The Out of Office Girl: Summer comes early with this gorgeous rom-com!

by Nicola Doherty

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

'I really enjoyed this book, it made me feel sunny and happy' Kate, Me, My Books and I . Banish those winter blues with this fantastic feel-good novel, perfect if you love Mhairi McFarlane, Joanna Bolouri and Cate Woods. Summer is coming! Alice Roberts is having a rubbish summer. She's terrified of her boss, her career is stalling, and she's just been dumped - by text message. But things are about to change... When her boss Olivia is taken ill, Alice is sent on the work trip of a lifetime: to a villa in Sicily, to edit the autobiography of Hollywood bad boy Luther Carson. But it's not all yachts, nightclubs and Camparis. Luther's arrogant agent Sam wants him to ditch the book. Luther himself is gorgeous, charming and impossible to read. There only seems to be one way to get his attention, and it's not one her boss would approve of. Alice is out of the office, and into deep trouble... What reviewers are saying about THE OUT OF OFFICE GIRL... 'A modern-day Roman Holiday : smart, funny and totally unputdownable' Gemma Burgess 'A great beach read' Star 'A fantastic novel. Smart, funny and romantic' Jenny Banks, Novelicious 'A hugely enjoyable read from start to finish' Chick Lit Chloe 'Nicola Doherty joins the ranks of Bagshawe and Kinsella ... a fantastic debut novel' Sarah, Keep Calm and Read a Book

Release date: March 1, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 321

Sample

I’m lying on my bed, watching Luther undress. I’ve seen this so many times but it never fails to mesmerise me. First the T-shirt slips off, white against his tanned skin, leaving his dark brown hair even more messed up than before. The expression in his brown eyes is hard to read – he looks passionate, intense, vulnerable. His hands drop towards his jeans. Slowly, he starts to undo his belt . . .

My phone is ringing. I answer it reluctantly, my eyes still on the screen.

‘Hi Alice!’ It’s Erica. ‘I know it’s last minute but we’re meeting some people in the Dove. Want to come? Or are you out somewhere? I hear voices.’

‘No, no.’ I find the remote and press pause. ‘I’d love to but I’m working.’ I instantly regret saying this, because I know what Erica’s going to say.

‘Oh, come on. You’re always taking work home. You should be more assertive. Work–life balance.’

Oh God. I love my sister but I can’t deal with her tonight.

‘I will. Listen, I’m sorry about tonight, but next time definitely.’

‘You should. You don’t want to sit sulking at home, you know,’ are her parting words.

That’s where she’s wrong. Sit sulking at home is exactly what I want to do right now, that and veg out in front of Luther Carson films (which counts as work) and eat Pringles and drink white wine and generally avoid thinking about the fact that after two months together, Simon doesn’t care about me enough to break up with me officially.

Although I know I shouldn’t have, I’ve saved all my text messages from Simon. It’s like a mini history of our eight-week relationship. There’s the first one he ever sent – ‘Hi Alice, great to meet you last night. Drink next week? Simon x’. It reads like a really precious memory of a golden age when he still liked me. They continue nicely for a while – ‘Thanks for a great night. See you v soon S xx’. But over the past few weeks, the ‘x’s started to disappear and the texts became more casual and infrequent, saying things like ‘Running late sorry’ or ‘Not sure. Will let you know next week.’

‘It’s constructive dismissal,’ Erica said when I first told her what was happening. ‘He hasn’t actually fired you, but he’s changed the terms of your employment so that your previous job – the relationship – no longer exists.’

It’s good to have an employment lawyer as a sister, I suppose, but sometimes Erica can be a bit too businesslike. The very last text from Simon says: ‘Sorry can’t do Weds. Will call to rearrange.’

