The Out of Office Girl (5 page)

‘Listen, Alice,’ he says, in a deceptively reasonable tone that rings all my alarm bells, ‘Luther did sign up to
write a book. But we never intended for it to be some kind of exposé. That was clear from the start. Someone like Luther is not going to benefit from the public knowing every last thing about his life. I don’t want their perception of him as a person interfering with his range as an actor.’

Then why on earth did you agree to let him write a book?
I think. But even as I do, my heart is sinking.
This is exactly the kind of speech I was dreading; I just didn’t know I would be getting it less than an hour after landing. I grit my teeth and decide to bring out the big guns.

‘But it’s in the contract. We put in a clause saying that he would be required to include –’ I frantically try to remember the exact phrase – ‘significant content about his childhood, the drugs and the divorce. And the
year he disappeared.’

To my horror, Sam laughs. ‘You’re kidding, right? There is no way we would ever agree to something like that.’

‘But you did,’ I say, uncertainly. Though at the same time, I’m having a nightmarish feeling of doubt.

‘Seriously,’ he says, glancing at me. ‘There’s no such clause.’

Oh, God. Is it possible he’s right? We did add that clause at a late stage. That is, Olivia
asked me to add it to the form we fill in when we create a new contract. And I added it. Didn’t I?

Or did I?

My mouth is dry, and I’m swallowing repeatedly and having to catch my breath. Instinctively my fingers reach for
the door handle and for a mad moment I contemplate opening the car door, jumping out and running straight back to the airport to get the next plane back, so I can check that
bloody contract. But that’s not possible, so I try to keep calm. I’ll ring Poppy. She’ll know what to do. At least, she’ll be able to tell me one way or the other if I really have left it out. I just can’t think about it now: what with the late night, and no luggage, and Sam, I’m flattened.

For the rest of the drive, there’s no more chat. He’s clearly not going to bother making any more effort
at conversation, so neither am I. Before too long we’re rattling downhill, along a rough track with no lights that leads to a bay. A bank of cypresses is shielding something white: the villa. We arrive at high walls and electric gates. Sam leans out and zaps something, and we drive in. As he parks alongside two other cars – one a sleek-looking vintage number – I see a name written up on a pillar:
Al Plemmirio.

We walk around the side of the villa, to a terrace overlooking the bay, with a pool that reflects thousands of stars. I can hear the sea, and crickets. There’s a table here under a canopy, with several bottles on it – I spot champagne and red wine – and some chairs; it looks like it’s been recently abandoned.

‘I guess you can meet them tomorrow,’ says Sam.

Inside, I’m so tired
that all I can take in is the delicious cool, the stone floor, and a vague impression of spacious rooms. Sam shows me to a bedroom at the end of a passage, and he strides away. Finally I’ve got rid of him. The first thing I do, once I’m on my own, is pull out my phone and call Poppy. There’s no answer, but I leave her a message asking her to call me back as soon as possible. Then I text my parents
to let them know I’ve landed safely – though that’s debatable.

FIVE

I’m woken by an unfamiliar feeling: warm sunlight on my face.

Squinting, I can see the sun is coming through some shutters, which are painted pale blue. The room is small but with a high ceiling. The walls look old and whitewashed, and there are dark stone tiles on the floor. There’s no furniture aside from a massive chest of drawers with an old-fashioned mirror on top. So here I am: in
Sicily, in Luther’s villa, with no clothes. I think I can hear the sea outside. I check my phone: 9.05 a.m., local time.

There’s an en suite bathroom, and I’m thrilled to see it’s equipped with towels and some posh toiletries including, thank goodness, a toothbrush. I had a mini deodorant in my bag so at least I have the basics. After my shower, I pull on the clothes I wore on the plane – cream
linen trousers and a navy T-shirt – and brush my hair. It could do with a wash, but I don’t see a hairdryer and I don’t want to have to waltz around on my first morning with dripping-wet hair.

I put on a discreet coat of mascara, and stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if there’s anything else I can do to improve my appearance. I can’t believe I have to make my first impression on Luther
with dirty hair and wearing
a crumpled, day-old ensemble. Why, why did I have to check in my bag? Well, it can’t be helped. I’m never going to resemble, even vaguely, the women that he sees in LA. He’ll probably have seen
Bridget Jones:
everyone knows English girls are scruffy and badly dressed. I’ll just have to rely on personality.

