The Out of Office Girl (25 page)

Maybe I should go outside and get some
air, or even go for a swim. Without turning on the light, I put on my bikini, put my nightdress back over it, and pad outside.

There’s a full moon, shining as brightly as an electric light. It’s just as hot outside as it is inside, but the water looks inviting. I’ve just dipped my toe in, when I hear a noise behind me and almost jump out of my skin. Someone is lounging in a seat beside the pool.
It’s Sam. He’s dressed only in a pair of jeans, holding a lit cigarette, and listening to music. In the dark, I can just see the light of his eyes and the glow of his cigarette.

He removes his earphones.

‘Can’t you sleep either?’ he says.

‘No. It’s so hot.’

‘I know, right?’ he says. ‘Plus, I slept on the plane.’

I take a seat beside him. My nightdress is very flimsy, and I’m glad I’m wearing
my bikini underneath it.

‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

‘Only on special occasions. Like when I close a deal. It’s like cigars for real men.’

‘Did you close the deal in London?’

‘No.’ He passes me his tumbler of whiskey. ‘So I’m drowning my sorrows. Cheers,’ he adds, tapping a finger against the glass.

‘What about you?’

‘We can share.’

I sip it. I hate whiskey, but this isn’t too bad. The
burning warmth somehow seems to make the hot night feel cooler. I take another sip.

‘Cigarette?’

I nod. Sam lights an extra cigarette, and passes it to me. As he leans over I notice his washboard stomach – even though he’s sitting down and wearing jeans, I don’t see an ounce of fat. Amazing. It’s my first cigarette in years, and as I inhale and lean my head back, I can feel a mild buzz.

That’s
better. I’m so sick of thinking, and fretting, about my job. If I get fired, I get fired. At least, unlike Luther, whatever I do, it won’t end up in the papers. I toy with the idea of telling Sam what’s happened – I can hear myself say out loud, ‘I’m in serious trouble with work.’ But I can’t tell him, much as I’d like to. Instead, I decide to ask him something else that’s been on my mind.

‘Can
you think of anything worse than being famous?’

He laughs. ‘Well, there are a few things . . .’

‘No, I’m exaggerating, of course there are. Like being an orphan in a war-torn country. But even an ortorn in a warphan – sorry. An orphan in a war-torn country has something that a famous person doesn’t have.’

His eyes are resting on me, serious and attentive.

‘What?’

‘Their identity. I mean,
I won’t say privacy, because if you’re very poor, you might not have a lot of privacy. But – for me, I can go out in the street, and I can meet people on equal terms; I’m a human being and so are they. But if you’re famous – that relationship is impossible.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘I just don’t think we’re meant to relate to each other like that. I mean, Luther’s pretty normal.’ I pause as
I wonder whether I really believe that. ‘But that story, about the actress and her blow-dry . . . Nobody should behave like that. It’s ridiculous. But it’s also wrong.’

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then he says, ‘Of course they shouldn’t. But the thing is . . . from her perspective, she’s given up a lot to do what she does today. The exact same things you’re describing: privacy and identity.
And the pay-off, for her, is that she gets everything she wants. The people around her give it to her because they know that’s the deal. And they’re on her payroll, they make money from her. She’s not a private person any more; she’s an industry.’

‘But I don’t think that’s why she acts up like that. I think it must be terrifying to have everyone say yes to you all the time. It would be like going
insane. If I behaved like that, I think it would be because I wanted someone to tell me no.’

‘Yes, but that’s because you’re smart, and a good person. I said no to her, and she fired me.’

‘Oh.’ At the sound of the word
fired
, I wince in sympathy. I’m about to ask him more about that, but he’s continuing, ‘Anyway . . . there are plenty of big stars, and powerful people, who don’t act like that.
Some of them are really nice. And sometimes the ones who are up and coming are the craziest. There’s no hard and fast rule.’

Thinking of Annabel, I realise this is true.

‘I think it’s grotesque, all the same. A person isn’t an industry.’

‘You’re right,’ Sam says. ‘I agree. But here you are, and here I am.’

I don’t know what to say to that.

‘Sorry. That came out wrong. For what it’s worth,
I think Luther is getting something out of this book . . .’

‘Thanks,’ I say, in a small voice. Does he really think I’m exploiting Luther? Treating him like an industry? I suppose I am.