That was over a week ago. At first I tried not to worry about it, reminding myself that he’s very busy at work (he’s just been promoted). But deep down I knew he was losing interest. Yesterday I swallowed my pride and sent him a quick, friendly text just to give it one last chance. That was over – I check my phone – twenty-eight hours ago, and he hasn’t replied. I still can’t quite believe it. How can you dump someone after you’ve been together for two months, not even via phone or text or email but via silence?

My flatmate Martin must be back now, because I can hear the football in the room next door. Martin’s favourite activities are watching European Cup football at top volume – he actually records them and watches his favourites over and over during the summer – and cooking weird meals, like pasta bake with salami and avocado, that take hours and take over the entire kitchen. He drives me crazy, actually, but I really like my other flatmate Ciara. She’s very easy-going: she always has a bottle of wine in the fridge and she didn’t say anything when I woke everyone up with the smoke alarm by making toast at 3 a.m. She’d just broken up with her boyfriend when I first moved in, so she was a bit depressed, but she seems much better now.

Someone must have scored a goal; I hear roaring and cheering. My room was originally the dining room, and the wall dividing it from the living room is actually a pair of doors with rectangular glass panes. It means you can hear everything next door, and vice versa. When I moved in, I bought some thick white textured paper from Paperchase and took some cardboard boxes home from work, and filled up all the squares with white textured card. It took me an entire weekend. It’s not Elle Decoration, but it doesn’t look too bad. Simon hated it – he thought it was tacky and studenty. Is that why he went off me? Does he think I’m too studenty to be his girlfriend? Come to think of it, he never actually referred to me as his girlfriend, though I introduced him as my boyfriend last time we met some of my friends . . .

OK, that’s it. I’m going to stop torturing myself by thinking of all the things I might or might not have done wrong with Simon. I settle back on to my duvet and pour myself another glass of wine. It was a bit of a last-minute request from my boss but I’m very happy to watch Fever again. I think it’s up there with Footloose and Dirty Dancing, though some would say it’s a shameless nineties rip-off of both. We’re publishing Luther’s autobiography, and Olivia wants me to pick a still from Fever to use in the picture section of the book. Which isn’t exactly a hardship. I make a note of the time on the LCD, writing ‘L topless’ beside it and a star.

Soon the all-too-brief bedroom scene is over. There’s a scene with Jimmy and Donna’s family, where they make it clear that they hate him. The headmaster from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off plays the father. Now Jimmy is trying to persuade Donna to leave her uptight Harvard fiancé and run off to New York with him. They start arguing about it, and then he stops and just asks her to dance with him instead. They don’t say anything while they dance, but when the dance is over she tells him she’ll go with him.

I love this scene. It sounds crazy, but when I watch it, I don’t feel that Luther is acting – I feel that he is living it, and means it. He really wants to persuade her to trust him and stay with him, not by arguing with her but by showing her what they mean to each other. It’s so romantic. What a pity that life isn’t a teen dance movie, and that real men don’t do things like this. Instead, they dump you via the silent treatment.

Maybe I’ll have a therapeutic DVD marathon this weekend. I own about thirty DVDs, mostly black-and-white romantic films, or dance or teen movies. I’ve got all the classics: The Breakfast Club, Footloose, Dirty Dancing (obviously), Girls Just Want to Have Fun . . . then I have a few randoms: Coyote Ugly, Heathers, Point Break (Patrick Swayze and Keanu Reeves in wetsuits), The Last Legionnaire (not my kind of film, but Luther is brilliant in it) and my favourite, Working Girl. I also have All About Eve, To Have and Have Not (I love, love, love Lauren Bacall), Spellbound and Brief Encounter (though, in my current state, that one might push me over the edge). Then there’s an Audrey Hepburn box set Erica gave me – my favourite is Roman Holiday. My friends all take the piss out of me for how much I adore these films. But when real life and relationships are the way they are, who can blame me?

I can hear my ringtone again over the music. I press pause and scrabble around on my duvet and my bedside table, and finally locate my phone under the bed. I still always have that slight hope that it’s going to be Simon with some explanation – death in the family, doubts about our relationship, even a dead pet would do – but of course it isn’t. Missed call: Olivia. Oh God. Why is my boss calling me at 9 p.m. on a Wednesday night?

