The Last Word

It wasn’t like Harry was oblivious to the effect he had, the carefully chosen white shirt, the undone collar, the rolled-up sleeves. His glasses resting in the shirt pocket to suggest that, yes, he did have flaws, yes, he was vulnerable. His hair had clearly been coiffed to within an inch of its life in order to get it looking that natural. Tabby wondered if Harry had written any hair care articles, he was clearly an expert.

‘So, how are you, Tabby? Good weekend?’

Tabby thought back to the five a.m. trip back on the night bus, and how she’d narrowly avoided throwing up in a rubbish bin on the side of the road. ‘I’d call it a success. You?’

‘Oh, absolutely a success.’

How did he get his eyes to twinkle like that? And his voice had lowered to a deliciously dirty level. Her lips quirked up, and then she shook it off, trying to get back to professionalism. If there was anything she’d learnt since her journalistic fall from grace all those years ago, it was not to trust your editor. And while Harry was cute, he was also an arsehole. An arsehole who was there to make money from her. So there was no point playing nice.

‘So, what did you want to discuss?’ she said abruptly, sitting up straight.

‘Ah, straight to business, I get it. Sure you don’t want to order first?’ Harry said lightly. And, of course, the waitress reappeared, and she had no idea what to order, running her finger down and picking the first thing, pointing it out instead of trying to pronounce it.

‘Are you sure you want that?’ Harry questioned, and she bristled.

‘I’m quite capable of making my own decisions, thank you.’

He just bit back a smile, threw his hands up in defeat, and ordered his food, pronouncing everything perfectly, the bastard. The waitress gave Tabby a pointed look, as if to say, ‘See, this is what a normal person does.’

Harry then spent the next forty-five minutes roughly outlining where he thought her blogs should go, what he thought she was capable of covering accurately, and generally taking the one thing Tabby did well and making it sound cheap. That was in between endless flirting with the waitress, phone calls, text messages and an offer of a drink from a woman sitting alone at the bar. What the hell kind of a woman sends over a drink when the guy is sitting having lunch with another woman? The depressing conclusion was that Harry was so clearly out of her league that it couldn’t even enter the realms of possibility that they were on a date.

‘I’m not saying it’s immature, per se,’ Harry babbled on, carefully spearing a piece of salmon while Tabby stared morosely at her order – a house salad. All those fancy words for a fucking house salad. ‘It’s just that we have a different level of readership, we don’t just want some crazy young woman ranting about higher education, or using the layers of a Jaffa Cake as an analogy for the class system. We need something more – ’

‘Pretentious?’ Tabby interjected cheerily. ‘Because the way it sounds, Harry, is that you hired me for what I do and now you want me to do something else. Which negates the point of hiring me completely.’

‘Look, I understand you’ve been freelance for a while, darling, so you’re not used to how this works –’

‘Have you at least looked at my CV? You know I’ve worked for major papers before, right?’

‘Yes, years ago, before no one wanted to hire you any more,’ he said it gently, but he was making a point.

And it hurt. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. Think of the money, think of being able to tell your mother you don’t need a cheque this month. Think about being able to buy a new power outfit instead of sewing up the seams of the cherry print again. Breathe. Remember he is just a silly boy and you are a wise woman of the world. Remember that you have friends and fondant fancies and Benefit lipstick. There are rainy days and wood fires and pancakes on Sunday mornings. Life will be OK. Life will be OK with money. Harry is the route to money. Tabby took a deep breath. Deal with Harry and you can have a Prada purse. Put up with Harry and you can have nice things and independence and guilt-free spending sprees. OK. Tabby nodded and opened her eyes to see Harry staring at his salmon, biting his lip, looking a little embarrassed. Probably because she was being a mad cow again.

‘So,’ she said in a measured voice, and he lifted his head, expression free from his usual smirk. ‘I will try to curb my mental woman ways so that we can work together. What would you suggest my first article is on?’

