briefly superior. ‘A few thousand.’
‘More like five thousand, but fair enough. And what is it you claim to do on this blog?’ He leaned forward across the desk and tilted his head to the side like she was a particularly fascinating exhibit at a gallery. Or a monkey he truly believed had the ability to talk, but was still waiting for the proof. It was not a comforting look.
‘I don’t claim to do anything,’ Tabby said shortly, irritated by how out of control she felt. ‘I say what I think. The magazine stuff is usually about make-up or relationships, but the blog is for me. Sometimes it’s stupid stuff about what’s on TV, sometimes it’s new movies, feminist issues, politics.’
‘You call your blog political?’ he scoffed.
‘I write about things that affect my readers. If I have an opinion on the cuts to the health sector, even if I approach it in a different way – ’
‘Ranting and raving?’ Harry interjected.
Tabby briefly clenched her fists, took a deep breath and tried not to scream. Besides, Harry Shulman was clearly enjoying winding her up.
‘If that’s how you feel about my writing style, what am I doing here? You here to tell me to give up writing for the good of internet users everywhere? So can I go now?’
Harry leaned forward again, suddenly interested in her. She found she didn’t like that look any more than the one before. Like he’d suddenly been proven right. This man would never be able to lie to anyone. Everything he thought was right there on his face. His smug, arrogant, absolutely irritating face.
‘We want to hire you. We want “Miss Twisted Thinks” to be part of our Specialist Blogs Section on the site.’ He leaned back again, enjoying Tabby’s surprise. ‘However, there’s going to be a lot of work involved. This stuff you write, well, we’ve got a reputation for real journalism, and although almost everything these days has some fluff to pad out the real issues, we still need to make it look as though it’s not just an angry woman’s column, whining about periods and the glass ceiling.’
Tabby felt her chest constrict and her eyes widen. Why? Why was it always the pretty ones who turned out to be misogynists, or conservatives or power-hungry maniacs? Why, for once, couldn’t the cute guy be the good guy? Urgh, give her a slightly weird looking but ultimately kindhearted computer programmer any day. This guy was vile.
‘And that would entail the immense pleasure of working with you, would it?’ Tabby heard her own patronising voice and felt elated. She stood up. ‘Well, 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,