It’s not that I’m scared of Olivia exactly. But she’s unpredictable. Most of the time she’s great, but occasionally she can go berserk over something completely unexpected. I call her back right away but there’s no answer so I just leave a message. I hope there isn’t some catastrophe at work and that I haven’t done anything wrong – again.

On my screen, Jimmy is paused with his arms around Donna, looking down at her as if he never wants to let her go. Donna is played by Jennifer Kramer, who was a big star at the time but has never really been heard of since. Oh, Luther, I think. How I wish I were on that dance floor with you right now, far away from my life. But that’s not going to happen, so I finish watching the film, write up my notes for Olivia, and go to sleep.

As I rattle in to work on the Tube the next day, I can’t stop chewing over the whole Simon thing, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. He seemed so keen in the beginning, taking my number the night we met and texting me the very next day. I couldn’t believe it when he kept calling me – secretly I thought he was out of my league. He’s got a fairly hectic lifestyle: he’s a marketing manager for a big drinks company that sponsors lots of events, and he does some freelance journalism on the side. He also was, is, gorgeous – very tall, taller than me for once, with dark curly hair and dark blue eyes. And he’s smart, and good company, and most of the time we had a lot to talk about – he reads a lot of interesting books and we used to discuss his freelance writing and all the high-profile events he organises. So what changed? What did I do?

It’s true that he’s been a bit distracted lately, and our last date was a disaster. We went to an exhibition he had to go to for work, where he knew a lot of people. Rather than cling to his side, I tried to circulate as much as possible, but I didn’t know enough people and somehow I kept on being circulated back in his direction. Afterwards we walked around Chelsea for ages trying to find somewhere to eat: everywhere was closed or too expensive and we ended up in Pizza Express, which was bad because Simon hates chains. I should never have suggested going for dinner in the first place. He had a cold and seemed a bit off, and I was going on too much about a problem at work. He didn’t want to come home with me because he had an early meeting the next day. In fact . . . he didn’t come home with me after our previous date, either. And the time before, he did come home with me, but—

Aargh. I’m not going to think about it any more: it’s too depressing. I reach for the copy of Metro wedged behind the man opposite me, smiling apologetically at him, and flip straight to the Guilty Pleasures section. There’s Luther, papped on his way to the airport in Rome where he’s been shooting a remake of Roman Holiday. I happen to know he’s on his way to Sicily, to finish writing his book. He’s older now than in Fever – thirty-three – but I think he looks even better these days, with his brooding dark eyes and spiky brown hair. He’s effortlessly elegant in grey jeans and black cowboy boots, which would make any other man look ridiculously camp. The publicity department will probably clip it, but I put it in my bag just in case.

The thing that gets me about Simon is that this always seems to happen to me. I go out with someone, he’s super keen at first, and after about two months I get dumped. I wish I knew what I was doing wrong, but the one person who could probably tell me is Simon, and I’m not going to ask him. Imagine if, after a relationship ended, you had to fill in an evaluation form. I would score Simon quite highly on everything except the way he’s ended it. Even if he went off me for some complicated reason that has nothing to do with me, and even if we were only together two months, I deserve more than this silent treatment. I’m beginning to think I should send him a text saying there’s no point getting back in touch – he’s dumped. Though I suppose it might be a bit too late for that.

It’s early when I get into the office, and there’s nobody there but Poppy. She’s sitting at her desk, holding a hand mirror and placing something carefully on to her eye, mouth half open. If it was anyone else, I would assume they were inserting a contact lens or something, but I know that Poppy is putting on her fake eyelashes. She must have something special on today; she doesn’t normally wear those in the office.

‘Morning, darling,’ she says out of the corner of her mouth, waving to me with one crooked finger.

