The Last Word (7 page)

When she got to The Black Cat, there was Harry, chatting with the old barman, keenly nodding like he was really enjoying himself.

‘Hey there,’ Tabby sidled up, smiling automatically at the interaction.

‘Hey Tabs.’ Harry kissed her cheek, and she felt herself holding her breath until it was over. ‘This is Nigel,’ he nodded at the barman, ‘he’s owned this pub for twenty-five years. Can you believe it?’

‘That’s a long time.’ Tabby smiled inanely, watching how Harry manipulated the conversation, made the older man feel interesting and worthy of a story.

‘A big deal in a central London location, I can tell you.’ Nigel smiled. ‘Anyway, what can I get your beautiful lady friend?’

Tabby smiled, and watched as Harry looked to her for confirmation. ‘Red wine?’

‘As long as you don’t harp on about vintages, that’ll be lovely.’ Tabby raised an eyebrow.

‘A bottle of whatever red you think is best, Nigel, cheers.’

Harry’s voice had changed, she noticed. His sharp London accent had faded away to something softer, not quiet cockney, not quite northern, but something. He had a light blue shirt on, rolled up at the sleeves, and his usual smart trousers. She looked down at his shoes.

‘What?’

‘I was kind of hoping to see the pink Converse again.’ She grinned.

‘You making fun of me?’

‘No, Harry, I’m honestly expressing appreciation for the first thing about you that seemed genuine. Is that all right?’

He paused. ‘Is that a pretentious way of saying you liked my trainers?’

‘Yes.’ She grabbed her glass of wine and clinked it against his one sitting on the bar. ‘Cheers to that. Shall we get a table?’

He shrugged and smiled, gesturing for her to go ahead. ‘Lead the way.’

They ended up sitting back at the same table as last time, but as soon as they sat down, things seemed to get awkward. Tabby wasn’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t her, she knew that. She’d realised being around Harry and having to deal with the exhausting banter all the time meant she had no time to focus on how pretty his eyes were. Which was a relief. But somehow, the meeting wasn’t working.

‘So, I really liked this idea of People Within Places, if you wanted to explore that further. I – ’

‘Yes, that’s – ’

‘I was – ’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘No, you go ahead.’

Silence.

It kept happening. Harry would try to be accommodating, overly friendly, make a big deal over the smallest idea. And it wasn’t just patronising, but it made her feel like the idea was worthless and he was just trying to be kind. Which meant, clearly, none of her ideas were very good, and he was just trying to get whatever he could out of her.

‘Listen, darling, I was hoping we could go back to the uni fees concept. I love it, I think it’s brilliant.’

‘It’s not,’ Tabby said flatly.

‘What?’

‘It’s not brilliant. I don’t know what you’re doing right now, but it’s weird.’

Harry sighed. ‘I’m trying to be a supportive editor.’

‘By holding my hand like a child? I’m not a moron.’

‘Look, your friend said I’d been tearing you down, so now I’m trying not to. But apparently I’m an arsehole either way. I’m making an effort here, so could you stop making me feel like I’m being a shitty human being?’

Watching Harry lose his cool was way too much fun. A delicious vein in his neck seemed to twitch, his cheeks went a little red and his eyes seemed to turn a darker green. Tabby was enjoying him being off-balance way too much. But maybe now it was time to apologise. After all, she’d won, right?

‘I’m sorry, Harry, honestly.’ She smiled and patted his hand.

‘You don’t look sorry,’ he grunted, and then looked at her closely. ‘You look smug.’

She widened her eyes. ‘That’s just my face. Why would I be smug? Look, we’re trying to get used to each other, it’ll take some work. I appreciate you making the effort.’

‘Don’t have this problem with my other writers,’ Harry sighed. ‘I just chat away and they take it or leave it. None of them tell me to my face that I’m talking bollocks.’

‘I’ve never done that!’

‘No, but you would, wouldn’t you?’ This time it was Harry’s turn to grin, as Tabby looked a little abashed.

‘Maybe. But I’d find a more creative way of saying it. And I’d only do it because you seem to bring out the worst in me.’

‘I seem to do that with most women.’ Harry winked, and she rolled her eyes and suddenly things seemed OK again.

‘All right, how about we decide you won’t babysit me. If you really don’t like it, tell me. But maybe throw in a compliment now and then to take the sting out. You know, constructive criticism.’

They clinked glasses once again, and Harry poured the last dregs of the bottle into Tabby’s glass.