She sat quietly as Harry threw out a few barely there ideas, nodded and looked impressed, sipped a black coffee and made notes in her little green leather notebook. Not that Harry could see they just said, ‘Pretentious twat, pretentious twat, pretentious twat,’ over and over again. It was pretty similar to school, she thought, easy enough to fake interest. He was smiling and chatting away, and she enjoyed ignoring his words, looking at his terribly blue eyes and wondering why it was always the pretty ones who spoke to you like you were an idiot. Perhaps this was how everyone else ended up in relationships. Just smiling and nodding and pretending you were listening to the other person while really you were just appreciating their eyes and the curve of their lips and how razor-sharp their cheekbones were.

‘Thanks, Tabby, I really appreciate you taking my suggestions on board,’ Harry said as he settled up the bill. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of days.’ He kissed both her cheeks and squeezed her shoulder.

‘See you then, darling!’ she twittered with not an ounce of sarcasm.

She left the restaurant feeling hollow, hobbling out onto Regents Street in stupid heels. Tabby decided there was only one course of action: get a drink, work out what she was going to do with the rest of her life, and then go home and cry about it. There should also be cake. She had fallen pray to the Dark Lord of Capitalism, swayed by pretty cheekbones and the idea of new shoes. Harry Shulman was clearly the devil. And she was a silly, silly woman.

She tiredly wandered down a few side streets, remembering The Black Cat was around there somewhere. Standard pub, ales on tap and wine by the glass, comfy sofas and dark interior. A little annexed room at the back that was usually empty, where she could hide out with a glass of wine or five.

She ordered a large glass of red, pleased that it was the sort of place that didn’t bother to ask what type, and hobbled to the back. She just sat, closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. It would be fine, it would all work out exactly the way it should. She may have been irrational and unable to take criticism. She may have made one mistake in her youth but she wasn’t going to let it ruin her career for the rest of her life. She was a good writer. Even if she had to simper and sigh to Harry Shulman, with his designer shirts and Pan-Asian cuisine, she was going to be a proper journalist again.

‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a nutter?’ Harry’s voice prodded at her, and she opened her eyes. He was leaning on the doorframe to the annex and grinning at her.

‘Yep, every single voice in my head at one time or another. Except Maude, but he’s one to talk.’

Harry blinked.

‘You, um, seemed unlike yourself, so I thought I would check you were OK.’ He shrugged, looking unsure, and somehow very human in that moment.

‘Well, you seem to have hired me so you can make me as far from myself as possible, so I thought I’d better get the practice in.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘See, there it is. That’s you. The bolshy cow.’ He grinned. ‘So what happened at lunch? You don’t like criticism or you don’t like me?’

‘Both.’ Tabby smiled sweetly. ‘Or maybe when I attend a concept meeting, I expect to take part and not be dictated to. Maybe I deserve a little respect. Maybe I didn’t take this job just to be told that my writing sucks and I should change everything I am. I didn’t chase this job, Harry, you’re the one who found me. You’re the one who offered me a job. You’re the one who called me back when I said no the first time, and then fought to get me a decent wage. So, yeah, I kind of want to know what the fuck is going on.’ She sat with her arms crossed and tilted her head to the side, waiting for an explanation.

Harry looked a little taken aback, and even a little unsure of how to proceed, something she guessed didn’t happen very often.

‘Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?’ he asked neutrally.

‘No, if I did, I would have told you I spent five minutes imagining bludgeoning you to death in the restaurant when you started on about the wine list.’

His face erupted into a grin, as if he couldn’t believe her. ‘Well, it’s important – ’

‘No. It’s not important. What’s important is that if you want to work together, you go buy yourself a non-pretentious pint of beer, and sit here with me, and stop the bullshit.’

He grinned again, and nodded, starting to leave, before turning back. ‘You do know I’m technically your boss, right?’

Tabby sighed, and gave him an almost pitying look. ‘I’m afraid if you linger here too long, I’m going to insist you drink American beer. Possibly straight from the bottle.’

He laughed to himself and threw up his hands again. ‘I’m going, I’m going!’

OK, Tabby thought, so this was how it had to be: a child-parent thing. If she had to be obnoxious and condescending in order to be heard, well that was how it would have to be.

