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.

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 automatically 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 she 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.

‘Don’t call her that. She’ll meet us in the pub later.’

‘Pubs,’ Chandra scoffed, and looked down the bar to catch the eye of the cutest barman. ‘Two more here, darling!’

‘You will come to the pub?’ Tabby wheedled. ‘If this is meant to be my celebration I need you both there. If only to tell me to stop being a miserable cow.’

‘Fine.’ Chandra rolled her eyes, and used her dazzling white smile on the barman, who appeared unimpressed. When he was gone, Chandra sighed. ‘What is it with cocktail barmen? They think they’re so cute.’

‘It’s their job.’ Tabby shrugged, frowning at the black-shirted twenty-somethings who provided their alcohol. ‘They know they’re pretty and they think we’re pathetic.’

Chandra ate the cherry from her cocktail. ‘They probably have damaged egos, and we make them feel better, improving their sense of self-worth.’

Tabby laughed into her Daiquiri. ‘So what you’re saying is, you’re really doing them a service by imagining them naked?’

Chandra grinned. ‘Oh, absolutely, you know me, always willing to help a person in need.’

Tabby and Chandra had been friends since secondary school, drawn together by mutual crushes on television characters and the fact that they both had overbearing mothers. Chandra, being an Indian girl of twenty-six was evading almost daily calls from her mother about when she was going to settle down with a nice Indian boy. And Tabby was evading calls from her mother, just because she was her mother.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Tabby’s phone began to ring. The Darth Vader theme tune, muffled from inside her bag was still too loud to be ignored.

‘Don’t do it! It can only end badly!’

Tabby rolled her eyes, drank the remainder of her first drink, and a good half of her second one, then answered the phone. ‘Hi Mum! How are you?’ she chirped, while Chandra made a face.

‘Tabitha?’ Claudia Riley sounded surprised.

‘Yes, Mum. You called me. Did you not mean to?’

‘No darling, of course I meant to! You just sound rather frantic. You’re not on anti-depressants are you, because I saw this programme on television – ’

‘No. Why would I be on anti-depressants?’ She rolled her eyes at Chandra, who snorted into her drink.

‘Well, things aren’t exactly going well for you darling, are they? No man, no real career. Living with the lesbian in that dive. And you’re edging closer to thirty, aren’t you? Maybe you should think about getting a secretarial job. I could put it into Google for you.’

Tabby was tempted to punch herself for answering the phone. Actually, punching herself would not be enough. Banging her head against a wall, that was the ticket.

‘Actually Mum, I got offered a new job. A real writing job with a newspaper, decent money too.’ She tried not to make it sound like she had something to prove, but obviously, she did. Her mother paused for a moment, and Tabby took a second to imagine what it would be like if her mother was like other mothers, and just said, ‘Congratulations, love! I’m so proud!’ But that wasn’t Claudia’s style.

‘Well, it’s not a real job, though, is it? You know, your cousin’s working in PR, got her own office – ’

‘Erm, yes it is real. I do a job, I get paid – ’ I spend the money I’m paid on alcohol to blot out your opinion of the job ‘ – sounds real to me!’

She could hear her mother huff, and downed the rest of her drink in preparation for her inevitable response. She signalled to Chandra, ‘Two more.’

‘Look, I know you think I’m being mean, darling, but I’m not, I’m just – ’

‘Being honest, I know.’ Tabby reached over and had some of Chandra’s drink. She was getting more worked up. ‘And while we’re on the subject of honesty, Mum, how’s Liam doing? Still feeling good about dating a boy two years older than your daughter? Bet you’re head of the PTA, right?’

Claudia cleared her throat awkwardly.

Instead of thinking she may have finally won an argument, Tabby realised that something terrible was going to happen.

‘Actually, Liam and I are getting married.’

Tabby’s jaw dropped, and she let a ‘Fuck right off!’ escape before she could control herself.

‘Language, Tabitha! You clearly got your mouth from your father’s side of the family. His mother sounded like she was born on a building site. Anyway, it will be a beautiful wedding, we were thinking of spring, lots of flowers everywhere, a big ceremony, but tasteful.’

Tabby let her mother drone on about her monstrosity of a wedding. She’d never imagined Liam was going to be a permanent part of her mother’s life. She’d assumed it was more of a mid-life crisis relationship.

Liam had moved from Essex to North London, been at school two years above Tabby, and had slept with half of year ten by the time he had left. Liam got spray tans, and sold expensive houses, and had nothing to say except what the football scores were, and what the pros and cons of ale and lager were. That Liam was marrying her mother. He was going to be her stepfather. A twenty-eight-year-old stepfather. Sweet Jesus.