Before I met her, I would never have believed that people like Poppy could exist, let alone be let loose in offices. Her clothes are mainly vintage or customised or both: often they’re almost costumes. Today’s outfit, a white crochet mini-dress that looks very cute with her brown Afro and long legs, is pretty understated by her usual standards. She has what practically amounts to a dressing-up box under her desk, and she insists that we clock off every Friday at four for tea and cake. I didn’t know what to make of Poppy at first – I was a bit shy of her, in fact, as she has such a big personality. But despite her frothy exterior she is totally down-to-earth, and by now she is a real friend. Unlike Claudine, who is my bête noir – appropriate because she’s French, as she frequently reminds us.

‘You look nice,’ I say, hanging up my jacket. ‘Is that dress new?’

‘Thanks!’ She sounds pleased. ‘It’s from a charity shop in St John’s Wood. Full of lovely rich ladies’ cast-offs. We should go there some time.’ Poppy is always finding gorgeous things in charity shops – a useful skill when you’re on a salary like ours. She puts down her mirror and turns round to face me.

‘How are you? Any word from Mr Dempsey?’

‘Nope,’ I say. ‘I think that means it’s over.’ I’m glad no one else is around and that I can just tell her privately now. Somehow the humiliation is as bad, or worse, as the missing-Simon part.

‘Oh, that’s rubbish,’ Poppy says sympathetically. ‘I can’t believe he hasn’t even called you, what a bast— what a pity. I’m so sorry.’ It’s nice of her to say that because I don’t think she ever really liked Simon, for some reason.

‘Is there any chance he might be unwell or something?’ she asks. ‘Trapped under something heavy? Amnesia?’

‘I wish. That’s what I thought at first, but it’s never that, is it?’

‘No. They’re never dead, they’re just not calling.’

Poppy can always make me laugh, even when I don’t feel like it. While I wait for my computer to wake up, I slip out of my ballet flats and put on the slightly less flat shoes I wear for work. Poppy nearly died laughing the first time she saw me do this. In contrast to hers, my desk is pretty boring, just endless piles of proofs and papers. My only decoration is a giant poster of Luther that she and the other girls gave me when we got the book. They meant it as a joke, but I like having it up there to inspire me.

‘Are you free for lunch today?’ I ask. I’m suddenly craving a carb-and grease-fest.

‘I’d love to, but I’ve got an agent lunch,’ Poppy says. ‘Could do tomorrow, though?’

Poppy was promoted to editor last month, so she’s doing more grown-up lunches these days. I have to admit, I was jealous at first. We joined around the same time – in fact, she joined a month after me. But she deserves it: she’s incredibly bright, and she works very hard. With her bargain-hunter’s eye, she’s just snapped up a brilliant first novel and everyone is excited about it. Anyway, I hope that if I keep my head down and work hard, I’ll be promoted some time in the next year. I’ve been here long enough; four years is make-or-break time. I want to make editor before I’m twenty-seven; so I still have about six months.

My emails have loaded now. I can feel the stress rising in my chest as I see them queue up relentlessly. Olivia tends to copy me in on her emails, and then people copy me in to their replies, so it all adds up. My title is assistant editor, which means that I edit a lot of Olivia’s books, and then I’m also her assistant, which means a lot of juggling. It’s all good experience, though. I hope so, anyway.

‘Cup of ambition?’ says Poppy, waving her coffee mug.

‘Yes, please.’ Come to think of it, where is Olivia? She’s normally in by now. And what was she calling about last night? I have had my fair share of disasters over the years, but I thought I’d done quite well lately. None of her emails look too serious – there’s an agent complaining about a cover, and an author who’s upset about his Amazon ranking, but nothing catastrophic.

