The Last Word

by A. L. Michael

  ‘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.

  Rhi, to her credit, stroked Tabby’s hair and hugged her and made her tea, and didn’t say a single thing beyond, ‘It sounds like you were right to turn it down, I’m sure he was a prick,’ and ‘Another job will come along, they always do.’ She didn’t even mention Richard, or how it was his fault she was in this mess. And Rhi loved to bring up Richard. Or Dick the Prick as he’d since become known.

  ‘I think I’m OK now,’ Tabby said quietly, about an hour later, staring at the television with absolutely no idea what was on it. Her phone rang, the Darth Vader theme tune. The especially assigned tune for her mother.

  ‘Does she have some sort of beacon that lets her know when I particularly don’t want to talk to her or something?’ Tabby threw the phone onto a chair across the room, mainly to stop herself from answering it with, ‘FUCK OFF, I KNOW I’M A MASSIVE DISAPPOINTMENT TO YOU!’ That would not be smart.

  ‘Think it’s time to go to bed, Tabby Cat,’ Rhi said gently, and while Tabby appreciated her housemate and dear friend, she wished she wouldn’t talk to her like she was a child with learning difficulties.

  ‘Yeah, fair enough. Thanks, Rhi. Really. I know I can be a drama queen.’

  Rhi shrugged. ‘So can I when you get me on the right subject. Sleep it off, tomorrow will be better.’

  Tabby crawled upstairs and sat on her bed, suddenly really happy about the mountainous amount of blankets she’d decided she needed. Warm and soft. Warm and soft. Heaven would be like that, a warm soft bed with your senses deadened by alcohol. Wonderful.

  The ping she had started to associate with dread alerted her to another email. This one was not from that pig Harry Shulman, with his pretty eyes and stupid stubble. No. The wobbly lines seemed to say it was from his boss, David Crane, the editor of the entire paper. Offering another interview. Tomorrow.

  ‘Rhi!’ she yelled, and Rhi appeared, slightly put out, but not surprised to be beckoned.

  ‘Yes, m’lady?’ She stuck her freshly rolled cigarette behind her ear.

  ‘Can you double-check this for me? I need to know I’m not hallucinating, because nothing makes sense right now.’

  Rhi stared at the email, brow furrowed. ‘Seems you made an impression.’

  ‘Yeah, one of a mad bitch.’

  ‘Well, maybe that’s what they’re going for?’ Rhi shrugged. ‘You’re not going to go through another mad wardrobe raid, are you? I don’t think I’ve got the energy for that.’

  ‘Nope.’ Tabby’s voice was muffled as she face-planted into the pillows. ‘I’m wearing what I wore yesterday and they can go to hell.’

  ‘Hear hear!’

  ‘Fuck ’em,’ Tabby growled and promptly fell asleep.

  Chapter Three

  Of course, once she’d said it, Tabby had to stick to her convictions and wear the same stupid outfit. Fuck ’em. That’s what she’d said, and that’s what she meant. In which case, why was she back in the same stupid lift in the same stupid building as the day before? Why bother at all?

  She stepped out on the eighth floor, and Harry Shulman was waiting for her. His eyes scanned her.

  ‘Power outfit?’ he smirked.

  ‘Well, it seemed to go down so well yesterday I figured I might as well pop by for some more thinly veiled sarcasm about my content and writerly skills. I needed to go shoe shopping anyway.’ Hell, if she made it through the interview without screaming or bursting into tears, maybe she would treat herself to a shopping spree on Oxford Street. Well, not a spree, obviously, seeing as she had no money. But her mother kept saying she dressed like a bag lady.

  ‘Here we are, Princess.’ Harry led her into a large office where a tiny man sat behind a huge desk. David Crane didn’t exactly look like someone to be messed with, but he did have the misfortune of a
utomatically looking like the granddad everyone wished they had. Even in his smart suit, with his chubby cheeks, white hair and bright blue eyes, he looked like he’d have a funny story to share. Which is why it was a shame he looked more nervous than Tabby felt.

  ‘Miss Riley, a pleasure,’ he said with a nervous twitch Tabby assumed was a smile.

  ‘Mr Crane,’ she shook his hand, disappointed to find he had a weak handshake. She sat in one of the chairs, and Harry sat next to her. She refrained from glaring.