‘Jesus – Alice,’ Sam says. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything about you. I think I’m talking more about myself. I mean . . . I compromise myself, a lot. The way I talked at dinner, or the way I’m talking
to you right now – I could never talk to anyone that way in LA. You wouldn’t believe the way some of the agents I know talk. Homophobic, racist, anti-Semitic, anti-Republican, anti-Democrat, anti-actors . . . you name it. But the flip side is that the rest of the time, we’re kissing ass. And we benefit from it just as much. You know, it’s not just being famous that makes people treat you differently.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well . . . take me. If I were a struggling actor, or an assistant, nobody in the industry would talk to me. That’s fine because they’re industry people, but what I don’t like is the way it affects my personal life.’

‘You mean, the way you work all the time?’

‘No. Well, yes, that too, definitely. What I mean is – OK, I’ll tell you a story. Not long after I started signing
my own clients, I met a girl at a party thrown by some friends of mine. We went home together . . . and the next day, she emailed me her résumé and a head shot.’ He takes a drag of his cigarette. ‘The irony was, I really liked her, and I
definitely would have helped her if she’d just asked me. I just found it so sad that that was what she thought she had to do. Most of the guys I work with, that
stuff doesn’t bother them at all. They see it as a perk. Me, not so much.’

There’s a pause, while he takes the tumbler back from me.

‘Maybe you could just not date actresses,’ I suggest.

‘I don’t, but the thing is, it’s just an example of how people think there. Even my ex was like that, and she’s not an actress.’

His ex. OK, so that sounds as if he’s definitely single. Not that I’m interested,
of course, but – anyway, he’s single.

‘I feel like it’s turning me into someone I don’t want to be. Jesus, Alice, how do you do this?’ he asks suddenly.

‘Do what?’

‘Get people’s life stories from them. Next I’ll be giving you my social security number and telling you all about my first kiss. No wonder you’ve got Luther eating out of your hand.’

‘Oh.’ I’m distracted by the mention of his first
kiss. ‘Sorry, I hadn’t realised I was doing it. Just habit, I suppose. What I think is . . .’

‘What?’

He’s looking at me, and it’s an expression I haven’t seen in a long time, maybe ever. It’s the look of someone – OK, a man – who’s really enjoying this conversation, and is waiting to hear what I’m going to say next. And I don’t think it’s just because we’re talking about him.

‘I was just going
to say: of course what you do affects people’s perception of you. Because it reflects who you are, and the fact that you’re intelligent, and you’ve worked hard, and you’ve made good decisions. I don’t see what’s so wrong about that. But if your job is all they care about, then yes, that would be bad. Does that make sense?’

‘Sure.’

‘But . . . I don’t think you’re genuinely unhappy about it. Or
about the fact that you have to work a hundred hours a week.’

‘No?’ He looks even more fascinated, and amused at the same time.

‘No. I hear people – friends who work in the City, or in lots of different industries – complain about that kind of thing all the time, but they don’t change it. Because although they complain, that’s how they like it.’

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and I wonder
if I’ve completely overstepped the mark. I can’t see his face in the dark. But then he turns to me and I see he’s grinning broadly.

‘Wow. I have to hand it to you, Alice. That is the best gauntlet throw I think I’ve ever been given in my entire life. I’ve poured out my misunderstood agent angst to you, and you’ve summed it up in five words: Put up, or shut up. No, I like it,’ he says, as I start
to protest, laughing, that that wasn’t what I meant. ‘I really like it. And I want you to know, I’m going to give it some serious thought.’

He really does have a nice smile. It lights up his whole face.

He gets to his feet. ‘Shall we shelve the soul-searching? Do you feel like a dip instead?’

‘Why not.’

Sam takes off his jeans – he’s wearing his swimmers underneath, like me. I slip off my
nightdress, and we wade in. The water is wonderful. The craziness of the last few days seems very far away, and we’re just two people on holiday, having a swim on a hot night. I watch as he swims the length of the pool underwater. I hope he’s not too drunk to be swimming like that. He seems sober enough, but I think he has had a lot to drink. Still, I would happily administer the kiss of life.

Oh, shit.

During this entire trip, I’ve noticed, good news has immediately been followed by bad news. The good news is that I don’t think Sam is going to interfere with the book any more. The bad news is that my crush on Luther has been replaced by an attraction to Sam – a real one.