It must be something to do with Luther’s book. That is a code orange situation: it’s running very late and everyone is getting panicked about it. We’ve just had the first draft in, and it’s terrible. It skips over all the interesting parts – such as his relationship with his father; the drugs and rehab; his whirlwind marriage and divorce; the time he disappeared for a year . . . I think Olivia’s been slightly taken aback by how much I know about Luther Carson. It’s not that I have a crush on him exactly. Well, OK, of course I do – who doesn’t? – but I also think he’s a very intriguing character. In fact, I was the one who suggested him as a subject for an autobiography.

I decide to try Olivia again. There’s still no answer: that’s strange. Just after I hang up, my phone rings. I wonder if this is her now, but the display says Daphne Totnall – our managing director’s PA.

‘What does she want?’ I ask aloud.

‘Who?’ Poppy asks, coming back from the kitchen.

‘Hello,’ says Daphne. ‘Can you come up and see Alasdair please?’

‘Of course.’ I hang up. What the hell is happening this morning?

Poppy hands me my coffee. ‘What’s up?’ she asks curiously.

‘The MD wants to see me,’ I say. I’m already walking towards the lift. More people have arrived by now, including the horrible Claudine, who is channelling Audrey Hepburn today in skinny black trousers and pearls. They all hear Poppy call after me, ‘Good luck! Don’t jump!’

As I ride the lift up to Alasdair’s office, I wipe my clammy palms on my skirt and examine myself in the mirrored wall. What possessed me to wear a black skirt with a white shirt? I look like a waitress. Otherwise, I look the same as ever: straight, long blond hair, embarrassingly pink cheeks, anxious expression. Daphne barely looks up from her spreadsheets as she tells me to go straight inside.

I’ve never actually been in here before. The office is enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a panoramic view over the Thames. There is Alasdair’s spaniel, asleep in a basket beside the window. And there is Alasdair himself getting up from his desk.

‘Alice. Thanks very much for coming up,’ he says smoothly, shaking my hand and motioning me to sit down, just as if I was a powerful old buddy of his. He is about my dad’s age, with badgery grey hair, twinkly dark eyes and a deep tan from his frequent sailing and shooting holidays.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he says.

What bad news? Am I being fired? But if I am, there should be someone here from HR, surely. And shouldn’t I have had a few warnings first? I’ll have to call Erica . . .

‘Olivia has to have emergency surgery,’ Alasdair continues, ‘for a double hernia. She’s in hospital and they’ll operate as early as they can tomorrow. She’ll be out of action for at least two weeks, maybe more.’

I put my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘That’s awful.’ Poor Olivia. That sounds gruesome. Though I have to say I’m also relieved that I’m not going to be fired. How did this happen? She was completely fine yesterday.

‘We’ve just spoken on the phone, about her various projects,’ he continues.

‘Of course.’ I know Olivia’s schedule by heart, so I can help him with this. It’s going to mean a lot of extra work. I imagine I’ll keep working on the books I have already, and take on most of the others – maybe we can farm some out . . .

I suddenly find that Alasdair is talking and I haven’t been listening.

‘. . . Luther Carson. I believe the manuscript isn’t up to scratch?’

‘Oh! Well—’ Now I realise I have my arms folded, and my legs crossed and folded round the chair legs, like a pretzel. Slowly, so it doesn’t seem too obvious, I rearrange myself into a more confident-looking posture. ‘No, it’s not. It’s just not personal enough. It leaves out all the most interesting parts. Brian’s very good, so I’m sure he’s done his best,’ I add quickly. Brian is the ghostwriter. ‘It just looks as though he hasn’t had any proper input from Luther yet.’

‘Well, we’ll have to fix that,’ Alasdair says. ‘I’m not expecting The Moon’s a Balloon. But it’s got to be readable. It’s got to have drama; it’s got to have a bit of misery – not too much, but we have to have his lows as well as his highs. He knows that. It’s in the contract. We put in a specific clause stipulating that there would be significant content relating to his childhood, the drugs and the divorce, and the time he disappeared for a year.’

I nod. The mention of this clause gives me a strange, uneasy feeling – I can’t quite put my finger on it though.