  ‘It appears you’re not entirely sure you want to work for our paper, Miss Riley? Is there anything I can do to change your mind? We’re a new and exciting paper with an excellent reputation, ever since changing from our print version, which has been around for quite a while! We’d be an asset to any CV. Even by going on-line – ’ he sounded the word out like he rarely used it ‘ – we’re keeping up to date with how the world is working. Your writing would fit in here. I hear your Tweeters are well-received.’

  Oh, he was a kind man. Even Harry’s exasperated expression appeared tinged with affection. Tabby took a second to wonder how on earth someone who didn’t know what online meant was the editor of an online newspaper, and she hoped it meant the content was so good that the medium didn’t matter. This could be a real job. But she’d have to work with Harry McSmarty Pants over there, who was grinning at her like a hungry hyena.

  It suddenly made sense: He obviously didn’t want to hire her, it had been Crane all along. Harry was trying to get rid of her. She waited for the stubborn need to prove people wrong to kick in.

  ‘I don’t doubt the brilliance of your paper, Mr Crane. I read it often, and it truly is excellent. I just wasn’t convinced in my meeting with Mr Shulman yesterday that I’m exactly what you’re looking for. If my writing is too fluffy for you, that’s fine, but I don’t – ’

  ‘Fluffy?’ Crane frowned, looking to Harry for clarification.

  ‘Light-hearted. Miss Riley’s writing is a little different to what we have at the moment, which is why I think it will work. She’ll bring her followers over to us, writing about what she knows, and as she expands into other territories, we’ll increase our fan base.’

  Harry had gone into full sales mode, but it seemed Crane was still unsure. But having someone around who was taking care of blogs, Twitter and the internet in general seemed to be a comfort to him. So it was Harry’s idea?

  ‘Yes, have her write Miss Twisted on Iraq, on expenses scandals, all manner of big issues, take out all the heavy stuff, reduce it. I think women readers would like that.’ Crane smiled at Tabby, and she just looked at Harry.

  ‘Both of you, huh?’ She sighed and prepared for battle. ‘Do you think my readers are stupid, Mr Crane?’

  ‘Now, Tabitha, we don’t think that.’ Harry focused all of his energy on her, and seeing as he wasn’t wearing those stupid glasses, she let herself listen. ‘We think your readers are intelligent young people who just forked out a ridiculous amount for an education that isn’t benefiting them, and after eight hours a day working at a job they hate for shitty pay, they want to read something that tells them the facts with minimal effort and optimum humour.’

  Tabby almost blinked in the wake of the charm offensive. Right, so that’s what Harry was there for.

  ‘I know we didn’t get off to the best start yesterday, and that was largely my fault – ’ he smiled ‘ – but I think, we both think, you’d be excellent at this. It could be a perfect fit.’

  Tabby counted to three and forced herself to break eye contact, and instead looked over to Crane, who seemed rather confused as to why he was being involved in this at all. She decided she’d go for it. Like she’d ever really doubted it. If the opportunity was there, irritating gorgeous editor or not, she was going to go for it. She needed to stop depending on her mother for handouts. Maybe she was OK again, maybe she could write proper stuff, for a proper paper again.

  ‘OK, well, let’s talk salary then.’ She shrugged. Her stomach dropped as she watched Harry and Crane make awkward eye contact with each other.

  ‘Well, you see Miss Riley, as you said this is an excellent opportunity, a chance to make your CV shine, so – ’

  ‘So you want me to work for nothing. Right.’ She did consider it for a moment, that same in-built intern inclination that every creative graduate has: I have to work for free until I am valued. But Tabby had been valued once, she’d been going places. ‘Gifted’ that’s what Richard used to call her. She was worth something, even now, she was sure. Even if it was only the love of a handful of Twitter followers. Love meant money, or something.

  ‘Thank you for your time, honestly.’ She smiled gently and stuck out her hand to Crane, who automatically shook it before frowning at her.

  ‘Now, Tabitha,’ Harry drawled. ‘Let’s not be hasty, I’m sure we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.’

  She wondered if he worked hard to make every word that came out of his mouth sound like sexual innuendo, or if it was just an unfortunate habit. Luckily, it was not her problem.

  Tabby raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure that would be lovely, Mr Shulman, and I was really excited about this job opportunity. But I need a job, not an internship. I’m on the wrong side of twenty-five for those, I’m afraid.’ She shrugged. ‘Best of luck though.’ She smiled again at Crane, somehow so eager for him to know it wasn’t personal. And that she wasn’t really a mad bitch.