She tuned back in to hear her mother saying, ‘Look, I know you’re not very good at being happy for other people, especially when your own love life isn’t going anywhere, but – ’

‘Congratulations, Mum. I’m glad you’re happy,’ Tabby said in monotone. ‘Bye.’ She hung up, knowing she’d pay for it later. Her mother always remembered. She took a deep breath.

‘Mum’s marrying Liam,’ she said to Chandra, watching as her eyes bulged in horror. And while she almost wanted to cry or scream about it, watching her usually very dignified friend spit a mouthful of Cosmopolitan onto the shirt of the cute barman fixed the whole situation. She got a case of the giggles so continuous that she thought she might never stop.

So this is what hysteria feels like, she thought, as Chandra went bright red and asked for the bill.

‘We should get to that pub. I think multiple bottles of wine and portions of chips are the only thing that will solve this,’ Chandra said in a measured voice.

‘My mother’s nuptials from hell or your gag reflex?’ Tabby squealed and collapsed into a fit of giggles again.

Chandra tried to look irritated, but couldn’t hide a smile. Tabby knew she was playing it cool, but as soon as they left the bar, her friend was going to fall apart with embarrassment and insist they could never EVER go back there.

After a ten-minute walk across Covent Garden, with Chandra ranting about how the world should just open a hole in the ground and swallow her up, she was so mortified, they reached the pub.

Rhi’s choices were usually old man pubs, ones with sticky floors, the smell of beer in the upholstery, and a darts board in the corner. Luckily, the one they entered wasn’t too bad, and even Chandra didn’t make a comment.

As they sat down with a bottle of wine and bags of crisps, explaining the wedding debacle to Rhi, Tabby realised she was starting to have a good time. Because, really, it was hilarious. And they could laugh about it. It might not even go ahead, knowing her mother’s flighty tendencies. Yes, Tabby was starting to feel quite cheerful. Then her phone buzzed. Text message: Don’t eat too much tonight. Must start strict diet and fitness regime for your bridesmaid’s dress. Mum.

Tabby blinked a couple of times, then threw the phone on the table for her friends to see, focusing instead on her glass of wine.

‘There is not enough wine and weed in the world to deal with that woman!’ Rhi exclaimed.

Chandra put her arm around Tabby. ‘Time to start on the vodka, love.’

***

Tabby supposed her mother had done her a favour, really. She had spent so much time alternately fuming and laughing about the farce of a wedding – ignoring that brief drunken moment at about three in the morning where she’d got a bit weepy that her mother had better luck with men than she did – that she didn’t even have time to worry about Monday.

And then Sunday was taken up with hangovers and big important tasks, like walking all the way to the corner shop for more milk for tea, or deciding whether to have a bacon sandwich or a full fry-up.

It wasn’t until Sunday evening, after Chandy left to go home and Rhi had finally stopped blaming Claudia for being so ridiculous that they’d all had to drink so much, that Tabby had time to worry about her meeting with Harry. But really, all she could do was set out an outfit that was most certainly different to the last one he’d seen her in, set her alarm, and crawl into bed, hoping that he looked an absolute mess tomorrow.

Chapter Five

Of course, Harry did not look anything other than fantastic. In fact, Tabby realised she was probably never going to see Harry Shulman without getting a dull twitch in her stomach at the sight of him, that wouldn’t abate until he opened his mouth and said something vile.

King of Smart Casual Harry had decided they would meet at JuJu, the latest ‘Pan-Asian haute cuisine monstrosity’ as Chandra had dubbed it. Tabby felt a little too nervous to point out that a Bella Italia lunch deal was more her style. Rhi had offered the best advice of all and told her to approach it like she would a story: it was research.

Sitting in a glass building at a glass table where the atmosphere was chilled to freezing point and the waiters all looked at her like she’d drunkenly wandered in from a barn dance, she felt so awkward, sipping San Pellegrino and trying to decipher the menu, that seeing Harry approach felt a little like being rescued.

‘Sorry I’m late, darling, have you ordered?’ His smile was so boyish and seemingly sincere that Tabby felt unable to feel irritated, even though strangers being unnecessarily affectionate pissed her off usually.

As soon as he sat down, the waitress appeared, simpering and smiling as Harry called her ‘sweetheart’, before rushing off to fetch his vodka tonic. Tabby refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. And then he turned that smile back to her, and she suddenly pitied the poor waitress, who had actually held up with far more grace under Harry’s scrutiny that she did. She could feel herself blushing, and clicked her fingers to try and get a grip, angry with herself. She was a grown woman. This was a professional meeting.

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.

‘I…Are you a model? Or a dancer? You’re beautiful.’

Chandra turned back to Tabby and rolled her eyes. ‘Original,’ she mouthed.

