by Anna Roberts
I rummage in my desk drawer for some lipgloss. "So she has to choose between the man who's good for her and the man who's bad for her?"
"Yes."
"Isn't that the plot of Tess of the D'Urbervilles?" I murmur.
"Nope."
"Are you sure?"
"Dude, I may not be a learned fucking English major like your genius-ass self, but I'm pretty sure that Thomas Hardy had more than one plot in him."
"Okay," I say, fishing out what I thought was a subtle pink. The label's peeling a bit but it says 'Soft Watermelon'. Only when I open it it's more like dayglo hooker pink. "And the heroine was definitely named Bathsheba?"
"Definitely."
I squint at the contents of another pot of lipgloss. It appears to have skin flakes in it. I think Alicia might have been going through my personal things. "Who the fuck is named Bathsheba?" I muse.
"The heroine of Far From The Madding Crowd?" says Kate. "Like you're in a position to mock people for having stupid names, Hannelore Squeal."
"I go by Hanna now. And it's Neigh."
"Hanna Neigh?"
"Yes."
She starts laughing.
"What's so damn funny now?" I say, taking my tea from Alicia and shooing her out of the office. She curtseys at the door. I hate her so much.
"Hanna Neigh? Dude, that is way too many n sounds for one name. I'm like nanananananana - I'm in an n loop." She giggles.
Oh God. She's right. Why did I never notice that before. "You think I should go by my maiden name?"
"For real. I mean, Hanna Squeal is still fucking stupid but at least people can sound it out without sounding like Chevy Chase in Caddyshack."
I kick my shoes off and put my feet up on the desk. "I guess it would be easier if I went by my name. How do you think Bennett will take it?"
"Same way he takes everything - strapped to a St. Andrew's cross with a ball gag in his mouth and a leather studded cockring round his giblets."
I sigh and inspect my French tips. "Did I ever mention that I hate his hobby?"
"Yes. Frequently. Now did you need something or can I get on with raising your child?"
"No. I remembered why I called. I need your help. I have to get rid of Alicia."
"Oh. Right. In what way 'get rid'?"
"I don't know. There's no way to fire her without Claudia going crazy again, but I'm done, Kate. I can't take it any more. She's just too annoying."
"Is she still talking about Tom Hiddleston and doing that awful British accent?"
"She's still doing the accent but I think judging by the pictures on her desk that she's moved onto Benedict Cumber...bumber...thingybob."
Kate groans. "Oh God. Yeah. You've got to get rid of her. Believe me, Hiddleston's a gateway drug. They start on him, move on to Cumberbatch and Doctor Who and then they start writing fanfiction. And you don't even want to know how messed up that can get."
Oh shit. Alicia has a plushie TARDIS on her desk already. Does this mean she's going to get worse? "What am I going to do?"
"I don't know. Why are you asking me?"
"Because you're evil. You know how to get rid of people. I don't. I'm too nice."
She laughs. "Bullshit, Hanna. You're a borderline narcissist with personality problems so complex and extensive that your shrink could bankroll a James Cameron movie and still have enough not to live on dogfood for the rest of his natural life. And put his kids through college. Ivy League."
"That's as may be, but what am I going to do about Alicia?"
"Invest in a set of earplugs?"
I hang up in disgust. Bathsheba? Who the fuck is named Bathsheba?
I glance at my e-mail and page Lindsay in IT. I can't figure out how to change my name in the header. Time to start in on the inbox, I guess. At least a hundred of the e-mails are from Bennett, who likes to keep in touch. Then there are some from that Nigerian prince I met online last year and who was so consoling in the wake of Crispian's death. I sometimes think I'd like to be a princess, but a lot of the business of growing up is about accepting that some of your childhood dreams will never be reality.
About half an hour later, Lindsay finally slopes in. “What are you doing down here?” she says. “Papa Roach is looking for you.”
Oh God. Roach.
Who?
- Roach. My scary boss who keeps calling me into his office to bawl me out at inappropriate moments. You know.
