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How
Zoe May
‘A must-read modern fairytale!’ Lisa Dickenson on Perfect MatchSurely fairy tales don’t happen in real life?After being jilted at the altar, high-flying journalist Sam doesn’t believe in love any more – and she certainly doesn’t believe in fairy tales! So, when she’s asked to cover the Royal Wedding, it’s the last thing she wants to do.And when she crashes into a ridiculously handsome stranger, Anders, things go from bad to worse. But as the big day draws closer, Sam finds herself being swept up in the excitement – as well as swept off her feet by Anders!But there’s something that Anders is hiding from her – and when he finally reveals his secret, might Sam just have the happy-ever-after she never thought she wanted…?Readers love Zoe May:“Perfect light-hearted read for romance lovers!”“A gorgeously romantic and laugh-out-loud funny book”“A really delightful comedy of errors”“This is a fun, light read with a good plot”“If you want to read a hilarious, romantic book then read this”“It’s a true feel good book with a beautiful happy ever after ending!”


Surely fairy tales don’t happen in real life?
After being jilted at the altar, high-flying journalist Sam doesn’t believe in love any more – and she certainly doesn’t believe in fairy tales! So, when she’s asked to cover the Royal Wedding, it’s the last thing she wants to do.
And when she crashes into a ridiculously handsome stranger, Anders, things go from bad to worse. But as the big day draws closer, Sam finds herself being swept up in the excitement – as well as swept off her feet by Anders!
But there’s something that Anders' hiding from her – and when he finally reveals his secret, might Sam just have the happy-ever-after she never thought she wanted…?
Also by
Zoe May
Perfect Match
How Not to Date a Prince
Zoe May


ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Copyright (#ucb10743e-dfa0-5de6-aab5-bcbff1039871)


An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Zoe May 2018
Zoe May asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 978-0-00-829773-2
Version: 2018-05-01
ZOE MAY lives in south-east London and works as a copywriter. Zoe has dreamt of being a novelist since she was a teenager. She moved to London in her early twenties and worked in journalism and copywriting before writing her debut novel, Perfect Match. Having experienced the London dating scene first hand, Zoe could not resist writing a novel about dating, since it seems to supply endless amounts of weird and wonderful material! As well as writing, Zoe enjoys going to the theatre, walking her dog, painting and, of course, reading.
Zoe loves to hear from readers! You can contact her on Twitter at: @zoe_writes (https://twitter.com/@zoe_writes)
Contents
Cover (#u4bc2468c-9f60-5bed-bcf0-609de413a313)
Blurb (#u748be186-4da5-557a-9bde-fe59b166b2c1)
Title Page (#u53b6ac0c-2944-516b-a294-cfcca22f2f06)
Copyright (#uc4144354-2820-56a9-ba95-e7373fa971e3)
Author Bio (#ud4b551c4-0c82-5245-905a-ce5ccde7d8dd)
Chapter One (#u2c390743-8bd8-5778-a5d1-c25237150283)
Chapter Two (#u67e89369-4449-5b84-8466-130ac737d3b5)
Chapter Three (#uc4c574d9-dc6d-5ada-9e96-41cb37976192)
Chapter Four (#u51b61fdc-9163-5917-834d-67b621e08c55)
Chapter Five (#u0770213d-8449-5f3b-93b2-8ce48e34ffe6)
Chapter Six (#ud02c246f-b2b3-5edb-918c-f51585e12443)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ucb10743e-dfa0-5de6-aab5-bcbff1039871)
‘What on earth is this?’ I thrust the news agenda onto my boss’s desk.
Phil reluctantly tears his gaze away from an article he’s reading and casts a withering glance at the agenda, which assigns reporters to the key news items of the day. Normally, I look forward to getting my hands on it, to see what I’m working on, but today, it’s a different story.
‘What about it?’ He shrugs, turning his attention back to his screen. He pushes his glasses up the ridge of his nose to continue reading the article, as if I’m not there.
I push the news agenda closer to him, dragging his attention back to it.
‘The royal wedding?’ I tap my fingernail against the part of the agenda which shows my name next to coverage of the latest royal engagement.
