style="font-size:15px;"> It was hard to refuse when Rhi said ‘please’. It happened so rarely.
‘Sure, it was nothing.’ Tabby picked at the chocolate chips, suddenly not so in the mood for ice cream. ‘I just get so bloody tired of myself sometimes.’
‘Well, luckily I never do. Be a love and put the kettle on? I’ll be done in ten minutes. Warn the biscuit tin!’
And then Rhi was back in her zone, craned over, picking a pencil out of her blonde dreadlocked bun. She flicked down her blue-rimmed glasses and suddenly Tabby didn’t exist any more. Rhi’s ability to go from zero to studying in under ten seconds was something that had driven Tabby crazy when they were at university, but seeing as Rhi went to her job at the library and then came home to work on her Masters degree, while Tabby wrote articles in her pyjamas all day, it just seemed unfair to hold a grudge.
Everyone else was going somewhere. And Tabby couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to wear real clothes.
She clicked on the kettle, made herself a cup of tea, knowing it would be at least half an hour until Rhi would finish. She unlocked the back door and padded out into the poor little concrete excuse for a garden, hoping to see a little of the fading daylight.
Last year she’d tried to plant herbs – one of her article-inspired kicks – then promptly forgot about them. Their sad, weedy little skeletons drooped over the ceramic pot. Two previously white deck chairs and a plastic table they’d found in a nearby skip sat there like survivors of war. Tabby once again considered how maybe if she got the outward look of her life together, then maybe the real stuff would come along with it. In fact, she was pretty sure she’d written an article on that. She roughly wiped down one of the chairs, and stuck the mug of tea on the table. It wobbled precariously. Next door, the teen boys who thought starting a band called Dyspraxic Elastic was a cool idea practised their guitar solos. Five months on and they weren’t any better.
Tabby rolled herself a cigarette, cheerfully finding not only all the components in her dressing gown pockets, but a lighter in her pyjama bottoms. Score.
‘Hey.’ Rhi stepped outside, stretching in that feline way she had. ‘No tea for me?’
‘Thought you wouldn’t be done for ages.’ Tabby shrugged.
‘Give me a toke on that, then.’ She held out her hand. ‘Why are you smoking anyway?’
Tabby tucked a dark curl behind her ear, then reached around and found an earring caught in the back of her hair. She threw it on the table and grimaced. ‘I feel like I’m falling apart.’
Rhi sat on the doorstep and pulled her jumper around her. ‘We all do. What’s wrong exactly? The articles? I thought they were being well received?’
‘Yeah, but they’re…well, let’s be honest, they’re shit.’
‘Yeah, but it’s shit people want to read. Well-written shit, obviously,’ Rhi hurriedly added, reaching over to take a gulp of Tabby’s tea, then making a face when she realised there was no sugar in it.
‘Yeah.’ Tabby sighed, looking up at the few spindly treetops they could see from the real gardens around them.
Tabby loved London, loved their shitty little house in Tufnell Park. Loved red buses and tube stations and all night kebab shops. She loved her home town in the way most people love their parents – for making you who you are. But sometimes she would give anything to see a bit of greenery, to be out on a farm or sitting by the sea. The constant greyness of London before the spring arrived could be a little hard to bear.
‘Tabs.’ Rhi was easily exasperated, but that was OK, because Tabby was sick of herself too. ‘There’s only so many times I can say this. If you don’t like what you do, don’t do it! Do something else, anything else. Go back to interning at newspapers, or retrain as a teacher or something. Just stop moaning about it.’
At least Rhi was honest. Tabby couldn’t imagine herself saying that to anyone, even if it was true. She felt her shoulders slump as she visualised herself as a teacher, with the little shits throwing apples at her head. She tried as a copy editor, but couldn’t even imagine what she’d wear to work in an office. The only thing that made any sense was ranting and raving about useless things on websites, her blog and Twitter. Things like whether a Jaffa Cake was a cake or biscuit (clearly a cake, it was all in the name and the chocolate-to-base-thickness ratio) or how to trick your body into exercising without it realising.
And her followers loved her, that was true. These young girls who respected her opinions on fashion and music, LOL’d her jokes and ‘Liked’ her updates. Retweeting with the words ‘SO TRUE’ before things she’d written. She was a truth-sayer, bringing snarkiness and sarcasm to the masses of girls who felt too smart to be loveable. That was something, right?
‘Come on, chick,’ Rhi tousled her hair and dragged her to her feet. ‘Let’s raid the chocolate stash and order a pizza for dinner.’
‘Is there wine?’ Tabby asked hopefully.
‘Who do you think you’re talking to? It’s right there in the house rules: the chocolate cupboard shall always be stocked, and there will always be wine in the fridge.’ Rhi grinned. ‘Order the pizza, will you, I just have ten more minutes of reading to do!’
Tabby trudged back upstairs to get her laptop and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Not too bad. She’d trained herself to try and be positive every time she passed by. Not awful. She’d spent enough time writing self-confidence pieces as asides to the make-up guides to know that it was way too easy to feel shit about yourself, and she wasn’t going to propagate that. Nope. It was hard enough being a woman. There was the niggling feeling that by writing articles on how to get the best feline flick with liquid liner she was clearly buying into that though. She tried to dismiss it.
She pulled at her skin, mostly clear, and ran a hand through her short brown curls. OK, so she could do with more sleep, that would stop the dark circles under her eyes, and sure, her lips we chapped, and maybe her face was a little rounder since she’d stopped running. She squared her shoulders and smiled at herself. Not too shabby. Her eyes were clearly her best feature, a greyish blue that seemed to change with the weather, or the right type of eyeliner. She was all right, really.
So maybe all this article stuff wasn’t for nothing. She’d learnt some stuff. It was just that she felt like a fraud. If the girls who followed her knew that the woman doling out fashion advice and ranting about reality TV shows was actually a twenty-six-year-old journalist who didn’t venture out of the house most days, would they still think she spoke the truth?
She logged on to her Twitter account and checked the stats for her blog ‘Miss Twisted Thinks’, the latest entry being what Rhi described as a scarily vicious rant about the housewives of various American states. Seeing the numbers creep up gave Tabby the warm and fuzzies though. When the closest you got to affection and intimacy was with cyber fans who had no idea who you were, maybe it was time to reconsider your life. Or just say, ‘To hell with it,’ and get a cat.
A satisfying ping announced that she had a new email, an official-looking one at that. From the Specialist Blog Editor at The Type, the latest digital newspaper to emerge. Tabby scanned the email, then re-read it three times. Then walked downstairs to Rhi, clutching her laptop.
‘Did you order the pizza yet? No pineapple, please, I can’t bear it – ’ Rhi paused, looking up to see Tabby’s look of confusion. ‘What