  For the second time in two days, Tabby walked out of an interview for a job she had really wanted. Although this time, Harry followed her, his hand hovering at her back as she marched along, trying not to drown in disappointment. When they reached the lift, he spoke.

  ‘You know, we’re never going to get anywhere if you keep throwing hissy fits.’

  Tabby met his eyes again, and immediately wished she hadn’t. ‘Look at my face. Smiling, see?’ She bared her teeth. ‘Not angry. I just don’t want to work for nothing. As I said, I can get by writing for women’s magazines and website content.’

  ‘But that doesn’t excite you.’ Harry seemed to tower over her, leaning into her personal space like he could draw her in if he kept her talking long enough. Which he probably could. The guy was a salesman: persuasive, convincing and completely without morals. And maybe if anything excited her, that did. She squared her shoulders.

  ‘Whether heated eyelash curlers work better than regular ones? Super exciting! The world is waiting for my response with baited breath!’ she said dramatically, and allowed a little shared grin with the man who was trying to con her out of her living.

  ‘Look, I’m not greedy, I’m a pragmatist.’ Why she felt she had to explain her choices to Harry Shulman of all people, she had no idea. Maybe it was so she didn’t notice how close he was standing and that whatever aftershave he was wearing smelled really good. Urgh. ‘People read my work and think I’m kooky and sweet and a pushover. But I think you know that I’m not a pushover, don’t you, Harry?’

  She unleashed her smile on him, the one that made her feel in control as his eyes briefly wavered from hers, down to her lips, then back again. She walked into the lift, and he straightened.

  ‘Pushover is definitely not the word I’d use.’ Harry smirked as the lift door closed, and Tabby suddenly felt out of control again.

  ***

  Tabby had certainly not felt like shoe shopping after that ordeal. Besides, all that talk about money had made her worry even more. And she was probably going to have to call her mother back some time. She wouldn’t survive if she withheld the monthly cheques like she did last year when Tabby had missed her birthday. To be fair, her mother was in LA, and Tabby didn’t want to get charged international rates just because her mother refused to use Skype, but whatever. The person with the purse is in control. And her mother’s purse was made by Prada and full of cash.

  Instead, Tabby went home, changed into her baggy clothes, cleaned the house, hoovered, scrubbed and polished everything she could get her hands on. Then s
he went for a run. Then she had a shower. In between peeling potatoes and deciding whether or not she needed to flip her mattress, Rhi came home, and they spent a considerable amount of time not talking about the interview. They talked about the crazy people Rhi worked with at the library and watched the news just so they’d have things to moan about. When it got to nine p.m., even Rhi was agitated.

  ‘Turn on your bloody laptop, scaredy cat! I can’t deal with the pressure!’

  In her inbox was an email from Harry Shulman, offering her a twelve-week contract, a decent salary and expenses. Goddamn charm boy, got everything he wanted.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be celebrating?’ Rhi asked, already halfway to the bottle of white wine in the fridge.

  ‘Guess so.’ Tabby sighed. Twelve weeks. In a small office with Harry criticising everything she wrote, then laughing his way out of it. Going from arrogant to interested in under a minute. It was going to be an exhausting twelve weeks.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Start being more happy or I’m going to hit you,’ Chandra warned dryly, as they sat at the bar with oversized, overpriced cocktails. ‘I swear, if you turn out to be one of those people who moans and then doesn’t actually change anything, we’re not going to be friends any more.’

  ‘Way to go with the tough love, Chands.’ Tabby rolled her eyes, but nudged her friend. OK, she needed to cheer up. This was her celebration, a night out to, ‘Herald the return of the kickass reporter Tabby Riley,’ as Chandra had put it earlier, when she showed up at the flat, forced Tabby into a clean dress and painful shoes, and dragged her to Covent Garden.

  ‘I really do appreciate this, you know. I needed a night out,’ Tabby said, and instead thought about how what she really needed was her pyjamas, takeaway Chinese food and episodes of Come Dine With Me. Or something, anything, to stop her thinking about her very first ‘Concept Meeting’ with Harry on Monday.

  ‘Yes, yes you did. Is Her Majesty meeting us here, or is it a bit too posh for the Proletarian Princess?’ Chandra raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow and sipped at her Cosmopolitan.