‘So tell me, what’s the deal with getting to know the pub owner’s life story?’ Tabby leaned in, watching as Harry’s lips quirked.

‘I like people. I know you think I’m just some pretentious twat who talks about Pinot Noir and drives a sports car and wears designer suits – ’ Tabby opened her mouth to interject and he held up a hand ‘ – no, I know I give off that impression. And it has its uses. But most people, present company excluded, tend to think I’m all right.’

‘So…you’re not bothered about sports cars and designer suits?’ Tabby frowned, confused.

‘Of course I am, I wouldn’t have them otherwise. I’m just saying, liking nice things and working hard for them isn’t exactly the worst way to be, is it?’

‘No.’ Tabby pouted like a scolded student. ‘Guess not.’

‘And if I know something’s excellent, I really push it, so when I tell you you’re brilliant, and I really think you’re going places, it should mean something, right?’

Tabby smiled. ‘I think I’ll manage to do it without the overpriced clothes and designer garbage though, if you don’t mind.’ She stuck out her chin.

‘Yeah, you’ve got that whole shabby chic thing working for you.’ Harry stuck out his tongue, looking so ridiculous that Tabby couldn’t help but laugh.

They finished their wine, and Harry stood up. ‘As lovely as this encounter has been, I’ve got a pressing social engagement.’

‘Is it somewhere pretentious and expensive?’ Tabby stood up too.

‘Yes. Yes it is. You have to hand over a gold card when you enter and I’ve paid an extra hundred quid so they always refer to me as Mr Bond. I’d invite you along but you’d be completely out of place.’ They walked outside where the summer night air greeted them, stale and warm. Harry kissed her on the cheek and Tabby felt her own lips pucker in response. Great, she was an air-kisser now. Brilliant.

‘Try and have a goodnight, Tabitha!’ Harry grinned as he wandered off down a side road, hands in pockets, looking as if he’d wondered out of a magazine and into a stroll through the streets of an Italian city.

Tabby briefly wondered what the boy who became Harry was like, back before the money and the designers. She imagined he wore Converse everywhere. Maybe, he was even sullen and irritable and awkward, wearing black clothes and silently mocking everyone. Or maybe, he still had that easy grin and ability to get under your skin. But he would happily drink cheap cider and wear second-hand clothes, maybe. Whoever he had been, Tabby thought she might have liked him.

Chapter Eight

Tabby was beginning to be convinced that everything was going to be excellent. She had gainful employment doing something she loved, she had amazing friends, the boiler hadn’t broken and her mother hadn’t called. Everything was wonderful.

Which of course meant that it was time for things to go to shit. Otherwise, as Rhi quite rightly said, life got boring.

Tabby had realised, after some frantic back-and-forth emailing with Harry, that she really liked her editor. She especially liked him when he wasn’t in the same room as her, being all charming and putting her on edge. So Harry’s insights into her writing style, and excellent use of smiley faces had put The Writer Tabitha Riley (as she had started referring to herself) in a pretty good mood.

‘What are you grinning about?’ Rhi perched on the other end of the sofa, as Tabby’s fingers stilled on her laptop.

‘I have an excellent idea for a story. It’s good, Rhi, it’s really good. It’s the first time I’ve felt like I am actually really good at this, and doing what I’m meant to be doing and…ah! I’m just happy!’

‘And without booze or chocolate or running up a credit card bill. You may have reached enlightenment.’ Rhi slumped back and closed her eyes. ‘Let me know what the food’s like there. I bet it tastes awesome.’

Tabby looked at her housemate, noted the darker circles under her eyes and how the blue tint at the end of her dreadlocks was faded. Her clothes seemed to hang a lot looser than usual too.

‘Are you OK, sweets? I’ve been really self-absorbed, I’m sorry.’ Tabby reached across to stroke Rhi’s hair.

Rhi smiled, eyes still closed. It was times like that, when she wasn’t raging against the machine, or being rightly indignant about all the things socially responsible people should be indignant about, that Rhi looked sweet. She looked like a cat, sleeping in the sunshine. And if Tabby ever told her that, she’d claw her eyes out.

‘I’m good. It’s just surprising how exhausting spending your day in silence can be. Library people are weird.’

‘Uhuh?’

‘Everything seems worse because you have to whisper about it, so these little things become big dramatic sagas. The Case of the Missing Cheese Sandwich has been going on all week. Apparently it’s a tale of Homeric importance. I offered to share my pasta salad, but apparently my generosity is incriminating.’ Rhi sighed.

