The Last Word

Tabby Riley’s online life was a roaring success. Her blog had hundreds of followers, and legions of young fans ardently awaited her every tweet. Her real life, however, was a bit more of a disappointment. Living in a rundown flat in North London, scratching a living writing magazine articles on ‘How To Please Your Man in Bed’ wasn’t where she thought she’d be at twenty-six – especially when there was a serious lack of action in her own bedroom.

Although that might all be about to change when she’s offered a real journalist position at online newspaper The Type – and gains a sexy new editor, Harry Shulman, to work with. Harry’s confident, smooth talking, and completely aware that he drives Tabby mad. Which is fine, because Tabby’s dated an editor before, and it’s never, happening again. Ever. But as her reputation at the paper grows, Tabby has to wonder: is it time to get out from behind the screen and live her life in the real world?

The Last Word

A. L. Michael

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © A. L. Michael 2014

A. L. Michael asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472095237

Version date: 2018-07-23

A. L. MICHAEL

is a twenty-something writer from North London. She has a BA in Literature with Creative Writing, an MA in Creative Entrepreneurship (both from UEA) and is studying for an MSc in Creative Writing for Therapeutic Purposes. She is not at all dependent on her student discount card.

She is a creative writing workshop facilitator and English tutor, as well as being the writer in residence at Red Door Studios in Newham, and is currently directing a brand new literary festival called Words With Edge. She enjoys expensive chocolate, cheap wine, and has an alarming penchant for animal puns. Occasionally, she sleeps.

This book is dedicated to all those twenty-something women trying to get their lives together and not feel inadequate about it.

And for Wise Owl Elizabeth Kennedy for pointing that out.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

This cannot be my life, Tabby Riley thought as she finished her latest article. Four hundred words on the dire consequences of plucking outside your brow line. She needed ice cream.

Rhi was sitting in her usual spot in the middle of the living room floor and Tabby had to skip over the sea of papers and books surrounding her to get into the kitchen. She retrieved the Ben & Jerry’s and a spoon, then stood in the doorway, watching her housemate.

‘Do you think I’m a bad feminist?’ Tabby asked, recalling the last few articles on weight-loss, decoding male body language and how to dress like a pixie dream girl.

‘Yes.’ Rhi didn’t look up. ‘But I think you’re an excellent person. So could you hold out on whatever crisis you’re about to have until I finish this chapter? Please?’

It was hard to refuse when Rhi said ‘please’. It happened so rarely.

‘Sure, it was nothing.’ Tabby picked at the chocolate chips, suddenly not so in the mood for ice cream. ‘I just get so bloody tired of myself sometimes.’

‘Well, luckily I never do. Be a love and put the kettle on? I’ll be done in ten minutes. Warn the biscuit tin!’

And then Rhi was back in her zone, craned over, picking a pencil out of her blonde dreadlocked bun. She flicked down her blue-rimmed glasses and suddenly Tabby didn’t exist any more. Rhi’s ability to go from zero to studying in under ten seconds was something that had driven Tabby crazy when they were at university, but seeing as Rhi went to her job at the library and then came home to work on her Masters degree, while Tabby wrote articles in her pyjamas all day, it just seemed unfair to hold a grudge.

Everyone else was going somewhere. And Tabby couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to wear real clothes.

She clicked on the kettle, made herself a cup of tea, knowing it would be at least half an hour until Rhi would finish. She unlocked the back door and padded out into the poor little concrete excuse for a garden, hoping to see a little of the fading daylight.

Last year she’d tried to plant herbs – one of her article-inspired kicks – then promptly forgot about them. Their sad, weedy little skeletons drooped over the ceramic pot. Two previously white deck chairs and a plastic table they’d found in a nearby skip sat there like survivors of war. Tabby once again considered how maybe if she got the outward look of her life together, then maybe the real stuff would come along with it. In fact, she was pretty sure she’d written an article on that. She roughly wiped down one of the chairs, and stuck the mug of tea on the table. It wobbled precariously. Next door, the teen boys who thought starting a band called Dyspraxic Elastic was a cool idea practised their guitar solos. Five months on and they weren’t any better.

Tabby rolled herself a cigarette, cheerfully finding not only all the components in her dressing gown pockets, but a lighter in her pyjama bottoms. Score.

‘Hey.’ Rhi stepped outside, stretching in that feline way she had. ‘No tea for me?’

‘Thought you wouldn’t be done for ages.’ Tabby shrugged.

‘Give me a toke on that, then.’ She held out her hand. ‘Why are you smoking anyway?’

Tabby tucked a dark curl behind her ear, then reached around and found an earring caught in the back of her hair. She threw it on the table and grimaced. ‘I feel like I’m falling apart.’

Rhi sat on the doorstep and pulled her jumper around her. ‘We all do. What’s wrong exactly? The articles? I thought they were being well received?’