It took a few minutes more for The Suit to realise he wasn’t going to get anywhere, suddenly confused as to why the pretty girl who’d let him do his spiel wasn’t really interested.

‘You know, if a guy once guessed what I do for a living correctly, I might have to marry him.’ Chandra grinned.

‘And what do you do?’ a very familiar voice asked from behind them.

Tabby screwed up her eyes and didn’t turn around. ‘Hi Harry.’

When she did turn around, of course, she wasn’t lucky enough to be hallucinating, he was actually there. His white shirt glowing in the bar lighting, a little bit more stubble than during the week, there was no doubt he was painfully good-looking. Even Chandra looked a little shocked.

‘Of course, this is your scene.’ Tabby sighed, looking down. She noticed his expensive shirt and jeans ensemble had changed slightly, the addition of what looked like pink Converse. For some reason, she felt a sudden rush of affection towards those trainers.

‘So…?’ Harry raised an eyebrow.

‘She’s an actuary,’ Tabby replied, unsure if that was where he was going. Harry surveyed Chandra for a moment before nodding.

‘I can see why no one’s guessed correctly.’ He said it in such an easy, straightforward manner that it didn’t appear inappropriate. Chandra surveyed him, settling on a response that was half-hatred, half-approval. Please don’t flirt, please don’t flirt.

‘And you are?’ Chandra asked, though she knew perfectly well.

‘Harry Shulman, Tabby’s editor.’ He put an arm around Tabby and squeezed briefly. The natural ‘old maid’ feeling that came from sitting on a minimalist Perspex bar stool in a hip bar was not improved by this contact. Tabby held back a glare.

‘Oh, you mean the editor who’s been making Tabby’s life a misery and has managed to convince her she’s a talentless airhead who should stick to beauty columns and pointless rants, you mean?’ Chandra asked innocently, sipping her drink.

Harry’s eyes widened and he ran a hand through his hair in what looked like embarrassment.

‘I suppose you calculated the risk of a comment like that.’

‘What do you think?’ She arched an eyebrow.

Harry gave Tabby an exasperated look, as if to ask, ‘Is your friend for real?’, to which Tabby only replied with a raised eyebrow of her own. Harry huffed, and grabbed the edge of her seat to spin her around so she was facing him. He had that determined look. While only really having four face-to-face experiences with Harry, she felt that she could suddenly categorise at least ten different looks. And any one of them could be deadly when focused directly on you. Harry’s attention was a spotlight and while most people seemed to bloom and come alive under his gaze, all Tabby seemed able to do was freeze like a rabbit in headlights.

‘You didn’t reply to my email,’ he said simply.

‘I haven’t checked my computer since – ’

‘Since you sent me that article at stupid o’clock on Friday?’ His mouth twitched. ‘You know it was brilliant, that’s why you’re putting me through this. You knew I’d love it and so you’re getting back at me for criticising you. But you took exactly what I said! I knew we’d be an excellent team!’

Enthusiasm seemed to shine from him, and he suddenly looked so boyish and excited that Tabby wanted to hug him.

‘David loved it, the whole department loved it. It was being forwarded throughout the office! I’m so glad you listened to what I was saying. I know I was hard on you – ’

Here Chandra snorted, and Tabby widened her eyes at her.

‘ – but really, it was because I knew what you were capable of.’ Harry smiled, suddenly so affectionate that Tabby really couldn’t bear it. She also couldn’t bear to tell him she was terrible at taking criticism and her only creative motivation was pissing him off.

‘So I’m not fired then?’

‘Fired? Fired!’ He settled into a gentle grin and leaned in. ‘You are far too excellent to be fired. Plus, we have a twelve-week contract. I can’t fire you. Whether you write shit or gold, you’re here. With me.’

Tabby sat for a moment, considering Harry, his wide grin, his eagerness. He’d said she was excellent. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and tried not to smile like an idiot.

‘So, no problem with the “praise” part of the job then, just the criticism.’ Of course, he noticed her slightest movements, the twitch of her lips as she considered that, yes, maybe she was a bit excellent. Just a bit. And he liked it, really liked it. And when she stopped thinking about these things and focused on just how close Harry was, invading her personal space once again, his hands resting either side of her, she realised she needed to be at her wittiest. But nothing happened.

‘OK, so I’m not so great at the criticism. But it’s not like you stuck to being constructive, is it? Some of it was pretty mean!’

‘Oh shut up, you love it,’ Harry said, back to his jokey, cocky self, but he at least let go of her barstool, so she felt a little more in control. Tabby just folded her arms and tipped her head to the side, questioning him.

‘I thought that’s what we were doing, the whole banter-insulting thing?’ he said, slightly unsure. ‘I thought that’s what you got off on.’

‘Excuse me?’

