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‘Pushover is definitely not the word I’d use.’ Harry smirked as the lift door closed, and Tabby suddenly felt out of control again.
***
Tabby had certainly not felt like shoe shopping after that ordeal. Besides, all that talk about money had made her worry even more. And she was probably going to have to call her mother back some time. She wouldn’t survive if she withheld the monthly cheques like she did last year when Tabby had missed her birthday. To be fair, her mother was in LA, and Tabby didn’t want to get charged international rates just because her mother refused to use Skype, but whatever. The person with the purse is in control. And her mother’s purse was made by Prada and full of cash.
Instead, Tabby went home, changed into her baggy clothes, cleaned the house, hoovered, scrubbed and polished everything she could get her hands on. Then she went for a run. Then she had a shower. In between peeling potatoes and deciding whether or not she needed to flip her mattress, Rhi came home, and they spent a considerable amount of time not talking about the interview. They talked about the crazy people Rhi worked with at the library and watched the news just so they’d have things to moan about. When it got to nine p.m., even Rhi was agitated.
‘Turn on your bloody laptop, scaredy cat! I can’t deal with the pressure!’
In her inbox was an email from Harry Shulman, offering her a twelve-week contract, a decent salary and expenses. Goddamn charm boy, got everything he wanted.
‘Shouldn’t we be celebrating?’ Rhi asked, already halfway to the bottle of white wine in the fridge.
‘Guess so.’ Tabby sighed. Twelve weeks. In a small office with Harry criticising everything she wrote, then laughing his way out of it. Going from arrogant to interested in under a minute. It was going to be an exhausting twelve weeks.
Chapter Four (#u20d8b431-0405-5689-98e5-8f11d7ff7c21)
‘Start being more happy or I’m going to hit you,’ Chandra warned dryly, as they sat at the bar with oversized, overpriced cocktails. ‘I swear, if you turn out to be one of those people who moans and then doesn’t actually change anything, we’re not going to be friends any more.’
‘Way to go with the tough love, Chands.’ Tabby rolled her eyes, but nudged her friend. OK, she needed to cheer up. This was her celebration, a night out to, ‘Herald the return of the kickass reporter Tabby Riley,’ as Chandra had put it earlier, when she showed up at the flat, forced Tabby into a clean dress and painful shoes, and dragged her to Covent Garden.
‘I really do appreciate this, you know. I needed a night out,’ Tabby said, and instead thought about how what she really needed was her pyjamas, takeaway Chinese food and episodes of Come Dine With Me. Or something, anything, to stop her thinking about her very first ‘Concept Meeting’ with Harry on Monday.
‘Yes, yes you did. Is Her Majesty meeting us here, or is it a bit too posh for the Proletarian Princess?’ Chandra raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow and sipped at her Cosmopolitan.
‘Don’t call her that. She’ll meet us in the pub later.’
‘Pubs,’ Chandra scoffed, and looked down the bar to catch the eye of the cutest barman. ‘Two more here, darling!’
‘You will come to the pub?’ Tabby wheedled. ‘If this is meant to be my celebration I need you both there. If only to tell me to stop being a miserable cow.’
‘Fine.’ Chandra rolled her eyes, and used her dazzling white smile on the barman, who appeared unimpressed. When he was gone, Chandra sighed. ‘What is it with cocktail barmen? They think they’re so cute.’
‘It’s their job.’ Tabby shrugged, frowning at the black-shirted twenty-somethings who provided their alcohol. ‘They know they’re pretty and they think we’re pathetic.’
Chandra ate the cherry from her cocktail. ‘They probably have damaged egos, and we make them feel better, improving their sense of self-worth.’
Tabby laughed into her Daiquiri. ‘So what you’re saying is, you’re really doing them a service by imagining them naked?’
Chandra grinned. ‘Oh, absolutely, you know me, always willing to help a person in need.’
Tabby and Chandra had been friends since secondary school, drawn together by mutual crushes on television characters and the fact that they both had overbearing mothers. Chandra, being an Indian girl of twenty-six was evading almost daily calls from her mother about when she was going to settle down with a nice Indian boy. And Tabby was evading calls from her mother, just because she was her mother.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Tabby’s phone began to ring. The Darth Vader theme tune, muffled from inside her bag was still too loud to be ignored.