They spent an hour and a half talking about the articles, what previous features Harry had liked, how he thought she could improve. She told him her ideas and he responded. In general, it made her feel like storming off in a huff, but she didn’t want to make it a habit. She also took into account the fact that Harry clearly concentrated more when there were no fawning women in his general vicinity. The Black Cat was perfect for that, its few midday patrons were old men or business types. No one to flirt with meant Harry actually did his job. Good to know.

They left, agreeing that Tabby would email him a few proposals and sample articles during the week. She shook Harry’s hand, and, of course, he focused completely on her again.

‘Call me any time, I mean it. Day or night,’ he said.

How he could make eye contact so painfully intimate was beyond her, but she could feel herself blushing, and his smirk told her he’d noticed.

‘Goodbye, Tabitha,’ he sang, and strolled off, whistling, not a care in the world.

Meanwhile, Tabby was already planning out her article. Because whether he wanted to be or not, Harry Shulman was going to be impressed.

***

By Wednesday, life was back to normal. While she got up at seven to go for a run, she’d be back in her pyjamas by midday, ready to start work. So far ‘work’ had included emails, Facebook, tweeting about the newspaper her articles would be appearing in (which her followers seemed to be genuinely pleased about) and deciding whether or not it was a good idea to put crisps in her sandwich. Then writing an article about the ten best lunchtime snacks. Well, she’d take inspiration where she could get it.

She wrote a few sample articles for Harry, but was working on polishing them. They were all a little more political, a little more what she thought he wanted, but the problem was, she was used to writing what she thought, when she thought it. Remembering how to write journalistic, balanced, impersonal pieces was difficult.

Another thing had been bothering her: Harry knew she’d been pretty much unemployable. She’d been discussing it with Chandra and Rhi the night before, and it was pretty much unequivocal. He knew.

‘Did he mention the injunction specifically?’ Rhi asked, and Tabby shook her head.

‘But he knew it was three years ago, and I haven’t had a set job since. He knew that no one wanted to hire me. It has to be. It’s not like it’s not easy information to get hold of. Why do you think I started the blog under Miss Twisted?’ Tabby cringed.

Three years later and the shame of it still hadn’t worn off. If she thought about it too much, it made her stomach coil and she had to do something, whether it was the washing up or downing a glass of wine. Sometimes at night she would stare up at her ceiling and wonder if things would have been completely different if she’d never slept with Richard.

She’d been twenty-three, a graduate with the most accolades, the most work-experience, a series of awards to her name. She’d got a job with one of the best newspapers in the country. She had been destined for greatness. Back then, even her mother seemed to be proud of her. Sure, Claudia would make thinly-veiled comments about her weight, how she worked too much, how she’d never get married, but Tabby had actually heard her bragging to her friends about her daughter’s new job. It was the first time she’d made her mum proud.

And then of course, it all went downhill. Richard was older, experienced, powerful. In some ways he had made Tabby feel like a precious child, and in others, she felt suddenly grown-up, real, she was dating a divorcee, an editor at the best paper in the country, after all. Of course, she looked back now, and it was ridiculous. She hadn’t been dating Richard; she had been sleeping with him, and then having work lunches.

She’d been working on an article concerning a political figure and his expenses, as well as his affairs. It was some of the best work she’d ever done, well researched, poignant, disappointed. Richard had been so proud. And then they got word that an injunction was coming in. She was upset, but also just so angry that she’d worked so hard and people in power could just decide that they weren’t a public figure any more and the story had to be shelved.

After a bit of self-pity and a good ranting session, she’d gone in to Richard, shrugged her shoulders and pitched a new story. But Richard didn’t want to give up the story. He had said it was important, she was important. The public had to hear what she had to say. They could weather the storm together, this injunction, it was laughable. They’d make it through, it would be a historical moment for her, and for freedom of speech. He really was full of shit, Tabby thought, and twitched a little at how she’d believed him. He’d convinced her to put it on her personal page of the newspaper website. He had her full backing, he’d be there no matter what: she was a pioneer. Then, of course, she got fired, almost taken to court, he denied any knowledge, kept his job, and went back to his ex-wife. The paper paid a fine, a portion of which she was still paying off, and everyone told her she was lucky she wasn’t charged. Life went on. And all that had been sacrificed to make it all go away was one twenty-three-year-old nobody journalist.