He smirked briefly. ‘Work-wise, mind-in-the-gutter. I thought you needed someone to argue with to get your best work. You’ve been writing great articles so far, but no one’s pushed you to be better. That’s my job.’

Tabby considered this. He had his bloody earnest look on again, so if she cut him down he’d look like a beaten puppy. Bastard.

‘Well, I do like arguing with you,’ she conceded.

‘I like arguing with you too,’ he said. ‘I am honestly sorry if I upset you. But I’m probably going to do it a few more times.’

‘Oh, I have no doubt.’

‘And you’re probably going to call me a stuck-up prick or a self-invested arsehole, or whatever it was that you called your editor in that article.’

Tabby smiled innocently. ‘I have no idea what you mean, Harry. I’m a professional. It was just an article.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He rolled his eyes, and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. Her chest tightened briefly, and then he was back in his space, far away from her. ‘Speaking of people who want to argue, I seem to have angered another violent woman.’

‘Your calling in life, it seems.’ Chandra smirked as Harry shrugged.

‘Wish me luck,’ he said, before walking over to a delicate doll of a girl: tall, thin, with long blonde hair pulled messily into a plait. She was wearing a strapless silver bodycon dress that clung to her non-existent curves, and just looking at her skyscraper heels made Tabby feel dizzy. She looked down at her own shoes: purple felt, stack heels, with bunny rabbit buttons. OK, well she wasn’t his type, clearly. Like that mattered anyway, she wasn’t going to do anything. Just because someone gives you a much deserved compliment, doesn’t mean you suddenly forget they’re an arrogant twat.

As much as Tabby wanted to hate the girl on the dance floor, for being able to wear those shoes and that dress, and pull of the chic party-girl look, she almost had to pity her. She was staring uncertainly into Harry’s eyes as he convinced her she was the most important person in the world. And he was damn good at it, Tabby had to admit. She watched the girl go from sullen, to unsure, to begrudgingly amused. By the end of whatever speech he’d given her, she was looking at him like he was the answer to her prayers. Which, Tabby was pretty sure, he certainly was not.

‘So – ’ Tabby turned to Chandra, who simply held up a finger.

‘You know the rule, Tabs.’

Chandra’s Thirty Second Rule: After an important encounter with a member of the opposite sex (or in Rhi’s case, a member of either sex) you had to wait thirty seconds before discussing it. Chandra said this was to allow information to properly sink in, so you could discuss things with a clear head. Tabby only adhered because it meant the person they were discussing was usually across the room by that point, and wouldn’t accidentally overhear.

‘It wasn’t an encounter!’ Tabby whined. ‘He’s my boss!’

‘Mmf!’ Chandra held her hand up yet again. ‘Twenty-seven, twenty-eight…’

Tabby huffed and crossed her arms, purposefully not looking at the dance floor, where she was sure Harry was using his other skills to convince the girl of how important she was.

‘Thirty!’ Chandra paused. ‘EEEEEEP! So cute! Why haven’t you bonked his brains out yet?’

‘Ew, Chands, don’t say bonked.’ Tabby felt her stomach twitch, and gestured towards the dance floor. ‘And because, clearly, she is.’

‘Yeah, for tonight. What about tomorrow?’

‘I cannot casually sleep with my editor!’

‘Because…?’

Because been there, done that, and it almost ruined my life? Tabby grasped around for an answer that wasn’t pathetic and grounded in self-doubt.

‘Because it’s unprofessional, I’m there to write.’

‘So write after a night of head-banging sex with a guy who looks like he knows what to do. Jeez. I’ve never met anyone so resistant to an orgasm.’

‘Mean!’ Tabby looked around at the surrounding tables, hoping no one had heard. Conversations with Chandra concerning sex always seemed to be louder than any other conversation she took part in.

‘Well, when was the last time you had sex?’ Chandra asked simply, eating the cherry from her cocktail.

‘You know when. You made me discuss it in painful detail the morning after.’

Chandra’s eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. ‘The clammy hands guy? That was ages ago! Like a year or more.’

‘Well, it put me off for life, OK?’ Tabby knew she was getting defensive, but all this talk was making her crabby. Even if she liked him, which she didn’t, she wouldn’t do anything about it. ‘Look, I’m not sleeping with him I’m not doing anything with him except writing a bunch of articles. And even that is under duress. I’m just not interested in him.’

Chandra’s eyes moved past her to the dance floor, and of course, she couldn’t help but look. Harry had his arms around the doll-like girl, but looked across at Tabby, stuck his tongue out and winked.

‘Fifty quid says you don’t last a month.’ Chandra grinned.

‘Bad odds.’ Tabby sighed, breaking eye contact, and finishing the rest of her drink in one gulp.

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