Nope. Drawing a blank here.
- Oh, for God’s sake. Are you even trying to keep up? You know Roach. He’s always telling me I know nothing about publishing and then I prove him wrong like the spunky maverick who...
...invents whole new characters out of thin air in the third book of a trilogy?
- Yes? And? Go back to sleep. Does this look like a car-chase scene to you?
My Inner Goddess starts to weep softly and curls up in a ball. I turn back to Lindsay, who is staring rudely at me. “What does Roach want?” I query.
Lindsay shrugs. “I don’t know. Did you want me for something? Did you forget how to do the keyboard shortcuts for international characters again?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, stepping back into my shoes and tossing my hair over my shoulders. Shit. Meeting with the boss. “I need to change my name.”
“Uh, okay?”
“On my e-mail. Where it says Hanna Neigh.”
“Okay.” She stares at me. God, why does everyone around here lack initiative? It’s no wonder the company’s in trouble.
“Well, I need it to say something different,” I explain. “I need a new name. The other one is really heavy on the n’s. How is this so difficult to understand?”
“What name?” Lindsay starts to say, but I’m already out the door. These shoes add at least three minutes to the journey to the elevator.
Wow. It’s really not easy being a working wife and mother. And I have to work extra hard since Bennett bought the company, since I know there are certain people who think I became Senior Commissioning Editor just because I married the boss. They fail to realise just how many Twilight fanfictions I managed to acquire, repurpose and sell before that Eurotrash bitch-troll Jessica Waters came along and clogged the market with her gross, unreadable crap.
Who on earth wants to read about people having sex with sasquatches, for God’s sake?
The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the top floor of the building. I know before the elevator doors are open that something odd is going on, because I can hear music; I think it’s Kenny Loggins.
The doors open on the boardroom. Roach is dancing on the boardroom table, singing loudly along to the music. He turns on his heel, sticks his butt out to do ‘the elephant’ and then almost falls off the table when he sees me.
“Hanna!”
“Um...hi?”
Roach flops down from the table and dances towards me, giggling. “How are you, Hanna?” he says, expansively.
“Um...I’m good, sir. Are you drunk?”
He shakes his head and laughs. “No. No. Nothing like that.” He leans forward and taps his nose. “Although between you and me, I have done an assload of coke this morning? You want some?”
“No,” I murmur. “I heard it makes your teeth feel all weird and big.”
Roach throws his head back and laughs wildly for a long moment. When he’s finished he wipes his eyes and pinches my cheeks. “Oh Hanna,” he sighs. “Oh Hanna, Hanna, Hanna. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m gonna miss you and your stupid little voice and your stupid little face.” He gives my cheeks an extra pinch. “Lookit dat punim – pretty as a picture and not a braincell out of place.”
I stare at him as I try to recall the plot for this particular book. “Are you going to murder me and throw me out of the window, sir?” I mutter.
He releases my face and leans back against the boardroom table. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Are you leaving RIP, sir?”
He grins. “Oh, it’s better than that, Hanna. Our new owner
has made me an offer I can’t refuse. Do you know what that means, Hanna? Do you?”
I shake my head.
“I’m sure you don’t,” he says. “Anymore than you can understand that this company, once a reputable independent publisher, has been reduced to a kind of glorified daycare for a rich man’s bimbo. Do you know how fucking little the new owner paid for this company? And it was all down to you, honey. You and your whole four functioning braincells.”
It takes me a moment to digest this information. “Wait...Bennett sold the company?”
Roach’s grin ratchets up another notch. “You’d better believe it, cupcake. To a buyer who has given me the kind of handsome retirement package I spent the last two years watching drift out of my reach.”
I can’t believe it. “He would never do that without telling me!”
“He would, and he did,” says Roach. “And that’s why I’m not saying au revoir – I’m saying goodfuckingbye and good riddance. I’m going to spend the rest of my days having mimosas for brunch and playing Just Dance with my grandkids.”
“But...” I murmur. “If Bennett’s sold the company...”
