Forty Things to Do Before You're Forty

by Alice Ross

  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.

  CARINA™

  ISBN: 978 1 472 09526 8

  Forty Things To Do Before You’re Forty

  Copyright © 2014 Alice Ross

  Published in Great Britain (2014)

  by Carina, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
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