‘Seriously?’

‘People suck. I prefer books. Books make sense.’ Rhi wriggled a bit to get comfortable.

‘Do you want a blanket?’

‘Nope, I’m getting up now. Have dissertation to work on.’ She paused. ‘I just got up and went to do my work, right?’ Her eyes were still closed.

‘Yes, yes you did. In one of the multiverses, there is a version of you who got up and fell asleep on her laptop instead of her bed, and possibly caused an electrical shortage by drooling onto the keyboard. Luckily, we’ll never know.’ Tabby assumed what she hoped was an authoritative voice. ‘Rhiannon! Go. To. Bed.’

‘Need to do another five hundred words, at least,’ Rhi mumbled.

‘Rhi. Get up. Walk upstairs. Get into bed. I’ll wake you up for dinner. I’m not kidding. Go.’

‘But – ’

‘NOW.’

Rhi’s lips formed a pout before her eyes opened and she frowned. ‘Jeez, is that what I sound like when I’m taking responsibility for your wellbeing?’

‘Irritating and overprotective? Yes. But you’re always right.’

Rhi smiled sleepily. ‘I like being right. I’ll be right again when I wake up. Night.’ She clumped upstairs, and Tabby heard the very distinctive click of Rhi’s bedroom door, the squeak of her floorboards, and a soft bounce as she apparently collapsed on her bed.

Well, that was one more thing The Writer Tabitha Riley was good at, looking after people. Tabby allowed herself a brief moment of triumph, considering this was probably one of the ten times since she’d known Rhi that she’d actually forced her to do something. She was growing up.

Now, onto this article.

She started crafting an email to Harry, but the excitement seemed to make the words come out all jittery and confused. There were an alarming amount of exclamation marks. Surely, she could just call him? He was a colleague, a professional lifeline. She should get his feedback on this. It wouldn’t be weird. He wouldn’t think she was overstepping boundaries. Because she wasn’t. He’d asked her to keep in touch. He would be pleased. They were being friendly now. Right? He’d said to call day or night, and she didn’t think it was just innuendo. Richard had never said that. Probably because he was still sleeping with his ex-wife while he’d convinced her they were going to have a life together. If she called Richard, it had been hushed and cut off, that he didn’t want to hear from her, her ideas weren’t important and couldn’t she keep it within office hours? How on earth she’d managed to shag the man baffled her sometimes. But this was different, she was better now. If she wanted to call her editor and get his opinion, she could. It was only five o’clock.

After five minutes considering something that didn’t need that much consideration at all, Tabby huffed at herself in frustration, and scrolled to Harry’s name. It rang four times before he answered.

‘Yes?’

‘Harry? It’s Tabs, listen I’ve got this idea – ’

‘Tabby, now’s not a good time.’ His voice sounded strange, tight.

‘Are you in a meeting?’

‘No, but – ’

‘Because – ’

‘Tabby, I just told you, I don’t have time right now.’

‘I’m sorry. You said I could call you – ’

‘When it was necessary, not when you suddenly decide you aren’t capable of doing your job by yourself. You’re the writer, it’s your job to come up with concepts and execute them, and right now I don’t have time to hold your hand.’

‘Sorry, I, uh – ’ Tabby stuttered, shocked to suddenly recognise that voice from her first interview, the one that had seemed above her, mocking and derisive.

‘I’m hanging up now.’ And he was gone.

Tabby felt her bottom lip wobble, and let out a little squeak of surprise. Then she counted to thirty. Another advantage of Chandra’s Thirty Second Rule. Tabby knew that after an encounter that hurt her feelings it would take less than thirty seconds to go from upset to absolutely raging. She felt the anger and shame and irritation build up from her stomach like acid, allowing the words, ‘How dare he? How fucking dare he?’ roll around and around her head until she was inflated with anger.

‘That bastard!’

Tabby started to wonder if it was him she was angry at for being obnoxious and talking down to her, or herself for getting sucked back in again. Nope, definitely him. Arsehole.

Tabby was careful not to wake Rhi, and instead of doing what she’d normally do in such a situation, like moaning at her friends, writing an enraged blog post, or attacking the partially deflated punch bag in the back garden, she decided to act like an adult. So she wrote a letter of resignation. Actually, she wrote five. The first was polite and to the point version. The last was mostly just swearwords.