He surfaces beside me.

‘Have you ever seen the movie
Le Grand Bleu
?’ he says. ‘
The Big Blue
? It’s pretty lame,
but it has a great soundtrack by Eric Serra. It always reminds me of swimming at night. I was just listening to it before you came outside. You want to hear some?’

‘I – OK,’ I say. I should go, but I don’t want to be rude when he’s sharing his music. I’ll just stay a minute longer.

He hoists himself out of the pool in an easy movement, and goes to get his iPod, drying his hands on his jeans
first. How could I ever have thought he looked bland or identikit? He is so beautiful; I can’t take my eyes off him. He comes back into the water and hands me the iPod, but I shake my head.

‘Wet hands.’

He looks at me for a second, then he carefully fits the earphones into my ears, pushing my hair back gently. As soon as he touches me, I can feel my heart start to pound. I’m inches from his
bare chest; in fact, I could lean forward and touch it right now. I’ve never been this close to him before – no, I have, when he saved me from drowning, when I wasn’t drowning.

He reaches past me, and starts the music. It’s beautiful. It sounds so mysterious – like being deep under the sea. He’s still standing very close to me, looking down at me. I’m trying not to look at him, so I’m looking
past him instead at the stars or down at our waists, close to each other in the pool. But I’m getting a feeling from him. It’s
that feeling that tells you someone is about to kiss you. I cautiously look up and meet his eyes, just for a minute, but it’s enough; I’m completely overwhelmed, and I start to shiver.

‘Hey,’ he says, turning the music down. ‘You’re not getting cold, are you?’ He puts
a hand to the side of my face, and takes the earphones out.

‘No. Well, maybe just a little. I think I’d better go to bed.’

But it’s too late for that; he’s still holding my face, my palm has strayed on to his chest, and now he’s leaned down and kissed me, so gently but so firmly that I almost expire: it is the perfect kiss.

I kiss him back. He is a wonderful kisser, his mouth just as soft as
I would have imagined, tender but very confident, and soon we’re kissing harder. His hands are in my hair and then on my shoulders and my waist, and I’m running my hands down his arms and his back and his chest. His body is rock hard: I can feel how strong he is. I am drowning in the feel of his lips on mine, his hands on my skin. Simultaneously, there is a part of my brain that’s saying,
Is this a good idea?
But it’s pretty muffled.

After a minute, we stop for breath. He’s leaning his chin near the top of my head. I hear him inhale, and I know he’s about to say something. Please don’t let it be
We should stop
. Instead he says one word, hoarsely, into my ear, and it’s ‘Wow.’

‘I know.’ I bury my head in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his skin.

‘This is definitely the highlight of
my evening.’

‘Mine too,’ I say, close to his ear, and then I start kissing the ear.

He starts kissing my neck, down towards my collarbone, and then my shoulder. Now he’s kissing my bikini strap – not just the skin beneath it, but the actual strap. My arms
are around his neck while I hook one leg around his. Then he sinks underwater, and kneels in front of me, holding my thighs and kissing my
stomach, then moving lower . . . Suddenly I feel a bit self-conscious, and I pull him up.

‘Hey. I was enjoying myself.’

I lean forward and kiss his chest. I put my arms around him, letting them travel down towards his shorts, and press him closer until I can hear him gasp. Gently, he eases my bikini strap off my shoulder, and starts kissing downwards to the side of my breast. He spends a while
there, kissing the curve of it, until I think I’m about to die, melt or explode, depending on what he does next.

‘Alice,’ he says in my ear. It sounds as if it’s taking him all his strength to say it.

‘Yes?’

‘If you want me to stop, please tell me now.’

‘No,’ I say, close to his ear. ‘I don’t want to stop.’

He puts his arm around me, and holds me even tighter.

‘Let’s go inside,’ he says.
And – I can’t quite believe he’s doing this, but he is – he scoops me up and
carries
me up the wading steps, out of the pool, only depositing me to pick up his jeans and my nightdress. Our progress inside is impeded by the fact that we’re stopping to kiss each other every few seconds. We tiptoe into his room, closing the door as quietly as possible because, let’s face it, the worst possible thing
would be for someone – i.e., Luther – to hear us right now.