A. L. Michael - The Last Word

‘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.