I emerge from my room. The place is much bigger than it looked
from outside; everywhere there are high ceilings with oak beams, and tiled floors, and a feeling of calm, in contrast to the butterflies in my stomach. I head towards the back of the house, where I can hear voices. I step outside, and what I see takes my breath away.

The terrace overlooks a little bay with steep, forested sides that slope down to a huge blue sea, which meets a huge blue sky.
At the far left end of the terrace is a pool, with nothing behind it but green hillside – I can make out pine trees and here and there a palm tree – and the sea. To my right is the long table I saw last night, now completely tidy and half shaded by a vast canvas canopy. Sam is sitting there in the sun. He’s working through some papers and tapping on his BlackBerry, while drinking espresso and eating
bread rolls with butter. I imagine he misses his protein shake or wheatgrass or whatever he normally has in LA.

‘Um – good morning,’ I say.

‘Hi,’ he says briefly, barely glancing up. I sit down, wondering where Luther is.

Hearing a noise in the pool, I turn around and realise that there is someone in it, at the far end – I can just see his head and shoulders above the water. There’s a splash,
and he disappears underwater, emerging at the end closer to us a few moments later. He hoists himself out. It’s definitely him. There’s that tattoo on his arm. And there’s that bare, brown chest and those broad shoulders – defined but
not overdeveloped, tanned and glistening wet. Oh, my God. This is like some sort of fantasy being enacted before my very eyes. With unhurried movements, he wraps
a white towel around his waist, tucking it in around his gorgeous washboard stomach. Now he’s walking over, dripping wet, with his easy, athletic stride. He holds out a hand – which is completely wet – and I shake it. I’m touching his hand!

‘You must be Alice,’ he says. ‘I’m Luther.’

He knows I know that, and I know he knows I know: it just adds to the surreality of it all. It’s hard to describe
the experience of meeting someone very famous. It doesn’t feel as if they’ve entered your world; it feels more like you’ve entered theirs. I feel as though I’m in a film: one of Luther’s films.

‘Hello,’ I say, spellbound.

He’s not as tall as I expected – in fact, he’s only slightly taller than me. But he is every bit as good-looking – in fact, more so. I’ve never seen such a handsome face in
real life: long, lightly stubbled jaw, high cheekbones, a beautiful mouth; light brown eyes, squinting in the bright sun. It’s not just his looks, though; it’s a magnetism that he has. I can almost feel myself inhaling it. Standing there, with the burning blue sky behind him, he looks like something out of an ad or a film – which, of course, he is. I’m not even conscious of my wrinkled clothes or
my three-day-old hair; I’m just drinking him in.

He throws himself into a chair opposite me, still dripping.

‘So, Alice, how are you?’ His accent is broader than I’d expected – more New York-sounding. My brain starts reciting bits from his Wikipedia entry: Michael Luther Carson, born in Camden, New Jersey . . . later moved to Queens . . .

‘I – great!’ is all I can muster. My hand is still wet,
and
I’m not sure what to do with it. Do I wipe it? And if so, where?

‘I’m excited you’re here,’ he says. ‘I never had an editor before. Lots of directors, but no editors. How’s that going to be?’

I smile at him, I hope reassuringly. ‘I’m here to help!’

‘Good.’ He looks at me thoughtfully. His eyes aren’t brown, as I thought, but a sort of honey-hazel colour . . . or amber, even? ‘I’m kind of
having writer’s block at the moment and I could use your help.’

‘Well – that’s what we’re here for!’ This is encouraging: it already seems as though he’s motivated.

‘You know, Sam here doesn’t think I can finish the book, but we’re going to prove him wrong, OK?’ He gives me a wicked grin, and my stomach flips.

‘Sure, man,’ says Sam, smiling but not looking up from his paperwork. ‘You prove
me wrong.’ I can tell he’s been listening to our entire exchange, not missing a thing.

Someone’s coming out of the house. An elegant lady with beautifully coiffed grey hair, wearing a blue apron over a black dress, has appeared with coffee, which she pours for me and Luther. Of course: the staff.

‘Alice, this is Maria Santa,’ says Sam. He adds something to the lady in Italian, which I don’t
understand. She looks at me and then at Sam, asking him something; he smiles and shakes his head and they both laugh – he’s being uncharacteristically charming to her, I notice.

