The Last Word. A. Michael L.
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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.
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