The Last Word. A. Michael L.
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