‘Yeah, but they’re…well, let’s be honest, they’re shit.’

‘Yeah, but it’s shit people want to read. Well-written shit, obviously,’ Rhi hurriedly added, reaching over to take a gulp of Tabby’s tea, then making a face when she realised there was no sugar in it.

‘Yeah.’ Tabby sighed, looking up at the few spindly treetops they could see from the real gardens around them.

Tabby loved London, loved their shitty little house in Tufnell Park. Loved red buses and tube stations and all night kebab shops. She loved her home town in the way most people love their parents – for making you who you are. But sometimes she would give anything to see a bit of greenery, to be out on a farm or sitting by the sea. The constant greyness of London before the spring arrived could be a little hard to bear.

‘Tabs.’ Rhi was easily exasperated, but that was OK, because Tabby was sick of herself too. ‘There’s only so many times I can say this. If you don’t like what you do, don’t do it! Do something else, anything else. Go back to interning at newspapers, or retrain as a teacher or something. Just stop moaning about it.’

At least Rhi was honest. Tabby couldn’t imagine herself saying that to anyone, even if it was true. She felt her shoulders slump as she visualised herself as a teacher, with the little shits throwing apples at her head. She tried as a copy editor, but couldn’t even imagine what she’d wear to work in an office. The only thing that made any sense was ranting and raving about useless things on websites, her blog and Twitter. Things like whether a Jaffa Cake was a cake or biscuit (clearly a cake, it was all in the name and the chocolate-to-base-thickness ratio) or how to trick your body into exercising without it realising.

And her followers loved her, that was true. These young girls who respected her opinions on fashion and music, LOL’d her jokes and ‘Liked’ her updates. Retweeting with the words ‘SO TRUE’ before things she’d written. She was a truth-sayer, bringing snarkiness and sarcasm to the masses of girls who felt too smart to be loveable. That was something, right?

‘Come on, chick,’ Rhi tousled her hair and dragged her to her feet. ‘Let’s raid the chocolate stash and order a pizza for dinner.’

‘Is there wine?’ Tabby asked hopefully.

‘Who do you think you’re talking to? It’s right there in the house rules: the chocolate cupboard shall always be stocked, and there will always be wine in the fridge.’ Rhi grinned. ‘Order the pizza, will you, I just have ten more minutes of reading to do!’

Tabby trudged back upstairs to get her laptop and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Not too bad. She’d trained herself to try and be positive every time she passed by. Not awful. She’d spent enough time writing self-confidence pieces as asides to the make-up guides to know that it was way too easy to feel shit about yourself, and she wasn’t going to propagate that. Nope. It was hard enough being a woman. There was the niggling feeling that by writing articles on how to get the best feline flick with liquid liner she was clearly buying into that though. She tried to dismiss it.

She pulled at her skin, mostly clear, and ran a hand through her short brown curls. OK, so she could do with more sleep, that would stop the dark circles under her eyes, and sure, her lips we chapped, and maybe her face was a little rounder since she’d stopped running. She squared her shoulders and smiled at herself. Not too shabby. Her eyes were clearly her best feature, a greyish blue that seemed to change with the weather, or the right type of eyeliner. She was all right, really.

So maybe all this article stuff wasn’t for nothing. She’d learnt some stuff. It was just that she felt like a fraud. If the girls who followed her knew that the woman doling out fashion advice and ranting about reality TV shows was actually a twenty-six-year-old journalist who didn’t venture out of the house most days, would they still think she spoke the truth?

She logged on to her Twitter account and checked the stats for her blog ‘Miss Twisted Thinks’, the latest entry being what Rhi described as a scarily vicious rant about the housewives of various American states. Seeing the numbers creep up gave Tabby the warm and fuzzies though. When the closest you got to affection and intimacy was with cyber fans who had no idea who you were, maybe it was time to reconsider your life. Or just say, ‘To hell with it,’ and get a cat.

A satisfying ping announced that she had a new email, an official-looking one at that. From the Specialist Blog Editor at The Type, the latest digital newspaper to emerge. Tabby scanned the email, then re-read it three times. Then walked downstairs to Rhi, clutching her laptop.

‘Did you order the pizza yet? No pineapple, please, I can’t bear it – ’ Rhi paused, looking up to see Tabby’s look of confusion. ‘What happened? Did you accidentally stumble onto Rule 34 again? I told you, the internet is full of freaks with Disney fetishes.’

‘I got offered a job.’

‘That’s great!’

‘A real writing job. At an online newspaper. Writing about real issues,’ Tabby said in monotone.

‘What’s the problem? This is amazing! I’m getting fizzy wine, and I won’t even buy the own brand stuff!’ Rhi went to get up.

‘Well, I didn’t apply for a job…this just…appeared.’ Tabby frowned. ‘And the interview is tomorrow.’

