 1980s,’ he says, sounding moody. ‘It’s pitched as
Desperate Housewives
meets
Mad Men
. My character – or the guy Sam and Seth want me to do – is a sleazy huckster type who does loads of deals and bangs loads of hot women.’

‘But that sounds perfect for you! I mean, sorry – you would be great in that. Why don’t
you want to do it?’

‘I just think . . . so the part might be a good part. But would Clooney do it? No. You know?’

I think I get it: he thinks TV is somehow a sign of failure.

‘I don’t know what George Clooney would do,’ I tell Luther. ‘But I really like
Mad Men
. And
Desperate Housewives
. I think American TV drama is outstanding.’