“That’s right,” says Roach. “You’re going to have to do some actual fucking work.” He starts laughing uncontrollably again. “I would say ‘good luck’, Hanna – but let’s face it. You’re fucked.”
I stagger to the elevator, my mind reeling. When I get back to my floor I go back to my office and sit down to look at my e-mail.
To: Princess Pigtails Tittyfuck, Grand Piss-Empress of Fantasia
From: Anonymous
RUN RUN RUN JUST AS FAST AS YOU CAN. YOU CAN’T CATCH ME I’M THE GINGERHEAD MAN.
Holy crap! It’s another threatening e-mail!
Chapter Six
Angry Birds
I stare, speechless, at the threatening e-mail.
A dark dread seizes me by the throat, shakes me and smacks me around the face a couple of times before giggling and running out of the door of my office. What can this mean? Why would someone do a thing like this? It's so disturbing.
Because they hate you?
- You. Why are you back?
I was told there'd be a car chase in this one. You know how much I've been looking forward to it, since you never let me have any, you know, fun.
That's not my fault. If you danced the merengue and ice-skated and performed impossible gymnastics moves like a real Inner Goddess...
The phone rings, startling me. "Hello, Hanna Neigh," I murmur reflexively. Jeez, Kate was right. So many n sounds. I may never get my tongue off the roof of my mouth. I feel like a dog looks when you feed it peanut butter.
"Hi Poopkin."
Oh great. Just what I need.
"Mom, this isn't a great time..."
"...Hanna, I haven't seen you in months. Is everything okay? Why did Kate bring Celestia back here? I thought the house wasn't even finished yet."
"Someone set fire to Bennett's office," I say. "And he’s sold the company from under my nose. And now I'm getting disturbing e-mails from Anonymous."
"Them?" My mother snorts. "Oh honey, we used to be overrun with them down in Clearwater. They're all talk, trust me. They'll probably just send you a pizza and play Rick Astley at you like it's 2007 or something. Listen, what time are you leaving today? I need to see you. Can I come by your office and pick you up?"
I try to make off-putting noises but she insists. Goddamit, why is my life so complicated? "Alicia?"
Alicia bounces up from her desk and waddles over. "Wotcher cor blimey me old mucker."
I could kill her. I could actually do that. I could just smack her very hard on the head with something until she ceased to exist.
I tear my mind from these dark, uncharacteristic thoughts. "If anyone calls I'm out of the office," I tell her, and run for the elevator before she can assail me another blast of Dick Van Dyke cockney.
A mani-pedi, some new Jimmy Choos and a small Chanel evening bag later and I feel like a new woman. I catch sight of my reflection in a store window. Maybe I am a new woman. I'm rich - filthy, stinking rich - and hot. Who would have thought it? Little Hanna Squeal, the bookish brunette from the English department, all willowy and lipglossed with double D boobs and legs that don't quit. Am I really under all this glamour and beauty? Me, with my Converse and my flannel shirts and Hello Kitty notebook?
Maybe I should buy something to remind me of the person I really am.
Like one of those sparkly Twilight dildos and a heavily defaced copy of the Cliff Notes for Tess of the D'Urbervilles?
- No. I mean something that puts me in touch with my roots. Myself.
Yeah? Again, I'm gonna go with the Twilight dil...
I shake my head angrily and stomp back to the office. As luck would have it, by the time I get back everyone is leaving anyway. My mother is sitting in my office, drinking a cup of tea. Alicia is standing in front of her, staring at her as she drinks it.
"Shouldn't you be getting home, Alicia?" I say.
"Jolly good," she says, and curtseys. "I hope the tea was to your satisfaction, Mrs. Squeal."
She skips off. My mother, who has been Ms. West as long as I've known her (all my life, basically) puts down the teacup and stands up. "Did she have a stroke or something?"
"No. She talks like that now. She thinks she's British - you know. Like she used to think she was Japanese."
"Yeah, I got that," says my mother, hugging me. She feels skinny and almost bounces off my new breasts. She grabs my shoulders and looks me up and down. "Well," she sighs. "Looks like it's me on my own against the patriarchy - again."