‘Is this a typo?’ I ask, even though I know it’s not. If there’s one thing Phil refuses to tolerate, it’s typos.
‘Yes, the royal wedding,’ Phil states simply. ‘Is there an issue?’
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to figure out what he’s playing at, but he looks back at me with bored disinterest. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s been my boss for the past ten years, sometimes I’d genuinely think Phil hates me, but his off-hand manner is part of the package that comes with being a news editor at a national tabloid newspaper. The tougher you appear, the more revered you become. I used to live in fear of Phil as a junior reporter, until a few years passed and I began to realise that underneath his gruff no-nonsense exterior lurks a secret softy who’s more likely to be worrying about how much revision his fifteen-year-old daughter Abby’s been putting in for her GCSEs than about what’s happening in the news.
‘The royal wedding? Since when do I cover the royals?’ I scoff. ‘Let alone weddings!’
‘One second.’ Phil’s phone rings and he takes the call.
I sigh. You see, royal weddings are not my thing. I’m a politics reporter. I cover Westminster, not weddings! My last piece was an interview with the Chancellor of the Exchequer on the latest budget reform. And before that, I covered a vote on welfare cuts in the House of Commons. I write about policies that shape the country, I don’t write about weddings! Weddings aren’t news. Weddings are just lace and flowers and cake and silliness. Even royal ones.
‘Sorry, not interested.’ Phil slams the phone down into its cradle. ‘Bloody freelancer with some batshit story. How do these people get my number?’
‘Dunno,’ I mutter. ‘Anyway...’ I tap my fingernail against the agenda.
‘Needs must, Sam. Ella’s on maternity leave, so I’m leaving it with you,’ Phil sighs.
Ella is the Daily Post’s royal editor. Obsessed with marriage, family life and patriotism, she’s far better cut out for the gig than I am. When the shock engagement between reality TV star Holly Greene and Prince Isaac of Norway was announced, Ella squealed so loudly that she silenced the newsroom. This story was absolutely made for a romantic like her, but she left work last week at six months’ pregnant. If she wasn’t already ecstatic to be having a baby, she’d be kicking herself for missing out on covering Holly and Prince Isaac’s wedding.
To be fair, it has everything. A rags-to-riches tale of a sweet girl-next-door type from Leeds – Holly – who rose to fame on a cheesy island survival reality TV show, with the nation embracing her down-to-earth character and surprisingly quick one-liners. She took on various presenting jobs until she ended up fronting The Morning People – the nation’s most-watched breakfast show. Holly’s dated a couple of other celebrities, but she’s always been coy about her love life in the press and never seemed to have a long-term boyfriend. Then bam, it emerged that she’d been swept off her feet by Prince Isaac – a gorgeous strapping Norwegian prince first in line to the throne, who she’d interviewed on TV when he’d been visiting the UK to promote his charity work. According to reports, it was pretty much love at first sight. If Holly hadn’t already had the nation hooked with her dramatic rise to fame, her engagement to a dashing prince was the perfect fairy-tale ending – giving hope to every normal girl in the country that she too could come from nothing and have a happily-ever-after. Even I can admit that it’s a sweet story, but it’s not political by any stretch of the imagination and politics is what I do. It’s my job! Plus, I’m not exactly the biggest fan of weddings. Not after mine ended three years ago when my fiancé stood me up at the altar.
‘But I don’t cover weddings,’ I whine. ‘This is just—’
‘Look, Sam,’ Phil interrupts, fixing me with a pointed look. ‘I know you like your nitty-gritty Westminster stories but why not lighten up for once? Do you realise how many reporters would kill for the chance to cover the royal wedding for a national newspaper? This is the biggest story of the year. You’re one in a million right now. You should be thanking me.’
‘But...’
Phil rolls his eyes, when the assistant news editor, Jeremy, who’s sitting next to him, butts in.
‘Earthquake in Mexico. Seven point two on the Richter scale. Five dead,’ he says, quoting a Reuters report open on his computer screen.
