Smashed Pianos ~ Liam Gallagher

SAD MARTINIS

A/N: Hey there :3

This'll be the last update for the best part of a week. I'm off to Russia on Sunday and will be bloody busy so probably won't have much time to write. But because I'm extra nice I thought I'd do a little update now :)

Vive le Russia! 🇷🇺

"So I'm selling up," Terry leans against the back of his chair, one hand cradling his crystal clear martini with olives whilst he speaks dryly. "I'm too old for this game now, I'm past it."

I can barely talk.

When Terry Andrews asked to meet me in possibly the swankiest cocktail bar in the South I thought it might be to discuss a re-launch or possibly even a promotion (a girl can dream). The last thing I expected was for the founder of Tempo to inform me that he's had enough.

I feel crushed and stupid. I picked out my best dress (nothing special, only from the market) and even tried to do my eyeliner for this bloody meeting and now I'm being made redundant.

"But you're fighting fit! This can't be the end-" if I was alone I'd probably have started to cry by now, but I'm with one of the most important people in the industry drinking very dry cocktails and trying not to spill any down my silver dress, if I cried I'd look a fool.

"Arden, I'm so sorry but I've been in this game a long time. Too long. If I had any sense I would've sold up and hoisted the anchor years back." He sips his martini and places it down gingerly onto the bar. "And plus," he begins, twirling in his stool to face me, "the wife has been begging for a cruise holiday for months. She'll leave me if I don't give her one!" The way he laughs makes me feel sick. How can someone be so happy at a time like this?

I pull on my dress and try to calm my nerves, for the first time in years I feel completely and utterly lost. This is my career. My life.

"You've got a daughter? Couldn't you pass down the gauntlet to her?" It's the only idea I have. There's no way he'd leave it to the likes of me and there is no possibility of him selling off to one of the rivals.

He shakes his head and orders another martini. "She wants nothing to do with it."

Fuck sake.

"Arden," he places a tired and withered hand on mine, "you have nothing to worry about." I scoff quietly and he notices, "Seriously, nothing!" He continues, "You'll walk into a job no problem, I'll write you a cracking reference and-"

"I'm not working for a rival," I dismiss the notion, "I value myself too highly to do that."

Terry suddenly looks older than I've ever thought. Tired. Slumped. Finished. His eyes are still young however, young and sympathetic. "You can take your talents anywhere. Anyone would be lucky to have you."

My heart warms slightly but then freezes over again. I'm embarrassed to say the least. I have to start over.

"But I've been working on that Radiohead spread for weeks and the issue is coming out-"

Terry silences me, draining the last of his drink. "The next issue will be the last. You'll be paid for your work and given a salary for the three months after your redundancy. I will supply you with anything you need Arden, you know that." He smiles a sad smile, peers down at his watch, and steps off from the stool. He slams a fifty pound note onto the bar and slings his jacket on in one swift movement. "Good luck Miss Roberts."

:-:-:-:

Day one of being unemployed.

Pyjamas? Check. Microwave meals? Check. Shitty reality TV shows? Hell yes.

I haven't even bothered looking for jobs yet. The problem I have is either I join a rival magazine (I think I just threw up in my mouth) or start to look elsewhere for a different position within the music industry. Terry has put my name forward for some music/television roles but nothing will beat the stress and pressure of working on a magazine and then being handed your copy, the thing you've sweated blood over, the weight of it beneath your fingertips, the glossy finish of the pages. That feeling of sheer accomplishment is what keeps me going.

I shove a mouthful of crappy lasagne into my mouth, washing it down with some tea. What a combination.

I have no shame and no responsibilities and no one to look nice for. Liam is off in France with the lads doing a couple of gigs whilst I'm here drowning in self pity and ready meals that are really not helping my cholesterol. Jesus how many calories are in these things!?

When another teenage pregnancy series comes into the television, the phone starts to ring.

I shrug and turn back to my show. It's probably just Terry reminding me that my dreams have been crushed. Again.

He phoned last night to apologise for nineteenth fucking time, but there was laughter in the background and the sound of someone jumping into a pool. Seems like his wife finally got that cruise holiday huh?

However, whoever is down the line seems to be pretty persistent so reluctantly I turn off the TV and put my lasagne to one side, dragging my tired body to the phone and speaking hoarsely into the receiver, "What."

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me you have been made fuckin' jobless?" Ah my favourite Mancunian.

"Liam," I sigh with exhaustion, "I really don't want to have this conversation down the phone."

"Well I fuckin' do love. This is important Arden and you didn't fuckin' tell me!" He sounds seriously pissed off but that's not unusual to be honest.

I sit down on the floor, pulling the phone with me. "I haven't told anyone. Jesus how did you even find out?"

Liam laughs in a shitty tone down the phone, "Fuckin' R'Kid told me. R'Kid! He read it in the French fuckin' newspaper. God knows how the fuck he knew what it said but he fuckin' saw that you're bloody unemployed!"

"Liam, please calm down. I'm really upset about it okay? It's a huge deal for me, huge, and I have no idea what I'm going to do now," I stifle a sob and pray I don't start crying. "I don't need you giving me shit about it either. You're meant to be being supportive of me!"

He's totally silent and I can almost hear the hamster wheel turning in his head. He sighs loudly before responding, "Okay, I'm sorry, I just thought you were keepin' me in the dark." He pauses briefly. "We'll talk about it properly when I'm back in London, I just- FUCK SAKE NOEL GET THE FUCK OFF ME - sorry, R'Kid is pissin' around in the bus as usual." I find myself laughing beneath the sorrow I feel and suddenly am much happier. "I'll be back in a few days, then we'll talk. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Are you goin' to be okay until then?"

Hopefully. "Yes I will be."