Rhi twitched her lips. ‘Do you think it’s a scam?’

Tabby shook her head. ‘The address checks out as the paper’s office, I looked up the Specialist Editor, this Harry Shulman guy, and he seems to be for real. They referenced a few of my articles…am I allowed to be happy about this? Or is it all some big joke?’

Rhi rolled her eyes. ‘You know how I said you needed to cheer the fuck up or do something about it? Well, apparently fate was on my side and knew you were a lazy cow and decided to help me out. So be cheerful about this or so help me Goddess I will – ’

‘Happy, look, see face? Happy face. Go buy wine.’ Tabby grinned.

‘There you go.’ Rhi hugged her fiercely and Tabby felt herself welling up with tears. ‘I’m really proud of you and pleased for you. You’ll see, things are finally starting!’

Tabby took a deep breath. ‘Well, let’s not get carried away. It’s a great opportunity; let’s see what happens. I’ll order that pizza now.’ She froze in the doorway. ‘Oh shit!’

‘What, what now?’ Rhi turned back.

‘Need to do washing! And what do you even wear to an interview? I haven’t been to an interview in three years! And I should have got a haircut and do I have any shoes, or any cash for my Oyster card, what’ll the traffic be like at that time? I haven’t printed any portfolio pieces! I – ’

‘TABITHA RILEY!’ Rhi yelled, forcefully pushing Tabby into a chair. ‘Chill the fuck out. I am going to get wine, you are going to order pizza, and we will sort this out.’

‘Yes, yes we will.’ Tabby pretended to sound in control so that Rhi would stop shouting at her. And continued making lists in her head.

Chapter Two

Tabby hated waiting. Sure, she liked being early and everything running smoothly and having enough time to grab a coffee before a mysterious meeting with an unknown editor. But the email had said ten-thirty. It was now twelve. Her stomach was starting to growl and the longer she waited, the more she realised it was probably a joke at her expense.

The office seemed overly bright; everything white and glass and shining. All the people looked younger than her and yet more switched on. The women were skinny and tall, with razor-sharp tresses and five-inch heels. They strode everywhere, holding massive files. The men were well groomed, young and attractive. Everything about the place seemed designed to make Tabby feel on edge.

At least she looked cute. She was sure of that. The exact meeting of professional and quirky with her smart black trousers, cherry-print blouse, cherry hair clips to pin back her unruly bob, and her smart black heels with red tips. A power outfit with a splash of whimsy. Perfect.

She looked up at the clock on the wall, then back to the receptionist, a waif of a girl who’s own bob was peroxide blonde, along with her eyebrows. So far, she seemed only to be able to pout or grimace. Tabby raised her own – perfectly shaped thanks to last week’s article – eyebrows at the girl.

She rolled her eyes in response. ‘Look, just go in. If he’s busy, he’s busy.’

Great. So helpful.

Tabby crept along the corridor until she came to a glass door with HARRY SHULMAN etched into it. She poked her head around the door and knocked lightly. She could tell the guy behind the desk was going to be a nightmare. She could only hope she had screwed up the times and had accidentally missed the interview. Then she could go home to a bottle of wine, a bar of chocolate and moan until Rhi told her to shut up.

This guy had his feet up on his enormous white desk and was frowning at his iPhone while he reclined in his chair. His large framed glasses were so fashionable that Tabby highly doubted he even needed to wear them. He had a shadow of stubble on his jaw, his cheekbones were painfully prominent and his hair was perfect. Tabby already felt worthless. She was pretty sure as soon as he made eye contact she was going to feel invisible.

It was somehow worse that he looked about her age, and yet had so clearly surpassed her. At least Richard, her last editor, had been in his forties, so his accomplishments seemed just. But this guy. And now she was thinking about Richard, which could only serve to fuck with her head before an interview with an Adonis. Great.

She just had to get through the next ten minutes, then she could fake a severe case of the plague and get the hell out of there. Wine and her imminent mental breakdown were waiting. Maybe she had that disease where she couldn’t leave the house. Maybe she was OCD or a sociopath. She couldn’t deal with other humans and needed to recede into a safe place with internet and back-to-back Buffy episodes. That’s what it was.

She plastered a polite smile across her face. ‘Excuse me, I believe we have an appointment.’

He looked up, took his feet off the desk and nodded grimly. Green eyes. Of course. Why not just fashion in a hatred of Russian literature and a love of Spaced, seeing as he was checking every other idea of the perfect man. Except the scowl. That was most certainly not perfect. Neither was the way he was surveying her, taking in her outfit and clearly…Was he smirking?

She stamped her heel slightly in irritation and just about held back on rolling her eyes. He gestured to the seat opposite him. Then just looked at her, smiling. Not the kind of smile where you automatically quirk your lips in response. The kind where you know someone’s just put a whoopee cushion on your seat, or a snake in your locker.

