The Last Word. A. Michael L.Читать онлайн книгу.
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.
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