did he get his eyes to twinkle like that? And his voice had lowered to a deliciously dirty level. Her lips quirked up, and then she shook it off, trying to get back to professionalism. If there was anything she’d learnt since her journalistic fall from grace all those years ago, it was not to trust your editor. And while Harry was cute, he was also an arsehole. An arsehole who was there to make money from her. So there was no point playing nice.
‘So, what did you want to discuss?’ she said abruptly, sitting up straight.
‘Ah, straight to business, I get it. Sure you don’t want to order first?’ Harry said lightly. And, of course, the waitress reappeared, and she had no idea what to order, running her finger down and picking the first thing, pointing it out instead of trying to pronounce it.
‘Are you sure you want that?’ Harry questioned, and she bristled.
‘I’m quite capable of making my own decisions, thank you.’
He just bit back a smile, threw his hands up in defeat, and ordered his food, pronouncing everything perfectly, the bastard. The waitress gave Tabby a pointed look, as if to say, ‘See, this is what a normal person does.’
Harry then spent the next forty-five minutes roughly outlining where he thought her blogs should go, what he thought she was capable of covering accurately, and generally taking the one thing Tabby did well and making it sound cheap. That was in between endless flirting with the waitress, phone calls, text messages and an offer of a drink from a woman sitting alone at the bar. What the hell kind of a woman sends over a drink when the guy is sitting having lunch with another woman? The depressing conclusion was that Harry was so clearly out of her league that it couldn’t even enter the realms of possibility that they were on a date.
‘I’m not saying it’s immature, per se,’ Harry babbled on, carefully spearing a piece of salmon while Tabby stared morosely at her order – a house salad. All those fancy words for a fucking house salad. ‘It’s just that we have a different level of readership, we don’t just want some crazy young woman ranting about higher education, or using the layers of a Jaffa Cake as an analogy for the class system. We need something more – ’
‘Pretentious?’ Tabby interjected cheerily. ‘Because the way it sounds, Harry, is that you hired me for what I do and now you want me to do something else. Which negates the point of hiring me completely.’
‘Look, I understand you’ve been freelance for a while, darling, so you’re not used to how this works –’
‘Have you at least looked at my CV? You know I’ve worked for major papers before, right?’
‘Yes, years ago, before no one wanted to hire you any more,’ he said it gently, but he was making a point.
And it hurt. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. Think of the money, think of being able to tell your mother you don’t need a cheque this month. Think about being able to buy a new power outfit instead of sewing up the seams of the cherry print again. Breathe. Remember he is just a silly boy and you are a wise woman of the world. Remember that you have friends and fondant fancies and Benefit lipstick. There are rainy days and wood fires and pancakes on Sunday mornings. Life will be OK. Life will be OK with money. Harry is the route to money. Tabby took a deep breath. Deal with Harry and you can have a Prada purse. Put up with Harry and you can have nice things and independence and guilt-free spending sprees. OK. Tabby nodded and opened her eyes to see Harry staring at his salmon, biting his lip, looking a little embarrassed. Probably because she was being a mad cow again.
‘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