‘Get the TV on,’ Phil barks and, before I know it, they’re turning up the volume on the enormous TV screens that dangle from the ceiling of the newsroom and tuning in to the coverage.
‘Get on that, Matt,’ Phil orders one of the news reporters who begins scrolling through coverage on Twitter, one eye on the news broadcast.
I stand there for a moment, lingering by Phil’s desk, half watching the crumbling wreckage on TV.
‘Still here?’ Phil asks, raising an eyebrow in my direction. ‘Go and do a feature on the happy couple. Where they met. How they fell in love. A real heart-warmer.’
‘A real heart-warmer?!’
Phil shoots me a look, before glancing up at the live footage of a town being reduced to rubble.
‘How close are you to getting that online, Matt?’ he says over his shoulder. ‘We don’t need much. Just a couple of pars.’
Matt’s sweating at his desk as he bashes out a few sentences in a mad rush to get the story onto our website before our rivals publish it.
‘Five minutes,’ he mutters, over a flurry of typing.
Reluctantly, Phil turns his attention back to me. I’m well aware that I’ve outstayed my welcome. I’m old news, but I don’t care. Yes, journalism is fast-paced, but that doesn’t mean my boss can just change my role to royal reporter overnight and inform me on a sheet of paper the next day.
‘Sam, just go and do it, okay?’ Phil groans.
‘I’m not happy about this. You know how I feel about weddings,’ I add in a lower voice, hoping none of our other colleagues catch my words.
Even saying them out loud gives me that shiver-down-the-spine sinking feeling of dread and it’s been years since my fiancé amd boyfriend of five whole years ditched me on our wedding day to run off with a bouncy American girl with the name – I kid you not – Candy Moore. That’s her actual name, even though it sounds like the kind of thing a stupid spoilt baby would cry out to its parents. Candy! More! If Ajay had gone for someone slightly less annoying, I might have been able to forgive him, but Candy Moore? I mean, seriously? Who am I trying to kid – there isn’t a woman in the world he could have wrecked our wedding day for that would have made me not hate his guts or, for that matter, anything and everything associated with weddings.
‘Sam?’ Phil interrupts my thoughts and I realise my eyes have gone glassy with sadness and frustration at the mere memory. See? The slightest mention of the word ‘wedding’ and I’m a wreck.
‘If I wanted a desk ornament, I’d have gone to IKEA,’ Phil quips. ‘Now are you going to write up that feature or not?’
‘No, actually, I’m not,’ I reply, raising an eyebrow. ‘I think you’ll find that I’m a news reporter, not a royal one! You can’t just change my job description overnight simply because Ella had to take time off.’
Phil rolls his eyes. ‘Are you really doing this? Anyone in your shoes would be over the moon to be asked,’ he tells me.
I shrug. ‘Well, I’m not.’
Phil sighs loudly. ‘Wait a minute.’
He swivels his chair over to Matt’s desk so he can read the article on his monitor, editing it line by line at super-fast speed and barking corrections at him, which Matt rapidly fixes, his fingers darting over the keyboard. Matt’s cheeks are flushed, his mind working at razor-sharp speed as the adrenalin of breaking the story surges through him. I know that feeling. It’s the feeling I chased when I went into journalism; the rush of breaking a story is one of best natural highs. The eagerness to be first, to beat the competition, and deliver your story straight to the public. It’s thrilling. It happened to me a few weeks ago when I published a piece on a gritty political investigation I’d spent weeks working on.
‘Right, that’ll do,’ Phil says, scanning Matt’s article one last time. ‘Now put it on the site. Just one image. No links. You can add them later.’
Matt nods, his brow glistening with sweat, as he starts pasting the article into the content management system.
‘Right.’ Phil turns his attention back to me, frowning with irritation. ‘Come on, let’s discuss this situation in the boardroom,’ he sighs, before getting up and striding across the office, not even bothering to look over his shoulder to see if I’m following.
But of course, I am. I hurry after him, struggling to keep up in my pointy heels. I try not to stumble as we cross the newsroom.
Finally, Phil pushes open the door to the boardroom and I manage to grasp it, just before it slams shut in my face.