‘Well?’ she said, exasperated at the silence and the smirking.

‘Tabitha Riley. Of course. I’m Harry Shulman.’ He said this with such pride she was surprised he didn’t whip out a business card. He seemed to wait for her response, which she assumed was meant to be something along the lines of, ‘Gee whiz, really?’

‘I presumed so.’

He sat up slightly and took his glasses off. He suddenly looked a lot less intimidating. Sadly, it also showed the flecks of yellow in his green eyes. Tabby blinked. Somehow, gazing into the eyes of the man who was about to make your life a misery seemed like a bad idea. Or at least a social faux pas.

‘You mentioned a job. In your email. I’m assuming it was a last-minute opening?’

‘And why would you assume that?’ Harry raised an eyebrow maddeningly.

‘Because I received it at six p.m. yesterday and the interview was today? It was lucky I didn’t have any other meetings this morning.’

Harry made a noise that suggested he severely doubted she had any other meetings that morning or otherwise.

‘We’ve noticed the attention your blog is getting. Miss Twisted.’ He checked his notes, that snarling grin again. ‘Cute name, very high school. Seems you’ve got quite a few Twitter followers out there too.’

Here Tabby allowed herself to feel briefly superior. ‘A few thousand.’

‘More like five thousand, but fair enough. And what is it you claim to do on this blog?’ He leaned forward across the desk and tilted his head to the side like she was a particularly fascinating exhibit at a gallery. Or a monkey he truly believed had the ability to talk, but was still waiting for the proof. It was not a comforting look.

‘I don’t claim to do anything,’ Tabby said shortly, irritated by how out of control she felt. ‘I say what I think. The magazine stuff is usually about make-up or relationships, but the blog is for me. Sometimes it’s stupid stuff about what’s on TV, sometimes it’s new movies, feminist issues, politics.’

‘You call your blog political?’ he scoffed.

‘I write about things that affect my readers. If I have an opinion on the cuts to the health sector, even if I approach it in a different way – ’

‘Ranting and raving?’ Harry interjected.

Tabby briefly clenched her fists, took a deep breath and tried not to scream. Besides, Harry Shulman was clearly enjoying winding her up.

‘If that’s how you feel about my writing style, what am I doing here? You here to tell me to give up writing for the good of internet users everywhere? So can I go now?’

Harry leaned forward again, suddenly interested in her. She found she didn’t like that look any more than the one before. Like he’d suddenly been proven right. This man would never be able to lie to anyone. Everything he thought was right there on his face. His smug, arrogant, absolutely irritating face.

‘We want to hire you. We want “Miss Twisted Thinks” to be part of our Specialist Blogs Section on the site.’ He leaned back again, enjoying Tabby’s surprise. ‘However, there’s going to be a lot of work involved. This stuff you write, well, we’ve got a reputation for real journalism, and although almost everything these days has some fluff to pad out the real issues, we still need to make it look as though it’s not just an angry woman’s column, whining about periods and the glass ceiling.’

Tabby felt her chest constrict and her eyes widen. Why? Why was it always the pretty ones who turned out to be misogynists, or conservatives or power-hungry maniacs? Why, for once, couldn’t the cute guy be the good guy? Urgh, give her a slightly weird looking but ultimately kindhearted computer programmer any day. This guy was vile.

‘And that would entail the immense pleasure of working with you, would it?’ Tabby heard her own patronising voice and felt elated. She stood up. ‘Well, as overjoyed as I’d be by that prospect, I’ve got better things to do. I’d say thanks for the offer, but I’ve been told it’s rude to lie. Toodles!’

If there was one thing Tabby did well, it was storming out in a huff. Pouting and flouncing were right up there with important traits like knowing how to break a man’s nose, or run for the bus in heels. And as she marched towards the lift, sparing a snooty, pitying look for the receptionist, she felt elated. Man, it was fun to put someone in their place. How long had it been since she had said exactly what she thought at the exact right time? That never happened. It was wonderful. Maybe this was what she needed, not the job itself, but the chance to throw it back in the fact of an arrogant, conceited arsehole editor. Scoring a point for underpaid freelance writers everywhere. Yeah.

She hoped she could at least make it home before she started regretting what she’d done.

***

When Rhi got home and asked how the interview went, Tabby managed to sum it up rather succinctly.

‘He was an anti-feminist prick and I told him he could shove his shitty job up his arse.’ She was already well into the wine. ‘But there was no room because his head was already up there. Hah!’

‘When did you start drinking?’ Rhi flopped down on the sofa next to her.

‘The minute I got in and realised I threw away the only real chance at a writing job I’ve had in years. It’s OK, the pain has numbed quite nicely,’ Tabby said, before promptly bursting into tears.