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“Revolting?” she retorted. “Perhaps. But since I’m mostly you, I guess you’re partly to blame, right?”
“Get this straight in your head,” I said, moving closer. “The only thing you share with me is a name and a face. You can have a go at The Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco all you want, but at least it’s not a constant orgy of comic-book violence and abundant, meaningless sex.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—is that a criticism? Or just wishful thinking on your part? Because I was having a look at the figures the other day and I’m still selling strongly.” She turned to the Pepys Thursday. “How many books have you sold in the past five years?”
It was a pointed yet strictly rhetorical remark. The Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco had been remaindered less than six months after publication.
“You don’t hate me,” said Thursday1–4 to Thursday5. “You secretly want to be like me. If you want to hate anyone, hate her.” She directed this comment at me.
“Why would I?” asked Thursday5, close to tears.
With a creaking of leather, Thursday1–4 moved closer to her and said in a low voice, “Because she insisted that your book was full of touchy-feely family values—pet dodo, gardening, a husband, two lovely kids—”
“Three.”
“Whatever. They asked me to do book five, but I took one look at the script and told them to stick it.” She pointed a gloved finger at me. “Her personal vanity condemned you to the slow death of being unread, unreviewed, undiscussed and out of print. The real Thursday is as single-minded as I am—even to the ultimate vanity of rewriting herself into the guise of little Miss Granola Tree-Hugger here—with no other reason than to protect her own fragile vanity, Z-class celebrity status and inconsequential public opinion. She and I are more alike than she thinks.”
She stopped talking with a triumphant smile on her face. The other Thursday looked at me with tears in her eyes, and I was feeling hotly indignant myself, mostly because what she was saying was true. The only reason I’d taken on Thursday5 at all was that I felt responsible. Not just because she was an insufferable drip, but becaus
e she was an unread one as well.
“Oh, no!” said Thursday5, giving out a heavy sob. “Now all my chakras are completely unaligned—can I have the rest of the day off?”
“Good idea,” said Thursday1–4 with an unpleasant chuckle. “Why not go and meditate? After all, it’s better than doing nothing the whole day.”
Thursday gave another cry of indignation, I told her she could leave, and she did so with a faint pop.
“Listen,” I said, also lowering my voice, “you can do your character-assassination crap all day if you want, but that’s not important. What is important is that the CofG in all its misguided wisdom seems to think you might be good enough for Jurisfiction. Five previous tutors don’t agree. I don’t agree. I think you’re a viper. But it’s not up to me. It’s up to you. For you to join Jurisfiction, you need to learn how to survive in the hostile and dynamic textual environment. You and I are going to spend the next few days together whether I like it or not, and since my conduct review of you is the only thing that counts toward your final acceptance at Jurisfiction, you need to try really hard not to piss me off.”
“Ahh!” she murmured patronizingly. “She does speeches. Listen, sister, you may be a big cheese at Jurisfiction today, but if I were you, I’d show a keen sense of diplomacy. I’ll have the Bellman’s job one day—and I’ll be looking out only for my friends. Now, are you going to be a friend or not?”
“Good Lord,” I said in a quiet voice, “the Cheshire Cat was right—you really are completely obnoxious. Is that your final word?”
“It is.”
“Then you can piss off back to your boxed set right now. Give me your badge.”
She seemed perturbed for an instant. Her all-consuming arrogance had not even once entertained the notion she might actually be fired. But, true to form, instead of even attempting conciliation, she went into more threats:
“The CofG cadet selection subcommittee won’t be happy.”
“Screw them. Your badge?”
She stared at me with a sense of rising confusion. “You’d fire…me?”
“Just have. Give me your badge or I’ll place you under arrest.”
She took the Jurisfiction Cadet’s shield from her pocket and slapped it into my open palm. Without that or a travel permit, she was technically a PageRunner and could be erased on sight.
“Good day,” I said. “I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, because it hasn’t.”
And I walked away, pulling out my mobilefootnoterphone as I did so.
“Hello, Bradshaw? I’ve just fired Thursday1–4. I’m amazed anyone lasted more than ten minutes with her—I didn’t.” 1
“Yes, already. Tell Jobsworth we did our best.” 2
“Too bad. I’ll take the flak for it. This one’s a serious piece of—”