"Is Uncle Bob here?"
She shakes her head. "No. He's down at the protest."
"There's a protest?" Figures. She's only ever in town if it's a protest, a crystal healing thing or if the voices in my head have gone strange again.
"Hanna, there is a global environmental disaster going on right now. For goodness sake, it’s visible from your office window!"
"I've been very busy at work," she says, as we head to the elevator.
"Well, it's your first day back, baby. There's bound to be a backlog. Did you make much of a dent in it?"
"A little,” I murmur. But my mind is reeling. I can’t take it in. He sold the company?
"I had a thought," she says. The doors open and we step into the parking garage. To my surprise she's hired a relatively nice new Hybrid. "Some of your friends with the Guy Fawkes masks are out there in Stinktown. Is there any reason they'd be going after RIP? Have you published anything lately that might piss them off in some way? Something about the dangers of transfats, maybe - or a searing critique of Internet memes?"
"I don't think so," I say. The Hybrid is not so nice inside. It smells like fish guts and there's an animal carrier of some sort, covered over with a picnic blanket. "Mom, what's that in the back?"
I twitch the blanket and something squawks loudly. I snatch my hand back.
“Oh dear,” says my mother. “I was hoping he might think it was night-time. You know, like a parakeet. He’s obviously not fooled. I’d better sit in the back and talk to him. Are you okay to drive?”
I stare at her. “Why wouldn’t I be okay to drive?”
“I just thought...with the problem drinking and all...”
“I do not have a drinking problem,” I asseverate.
Right. Just like you never had a dialogue tag problem.
I start the car. There’s another bout of panicked squawking from the rear seat. “Do you have a bird in there?”
“A seagull.”
That explains the smell of herring. “It sounds upset.”
“Of course he’s upset,” says my mother. “You’d be upset if you were innocently diving in Puget Sound only to find yourself caked in a mixture of pizza grease, Mountain Dew and Cheeto dust. Are we going back to the house? You know I’m dying to see Celestia again.”
Between this, the Gangnam parrot and the duck my life is taking on a distinctl
y birdy flavour lately. I hit the I-5, since that’s the only road the author could be bothered to look up on Google maps. The noise in the back gets louder as we pick up speed, further shattering my anxious thoughts. The threatening e-mails – what can they mean? Is someone...threatening me?
And then I spot it, a couple of cars behind. A black Dodge van. I don’t know why, but it looks immediately suspicious. Maybe it’s the false cardboard license plates glued on over the real ones, or maybe it’s the logo painted on the side;
INEPT KIDNAPPERS INC.
Plots – Subplots – Red Herrings
Ask about our Locked Room Mystery discount!
I can feel the hair rise on the nape of my neck. Maybe I'm overreacting, but that van does look strangely suspicious. I change lanes and put my foot down. My heart races as I see the Dodge leap forward to keep up with us. Holy crap.
To make matters worse the stupid seagull is freaking out worse than ever. "Hanna, what are you doing?" says my mother. "Slow down - Jonathan is going nuts in there!"
Jonathan? Who the fuck is Jonathan?
"I think we're being followed," I explain. "The Dodge van. The black one."
"What Dodge van? Hanna, have you been skipping your meds again? It's okay - you can tell me. I won't be mad. I just need to know, okay?"
I glance out of the window and for a moment I think I catch sight of the driver of the Dodge. Red hair. I wonder what it could mean?
Recessive genes? Tendency to freckles? Astounding capacity for producing vitamin D?
- This is your contribution to the car chase scene, is it? Carrot Tops 101?
Excuse you with the Gingerphobia, missy. Your daughter is a ginger kid. You might have noticed that, if you didn't have all the maternal instincts of an eggplant.
- I think it's very cruel of you to point out her disability in that way.
What disability? Plenty of redheaded people have gone on to do great things. Elizabeth the First, Ron Howard, Julianne Moore...mmm Julianne Moore...