The Last Word. A. Michael L.
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.
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