I push it open and take a seat at the huge mahogany table. Phil is already sitting in one of the plush high-backed seats, leaning back and watching me gather myself. Unlike the newsroom, which is a clutter of Mac computers, stacks of old papers, abandoned press releases and gimmicky products sent in by companies desperate for coverage – from novelty baseball caps to pizza boxes left over from when a high street chain sent us samples of their latest vegan range – the boardroom is slick and minimalistic. It’s where the editors meet advertisers, lawyers and senior executives, it’s where the mechanics of the paper are determined and its vibe is way more serious than the chaos outside. It’s flooded with crisp natural light, unlike the artificial glare of the strip lights in the newsroom, and has tall windows overlooking city office blocks reflecting the crisp morning sunlight off their shining glass exteriors.
‘So, what’s this all about then?’ Phil asks, looking unimpressed.
‘You tell me,’ I retort, crossing my legs.
‘I need someone to cover the royal wedding and you know your stuff, so I chose you. Simple.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘But why me, Phil? Why didn’t you line someone else up? There are plenty of other people you could have chosen who also know their stuff. What about Jessica? She’d kill for this gig. Give it to her.’
Aside from Ella, Jessica is the office’s resident Royal Family fanatic. She’s obsessed, to the point that she drinks her tea from a Royal Coronation mug and her boyfriend proposed with a replica of Princess Diana’s engagement ring. Technically, she’s an editorial assistant, which means she spends most of her time fact checking, dealing with PRs and handling day-to-day office admin, but I’m sure she could step up to the plate if she were given the chance.
‘Jessica?!’ Phil frowns. ‘We both know she’s not ready for this. You, on the other hand, are.’
Phil fixes me with one of his intense looks – a serious, penetrating gaze that cuts right to my core as though he’s recognizing my talent. It’s one of the looks he used to give me sometimes when I’d done a particularly good piece of work that would drown out the chaos of the newsroom and make me feel like I was important, smart and going places. It’s a look I cherished. But now, that look feels all wrong.
I uncross and recross my legs, looking down at the table.
‘The problem is...' I gulp, hating everything about this moment. I’m meant to be a tough go-getting journalist. Vulnerability is not something that comes naturally.
‘The problem is I don’t think I am up to it,’ I admit in a small voice, dragging my eyes up to meet Phil’s.
His brow is furrowed. ‘You are, Sam. I have every faith in you. It’s a big story but you’re more than capable. You’ve been working for me for years, I know you can do this.’
‘It’s not the work side of it,’ I sigh. ‘It’s the...'
Phil leans a little closer, resting his forearms on the table. ‘It’s the…?’ He nods encouragingly.
‘It’s the wedding aspect of it all,’ I admit, shuddering at the thought of writing wedding stories day in day out.
It’s been three years since my car crash of a wedding day, and even now, I’ll still cross the road to avoid walking past bridal boutiques. Every time a wedding show comes on TV, you can guarantee I’ll be changing the channel quicker than you can say ‘divorce’. I have no time for weddings. Not only was my wedding day the worst day of my life, but I no longer see the point of weddings in general. You see, my fiancé Ajay was my dream guy. If I had to write down a list of all the qualities my perfect guy would have, Ajay had them all, and then some. He was clever, handsome, charming, funny, well dressed, cool and successful. He was kind and sweet too, or at least I thought so, before he ditched me overnight for Candy and left me questioning everything, from my own self-worth to my belief in love. After all, if Ajay had ever loved me, how could he have mercilessly stood me up like that, in front of all my friends and family? He could have at least had the decency to end things beforehand, not via a stream of cowardly text messages sent while I was on my way to the church decked out in my wedding regalia. If it wasn’t for my best friends picking up the pieces and supporting me back then, I don’t know where I’d be.
