Читать книгу The Last Word - A. L. Michael - Страница 9

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.

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.