And Harry knew that. Well, he didn’t know about her relationship with Richard, nobody did, except Rhi and Chandra. But he knew that she’d been disgraced, that nobody wanted her. What surprised her was that he could have used that when Crane wanted her to work for free. He could have at least used it to justify less pay, but he hadn’t.

Tabby sat and tried to work out his angle. Was she the story? Disgraced reporter makes comeback? Or could it be the unlikely scenario that Harry was a good person who thought she was a decent writer?

The answer to that question was a resounding ‘no’, Tabby realised on Wednesday night, when she sent off her articles to Harry for his feedback. OK, so she had sent them at midnight, but it was email, she assumed he’d just pick it up in the morning. Instead, straightaway, she received a pointed text: Sending work emails at midnight? Might be time to get a life, love. Harry.

‘Urgh!’ she growled at the screen, throwing a pillow across the room. ‘You told me day or night, arsehole!’

‘What’s up?’ Rhi poked her head tiredly round the door.

‘Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘Nope, studying. You OK?’ Rhi sat down on the bed and started rolling a cigarette.

‘My editor’s an arsehole.’

‘Well, at least you know that from the start this time. And there’s no chance of a Dick the Prick repeat.’ Rhi shrugged, then looked warily at Tabby for confirmation. ‘Right?’

‘Absolutely right, the man is vile. Complete upper-class twat who can’t drink wine that costs less than thirty quid a bottle.’

Rhi made a face, and stuck the cigarette behind her ear. ‘Seriously?’

‘I hate the media,’ Tabby sighed.

‘Sadly, it’s what you’re good at, sweets. You’ve got a gift.’ She kissed Tabby on the cheek. ‘For attracting arseholes, that is.’ She winked and was gone.

‘That include people who choose to live with me?’ Tabby yelled, laughing.

‘Yes!’ Rhi yelled back from her room.

So what if Harry was too busy having fun to read her articles? She didn’t ask him to check his email at midnight. So what if he was out clubbing or drinking, or shagging some girl. That was his problem. Along with the heinous amount of venereal diseases he’d probably accrued. She had a great life, Tabby thought as she looked around her room at the mismatched pillows, papers and books stacked haphazardly and the steadily growing pile of mugs and plates in the corner of the room. It may not be an exciting life, but it was a good one, with good people, who knew how to have fun. And that was the point. Harry could go to hell. She might even send him another email at six in the morning, with the hope that he had a hangover.

Chapter Six

Tabby didn’t wake up early enough to send Harry an irritating email, which was a sincere shame. If she had she may have been able to convince herself that his response to her articles was some sort of payback. As it was, the page-long email he sent the next day was just his opinion. And it hurt.

Obviously, Harry was done mollycoddling her. As much as he’d made more of an effort at the pub, the contents of the email made Tabby think back fondly to the time in the restaurant when he’d called her immature. Immature was looking pretty damn fine compared to ‘Pointless’, ‘Could not care less about the subject’, ‘Are you even trying?’

Well, who did Harry Shulman think he was, anyway? OK, so he was twenty-seven and already a Section Editor, but he clearly had bad taste. Except that he’d picked her. But he obviously didn’t appreciate her.

This was pointless. Tabby flitted back and forth between irrational and rational, hurt and angry, bemused and beyond caring. She tried coming up with new ideas, tried taking his pointed criticisms as constructive, but all she could hear was failure beating loudly in her eardrums. Eventually, at four p.m., after a day of sitting there and being unable to comprehend just how she could become so bad at something she had been so good at in a mere three years she decided to climb into bed and cry.

The next few days were peppered with irritated emails and texts and voicemails from Harry, wanting to know where she was on her rewrites, why she hadn’t responded, and that he hoped she was acting like an adult and knew when to listen to someone who knew better. By Friday morning, after a particularly harrowing voicemail from Harry, wondering if he’d made a mistake in hiring her, she decided to write exactly what she wanted. Which, at that moment, was an article on how to kill your editor. In a ranting rage of typing, huffing and smoking, Tabby completed a ten-step program advising the reader on how to kill your editor and why you’d be justified. It featured one paragraph that asked whether a writer could be pushed so far that torture became not only not a bad thing, but a moral responsibility when faced with an editor who muffled your creative voice. As she finished the last vicious line, attached it to an email and clicked ‘send’, Tabby took a deep breath.