A few weeks after my wedding day, which we ended up referring to as ‘The Day That Shall Not Be Named’, we went to a pawnbroker in town, sold the ring (which fetched a surprisingly decent amount for a guy who didn’t really love me) and used the money to go on a girls’ holiday to Spain, where we lay in the sun, drank cocktails and spent an extremely therapeutic week bitching about men, whilst simultaneously checking out hot Spanish waiters. I came back to London, still a little bruised, but I got back on my feet. I cracked on with work and I moved in with my best friend Collette. Things picked up, but the experience did mark a turning point in my life. Until then, I’d always wanted to settle down, but after The Day That Shall Not Be Named, I decided that other things were more important, like careers, like having your own home and being independent. Men come and go, but your career and your achievements, they stick by you. For example, I was shortlisted for an Investigative Reporter of the Year award at the National Press Agency Awards last year and the year before. Being on that shortlist and knowing I’d worked really hard to get there was far more fulfilling than any date I’ve been on recently. Not that I’ve been on many.
‘Come on, Sam. Think of it as a scoop,’ Phil advises.
I sigh. ‘I already have plenty of scoops. If it’s just a scoop, then give it to someone else.’
‘I don’t want to give it to someone else,’ Phil insists. ‘I want to give it to you.’
‘But why me?’ I whine. ‘You know how I feel about this.’
Now it’s my turn to give Phil one of those pointed looks, reminding him what the fallout from my wedding was actually like. There was one afternoon shortly after The Day That Shall Not Be Named, when I burst into tears at work, and to lift my spirits, Phil invited me for dinner at his place with his lovely wife Jill, who cooked up a huge meal with three courses: home-made bean soup, spaghetti Bolognese and apple pie with ice cream, served with red wine and a heart-to-heart. Phil saw into my world that day and I got a glimpse into his: his home life was so far removed from what I’d expected based on his no-nonsense exterior. His house was a small but cosy book-lined terrace with Persian rugs spread over ratty old carpets, rooms shimmering with Indian wall-hangings and a musty clothes horse sagging with laundry in the hall. A shaggy dog called Bruce bounced around and Phil’s bookish daughters hugged him so tight when he got home from work that his eyes sparkled. It was that day I realised that, despite his bravado, Phil is a really good egg and essentially, he’s on my side. Sometimes, even in the midst of the tersest work conversation, I’ll catch a whiff of his musty-smelling shirt and I’ll be sent right back to that evening, and the clothes horse, and I’ll remember what a softy he is.
‘Yes, I do know how you feel about this, and that’s another reason you’re the right person for the job,’ Phil states.
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘How does that work?’
‘Remember when you first started working here and I made you step in as assistant news editor that time Jeremy went on holiday?’ Phil says, reminding me of the two-week holiday cover I took on only a couple months after I started working at the Daily Post. It was an opportunity I’d never imagined I’d get as a junior reporter still cutting my teeth and I was a bit out of my depth, but I did my best, and it was those few weeks that gave Phil the confidence to promote me to my current role of politics reporter.
‘Yeah…?’
‘You freaked out then too. You thought I was throwing you in at the deep end, and yet once you got into it, you excelled.’
‘Uh-huh, but how’s that the same? I’m not afraid of the professional challenge, I’m afraid of the wedding aspect!’
‘Exactly, which is why I’m throwing you in at the deep end. You can’t spend your whole life pretending relationships don’t exist, Sam. Turning a blind eye to men and marriage isn’t healthy,’ Phil explains.
I let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘Hang on a minute. You’re giving me this job so I can confront my fear of weddings?’
‘Yes,’ Phil admits a little sheepishly. ‘Basically.’
‘That’s not exactly professional,’ I point out.
Phil’s lips twist and I can tell he’s trying not to smile. He clears his throat and corrects his expression.
‘It’s a professional opportunity that I think would also benefit you in a personal capacity,’ he comments, sensing I might be backing him into a corner.
‘So, it’s professional advancement, you’d say?’ I query him.
‘Yes.’ Phil nods affirmatively.
‘More responsibility?’
‘Yes, exactly,’ Phil remarks.
‘Right, well in that case, if you want me to cover the royal wedding, then don’t you think I should get a raise?’ I ask, trying to act confident even though my stomach is quivering a little.