‘Don’t do it! It can only end badly!’
Tabby rolled her eyes, drank the remainder of her first drink, and a good half of her second one, then answered the phone. ‘Hi Mum! How are you?’ she chirped, while Chandra made a face.
‘Tabitha?’ Claudia Riley sounded surprised.
‘Yes, Mum. You called me. Did you not mean to?’
‘No darling, of course I meant to! You just sound rather frantic. You’re not on anti-depressants are you, because I saw this programme on television – ’
‘No. Why would I be on anti-depressants?’ She rolled her eyes at Chandra, who snorted into her drink.
‘Well, things aren’t exactly going well for you darling, are they? No man, no real career. Living with the lesbian in that dive. And you’re edging closer to thirty, aren’t you? Maybe you should think about getting a secretarial job. I could put it into Google for you.’
Tabby was tempted to punch herself for answering the phone. Actually, punching herself would not be enough. Banging her head against a wall, that was the ticket.
‘Actually Mum, I got offered a new job. A real writing job with a newspaper, decent money too.’ She tried not to make it sound like she had something to prove, but obviously, she did. Her mother paused for a moment, and Tabby took a second to imagine what it would be like if her mother was like other mothers, and just said, ‘Congratulations, love! I’m so proud!’ But that wasn’t Claudia’s style.
‘Well, it’s not a real job, though, is it? You know, your cousin’s working in PR, got her own office – ’
‘Erm, yes it is real. I do a job, I get paid – ’ I spend the money I’m paid on alcohol to blot out your opinion of the job ‘ – sounds real to me!’
She could hear her mother huff, and downed the rest of her drink in preparation for her inevitable response. She signalled to Chandra, ‘Two more.’
‘Look, I know you think I’m being mean, darling, but I’m not, I’m just – ’
‘Being honest, I know.’ Tabby reached over and had some of Chandra’s drink. She was getting more worked up. ‘And while we’re on the subject of honesty, Mum, how’s Liam doing? Still feeling good about dating a boy two years older than your daughter? Bet you’re head of the PTA, right?’
Claudia cleared her throat awkwardly.
Instead of thinking she may have finally won an argument, Tabby realised that something terrible was going to happen.
‘Actually, Liam and I are getting married.’
Tabby’s jaw dropped, and she let a ‘Fuck right off!’ escape before she could control herself.
‘Language, Tabitha! You clearly got your mouth from your father’s side of the family. His mother sounded like she was born on a building site. Anyway, it will be a beautiful wedding, we were thinking of spring, lots of flowers everywhere, a big ceremony, but tasteful.’
Tabby let her mother drone on about her monstrosity of a wedding. She’d never imagined Liam was going to be a permanent part of her mother’s life. She’d assumed it was more of a mid-life crisis relationship.
Liam had moved from Essex to North London, been at school two years above Tabby, and had slept with half of year ten by the time he had left. Liam got spray tans, and sold expensive houses, and had nothing to say except what the football scores were, and what the pros and cons of ale and lager were. That Liam was marrying her mother. He was going to be her stepfather. A twenty-eight-year-old stepfather. Sweet Jesus.
She tuned back in to hear her mother saying, ‘Look, I know you’re not very good at being happy for other people, especially when your own love life isn’t going anywhere, but – ’
‘Congratulations, Mum. I’m glad you’re happy,’ Tabby said in monotone. ‘Bye.’ She hung up, knowing she’d pay for it later. Her mother always remembered. She took a deep breath.
‘Mum’s marrying Liam,’ she said to Chandra, watching as her eyes bulged in horror. And while she almost wanted to cry or scream about it, watching her usually very dignified friend spit a mouthful of Cosmopolitan onto the shirt of the cute barman fixed the whole situation. She got a case of the giggles so continuous that she thought she might never stop.
So this is what hysteria feels like, she thought, as Chandra went bright red and asked for the bill.
‘We should get to that pub. I think multiple bottles of wine and portions of chips are the only thing that will solve this,’ Chandra said in a measured voice.
‘My mother’s nuptials from hell or your gag reflex?’ Tabby squealed and collapsed into a fit of giggles again.
Chandra tried to look irritated, but couldn’t hide a smile. Tabby knew she was playing it cool, but as soon as they left the bar, her friend was going to fall apart with embarrassment and insist they could never EVER go back there.