I watch, fascinated, as Luther adds milk to his coffee, and starts eating some figs.
I’m watching Luther Carson have his breakfast
. Maria Santa gives me some bread and butter, but I’m not totally sure if I can eat anything
right now. Sam’s phone starts ringing. He excuses himself and walks away, talking.

‘What a wonderful place to work on the book!’ I say to
Luther. My heart is racing with adrenaline and I’m pretty relieved to find myself talking so fluently.

‘Hey, I’m glad you like it,’ Luther says. ‘I’m just sorry it’s not Ibiza; I know how you Brits love it there.’

‘I’ve never been,’ I tell him. Though he
could probably tell that just from looking at me.

‘I guess the best part about this place is we can lose the photographers, more or less,’ Luther continues. He points to the bay with his knife. ‘Unless they sneak up in a boat with long-range cameras.’

‘We’ve been pretty discreet,’ says Sam, rejoining us at the table.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ I say. I feel as if I’m in a huge blue heaven, suspended
between the sky and the sea. I can see lemon trees in the terraced garden beside us, and cactuses, and growing over the white walls is a brilliant hot-pink flower, the one you see everywhere in films set in the Mediterranean – bougainvillea, that’s it. I realise for a second I’ve almost forgotten where I am. It’s a shock to come back to earth and realise I’m here in Sicily, discussing the possibility
of a paparazzi approach with Luther Carson and his agent.

So the good news is that he seems utterly charming and down-to-earth, just as I knew he would be – much nicer than his agent. He’s not necessarily spilling his innermost thoughts yet, but that will come. The bad news is he’s so attractive that I’m going to have to keep calm and concentrate, and do my best not to stare at him. I decide
to gently introduce the topic of the book.

‘So – I don’t know what your plans for today are, Luther, but maybe some time this morning, we could sit down together and – talk about the book so far?’

He nods. ‘Sure thing. We can have a creative chat.’ He smiles at me. Wow. I’ve seen that smile so often on film,
but to be on the receiving end of it – I’m almost knocked sideways. I’m so happy he
seems to like me; maybe this is going to be easier than I thought.

‘Want me to sit in?’ Sam asks.

‘No, I got it. Hey, lady.’ For a second I’m confused, but then I realise Luther’s talking to someone behind me.

Padding across the terrace, wearing a white bikini with a transparent pink shirt floating over it, is one of the most stunning girls I’ve ever seen outside the pages of a magazine. For
an awful second I think it’s Sienna Miller, but it’s not. Her bikini is effortlessly set off by a few different slender and chunky necklaces – I can never accessorise like that. She’s my height and also blonde, but the resemblance ends there. Where I’m a pale size twelve, she’s incredibly slim, and tanned a perfect gold, and while this morning my hair is hanging in limp curtains, hers is rippling
down her shoulders in buttery, beachy waves and curls.

‘Annabel, this is Luther’s editor Alice; Alice, this is Annabel,’ says Sam.

‘Luther’s what? Oh. I
think
someone mentioned you,’ says Annabel in a voice that is as sweet, fake and ice cold as Diet Coke. She’s English! How funny: I thought she looked American. Her Sloaney accent instantly reminds me of school bullies, the King’s Road and lots
of things I want to forget. Is she Luther’s girlfriend? I really, really hope not, for all sorts of reasons.

‘Annabel and I just finished shooting
Roman Holiday
together,’ Luther tells me.

‘Gosh,’ I say, like an idiot. ‘Who did you play?’

Annabel gives me a big, false smile. ‘I played Jane? She’s the Princess’s main lady-in-waiting. It’s a supporting role. I have a lot of time on screen.’

She doesn’t look very nice – that is, she does look very nice in a stunning model or actress way, but she is looking
at me in a way that makes me feel even more crumpled than I am. So much for English girls being badly groomed: she’s perfect. Even her nails are beautiful: not painted but buffed to a shine. She sits down beside Luther, props a lovely foot up on the chair beside me and takes a dainty
sip of coffee.

‘That sounds great,’ I say, to make conversation. ‘It must have been so exciting working with Natasha Pullman. I love her. She reminds me of Audrey Hepburn.’

The words are barely out of my mouth when I realise this remark was a big mistake. Annabel is looking at me with complete loathing. Her eyes are a beautiful turquoise colour, like a swimming pool, but there’s also something
slightly crazy about them.