And then panicked.

‘Shit shit shitting shit shit!’ Tabby exclaimed in horror, staring at the screen.

‘What have you done?’ Rhi asked from the kitchen, holding a mug of tea in each hand.

‘Thrown away my career in journalism.’

‘Again?’ Rhi sighed. ‘Does this mean we have to go get drunk again, because I’m not sure my liver can handle it.’

‘I was sleep deprived! And worn down, and jittery from all the coffee, and really, really mad! Oh shit. Why am I so fucking pathetic?’

‘If you start a pity party I’m dumping this tea all over you,’ Rhi said calmly, holding it up. ‘You can either act rationally, admit maybe you’ve made a mistake, but understand it’s done now. Or you can carry on with this self-flagellating crap.’ She held the mug of tea aloft. ‘Now, what’s it gonna be?’

‘Sure, add scald marks to the forever-alone and without-a-backbone failing writer.’

Rhi tipped the mug, and it splashed onto Tabby’s sock.

‘Hey!’

‘I warned you. Now seriously, I say this as one of the people who loves you most in the world: Shut the fuck up and go to bed.’

Tabby made a grumbling noise and stood up. ‘My sock’s damp.’

‘Uhuh.’ Rhi tapped her foot, then eyed the door. ‘Go on.’

‘Can I at least have my mug of tea?’ Tabby asked sadly, and Rhi handed it over.

‘Might as well be living with my mother!’ Tabby called from halfway up the stairs.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your mother would never let you smoke in the house!’ Rhi replied, and turned up the volume on the TV.

***

Since Rhi had opted out of the plans that weekend, both because she refused to support Tabby’s constant whining and because she’d legitimately made plans with friends back in Manchester, it was up to Chandra to amuse her. Which meant they’d ended up in a glitzy cocktail bar with flashy lighting and minimal furniture, where the toilets were apparently ‘ironically’ ornate, whatever that meant. As soon as they’d perched themselves precariously on high bar stools around a wobbly table, with a good view of the barmen, Chandra was inundated with drinks offers. She seemed to suit this place, as did the men who pursued her. Well presented, highly paid, smiling sincerely but up for a lot less than an actual relationship. Rich, pretty boys whose arrogance got them everywhere. Actually, Tabby thought, she knew someone like that.

Chandra was always sleek and sophisticated with an edge of sexy. Men seemed to take in her tailored suits and high heels and realise she was someone expensive, someone who would challenge them. Occasionally Tabby looked over at her friend and thought that if she’d just met her now, she’d be terrifically intimidated by her. Luckily, they had ten years of drunken escapades, boy secrets and in-jokes to make sure that growing apart wasn’t an option. Plus, each had held the other girl’s hair back while they puked at the end of the night, and had made multiple not-nearly-sober-enough calls to the other’s mum, explaining they were fine, and had decided to have a sleepover. The stuff best friends are made of.

But, boy, did they have different taste in men.

‘So what do you do?’ The Suit chatting up Chandra really thought he was smooth, leaning forward, staring into her eyes. Tabby could not find one defining factor that differentiated him from the other suits who accosted her friend every time they came here. Rich pretty boy with too much hair gel. Where were the real people, Tabby wondered, and not for the first time.

‘Oh, a little bit of almost everything,’ Chandra replied lightly, not even an edge of flirtation in her voice. She looked around, uninterested.

Tabby stifled a groan and turned back to watch this particular incarnation of hell unfold. He really thought he was in with a chance. Go back to banker school, moron.

‘I mean…as a profession?’

So boring. So very, very boring. Tabby tapped the side of her vodka tonic with her nail and wondered why she’d even come out. Sure, when Chandra got chatted up, it was usually fun, something to joke about. But Tabby found a strange lump in her throat, and she didn’t know if it was loneliness or jealousy, or just how maidenly she felt sitting on a stool, swinging her legs back and forth. This was not her place.

‘What do you think I do?’ Chandra asked. This was always the kicker, and Tabby found herself focusing on The Suit, more out of habit than anything else.