After a ten-minute walk across Covent Garden, with Chandra ranting about how the world should just open a hole in the ground and swallow her up, she was so mortified, they reached the pub.
Rhi’s choices were usually old man pubs, ones with sticky floors, the smell of beer in the upholstery, and a darts board in the corner. Luckily, the one they entered wasn’t too bad, and even Chandra didn’t make a comment.
As they sat down with a bottle of wine and bags of crisps, explaining the wedding debacle to Rhi, Tabby realised she was starting to have a good time. Because, really, it was hilarious. And they could laugh about it. It might not even go ahead, knowing her mother’s flighty tendencies. Yes, Tabby was starting to feel quite cheerful. Then her phone buzzed. Text message: Don’t eat too much tonight. Must start strict diet and fitness regime for your bridesmaid’s dress. Mum.
Tabby blinked a couple of times, then threw the phone on the table for her friends to see, focusing instead on her glass of wine.
‘There is not enough wine and weed in the world to deal with that woman!’ Rhi exclaimed.
Chandra put her arm around Tabby. ‘Time to start on the vodka, love.’
***
Tabby supposed her mother had done her a favour, really. She had spent so much time alternately fuming and laughing about the farce of a wedding – ignoring that brief drunken moment at about three in the morning where she’d got a bit weepy that her mother had better luck with men than she did – that she didn’t even have time to worry about Monday.
And then Sunday was taken up with hangovers and big important tasks, like walking all the way to the corner shop for more milk for tea, or deciding whether to have a bacon sandwich or a full fry-up.
It wasn’t until Sunday evening, after Chandy left to go home and Rhi had finally stopped blaming Claudia for being so ridiculous that they’d all had to drink so much, that Tabby had time to worry about her meeting with Harry. But really, all she could do was set out an outfit that was most certainly different to the last one he’d seen her in, set her alarm, and crawl into bed, hoping that he looked an absolute mess tomorrow.
Chapter Five (#ulink_2d14d9c1-39db-5208-8437-b7e7e4d804ea)
Of course, Harry did not look anything other than fantastic. In fact, Tabby realised she was probably never going to see Harry Shulman without getting a dull twitch in her stomach at the sight of him, that wouldn’t abate until he opened his mouth and said something vile.
King of Smart Casual Harry had decided they would meet at JuJu, the latest ‘Pan-Asian haute cuisine monstrosity’ as Chandra had dubbed it. Tabby felt a little too nervous to point out that a Bella Italia lunch deal was more her style. Rhi had offered the best advice of all and told her to approach it like she would a story: it was research.
Sitting in a glass building at a glass table where the atmosphere was chilled to freezing point and the waiters all looked at her like she’d drunkenly wandered in from a barn dance, she felt so awkward, sipping San Pellegrino and trying to decipher the menu, that seeing Harry approach felt a little like being rescued.
‘Sorry I’m late, darling, have you ordered?’ His smile was so boyish and seemingly sincere that Tabby felt unable to feel irritated, even though strangers being unnecessarily affectionate pissed her off usually.
As soon as he sat down, the waitress appeared, simpering and smiling as Harry called her ‘sweetheart’, before rushing off to fetch his vodka tonic. Tabby refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. And then he turned that smile back to her, and she suddenly pitied the poor waitress, who had actually held up with far more grace under Harry’s scrutiny that she did. She could feel herself blushing, and clicked her fingers to try and get a grip, angry with herself. She was a grown woman. This was a professional meeting.
It wasn’t like Harry was oblivious to the effect he had, the carefully chosen white shirt, the undone collar, the rolled-up sleeves. His glasses resting in the shirt pocket to suggest that, yes, he did have flaws, yes, he was vulnerable. His hair had clearly been coiffed to within an inch of its life in order to get it looking that natural. Tabby wondered if Harry had written any hair care articles, he was clearly an expert.
‘So, how are you, Tabby? Good weekend?’
Tabby thought back to the five a.m. trip back on the night bus, and how she’d narrowly avoided throwing up in a rubbish bin on the side of the road. ‘I’d call it a success. You?’
‘Oh, absolutely a success.’
How 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 often.
‘Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?’ he asked neutrally.