‘So, as you know, we need a finished manuscript in about . . .?’ He looks at me expectantly. Get it right.

‘Four weeks.’

‘Four weeks at the latest, in time to have copies in early September. We need this book to turn over a million pounds this Christmas, or we won’t make budget.’

I do know all this, but it sounds extra scary when Alasdair says it.

‘So, as you know, we’ve provided Luther with somewhere to stay in Sicily – a very nice place, near Taormina, at our expense, to sort the book out. The ghostwriter is there with him. Before Olivia got ill, she and I talked about her going over there to help him, to apply some pressure, edit the book as it comes out. I think you should go.’

What? Me go to Sicily? Has he lost his mind?

‘Well, of course, if you think that’s the best thing,’ I hear myself saying. ‘And work with Brian?’

‘No, work with Luther. Sit him down and exercise your influence and generally sit on him until he finishes this book.’

I boggle at the picture he’s just created – for a number of reasons. Is he serious? How on earth am I going to exert my influence on Luther Carson? I don’t have any influence.

‘Alice, we have given this some thought, and I do think it’s the best option. Normally we would prefer to send someone more senior, but you’re the most familiar with the project. Olivia tells me you know everything there is to know about him. And I hear great things about your editing. She was very impressed with your work on the pet rescue memoir.’

The pet rescue memoir: what a nightmare. Three horses, twenty cats, twelve dogs and assorted birds and reptiles, and one author who loved animals as much as she hated humans. A batty pet lady, though, is not the same as an A-list film star. I’m about to try to phrase this in a more tactful way, but Alasdair is still speaking.

‘I suggest you spend a day or so wrapping up here and as soon as you can, book yourself an open return to Sicily. Daphne will help you with the details, flights and so on. Have a word with Ellen and the team downstairs to reallocate all your other work, but this takes priority.’

This is all happening way too fast. An hour ago I was Olivia’s assistant and now she’s in hospital and I’m on my way to – to work with Luther Carson. To handle a book more important than any I’ve ever worked on before, with an author who, gorgeous as he is, is probably pretty bloody difficult. I can’t do it. I’m not senior enough, and I don’t have enough experience. I’ll have to tell him I need time to think about it, or something.

Alasdair looks up and says, ‘Is there anything else?’

I open my mouth to say yes, but something stops me.

I’ve just realised something blindingly obvious. This might be scary, but it’s a huge opportunity. He’s giving me the keys to the kingdom. What am I doing, second-guessing and dragging my heels like this? I should be flattered that they’re even asking me. I need to stop wimping-out, right now, and step up.

‘No,’ I say as firmly as I can. ‘That’s all very clear. I’ll handle it.’

Alasdair smiles and stands up to shake my hand.

‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Keep in touch and let me know if you need anything.’

I’m halfway to the door when he calls me back.

‘Alice,’ he says, ‘your current title is assistant editor, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I say, turning round. Is he going to rethink because I’m too junior? Don’t change your mind, I think frantically. I want to go! I can do it!

‘Well, we’ll have to see about changing that when you come back with the book in your bag,’ he says. ‘Editor, or senior editor, even.’

I force myself not to let out a shriek of joy. ‘That sounds – good,’ I say in a measured tone. ‘Thanks.’

I head out the door in a total daze. I forget to say goodbye to Daphne, and I walk straight into a big pot plant on the way to the lift. My cheeks are flushed and I feel sick and elated at the same time. My big break. That thought keeps repeating itself in my mind, but at the same time there’s another one, that’s even more insistent: I’m going to meet Luther Carson.

‘Did he really say: I want you to sit on him until he writes his book?’ asks Ruth, almost crying with laughter.

‘Yes, he did,’ I say happily. We’re sitting at a tiny table outside The Cow on Westbourne Park Road, near where Ruth lives. It’s not especially handy for me, but much as I love her, Ruth is one of those friends whom you travel to see, not the other way around. Be. . .