Ever since I decided to focus on my career since The Day That Shall Not Be Named, I've been saving up for a flat: a bricks and mortar home all of my own. I even know the perfect place – it’s in this cool converted warehouse by the river. I stumbled upon it on a riverside stroll one day after work. There’s a communal garden where you can sit on a bench and watch the boats go by on the Thames; it’s peaceful and idyllic yet modern and trendy, and it’s only a fifteen-minute walk to work. I cut out a picture of it from an estate agent’s brochure and stuck it to a motivational pin board in my bedroom to keep me focused.
‘Honestly!’ Phil tuts. ‘Most people in your shoes would be falling over themselves for this opportunity and you’re demanding a raise?’ He stares at me incredulously.
‘Umm…yes. Like you said, it’s more responsibility.’
‘If I hadn’t already worked with you for years, I’d tell you where to go.’
‘Same,’ I retort cheekily.
‘Fine,’ Phil sighs. ‘We can work something out, but this wedding coverage better be royal-tastic, Sam. No cutting corners! I want the works.’
He meets my gaze.
‘Sure!’ I gulp.
‘Okay.’
We talk numbers and Phil suggests a reasonably good pay increase that will definitely help me get one step closer to buying my dream home.
‘So, are you happy now?’ he asks.
‘Yes, thanks Phil.’
‘Good,’ he replies. ‘I’ll get a new contract drawn up. And, in the meantime, I want that slushy wedding feature. And I want you to make it extra romantic after all of this.’
‘No problem,’ I trill. ‘An extra slushy feature coming right up.’
Phil smiles. ‘Finally.’
Chapter Two (#ucb10743e-dfa0-5de6-aab5-bcbff1039871)
‘So, let me get this straight,’ my best friend and housemate Collette says, clearing her throat. ‘You’ve been assigned to cover the most adorable love story of the century and you’re complaining.’
‘Yeah, kind of.’ I shrug as I stir the mugs of tea I’m making.
‘Why?’
‘Because I write hard news, Collette,’ I remind her.
‘Yeah, but this is Holly and Isaac, they are hashtag goals!’ Collette enthuses.
‘You’re ridiculous.’ I laugh as I carry the steaming mugs over to the kitchen table.
‘So, what’s first? Do you get to meet them? I want to hear everything!’ Collette places her drawing pad down on the table and takes the mug I hand her. I glance at her drawing pad as I sit down. As well as studying for a PhD in biology, specialising in amoebas, Collette is also an illustrator and makes quirky greetings cards that she sells online. With their jaunty drawings and cheeky off-beat slogans, they sell so well that she barely needs a student loan. It’s actually really impressive and she makes it look so effortless. She has an idea and, with a few flicks of her pen, it’s down on paper, whereas whenever I’ve had a go, my attempts have looked like something a toddler brought home from nursery.
I glance at her drawing pad. For the past couple of weeks, Collette’s been working on her upcoming Valentine’s Day collection and her latest design features a sketch of a fried egg with the slogan, ‘You’re a good egg, maybe I’ll keep you.’ I smile. It’s certainly less of a shocker than last night’s, which showed a drawing of a rhino, with the slogan ‘You make me horny.’ But Collette always insists that it’s the cheekiest cards that sell the best. She has a habit of leaving them around the flat for me with notes to pick up some milk or that it’s my turn to do the hoovering. If I recall correctly, the last one was a picture of a naughty Santa with the slogan ‘Jingle my bells’ left over from her Christmas collection, on which she’d scrawled, ‘Wanna get takeaway tonight?’ It’s far less effective than just texting, but her cards do make me smile. They add colour to the flat, just like all the patterned cushions, patchwork throws, scented candles, artsy prints and fairy lights she decorates the place with. Even though we’ve been best friends since school, Collette and I had never lived together before and, at first, she’d tease me about my ‘bachelor pad’ aesthetic, because of how minimalistic I was. But I’ve warmed to her style now. I like flicking through the magazines she leaves on the coffee table and snuggling up under her throws. Now, if our hallway doesn’t smell like molten scented wax when I get home from work, I have to light a candle straight away.
‘So, will you get to go to the wedding?’ Collette asks, wide-eyed.
‘Yeah, of course!’
‘Oh my God!’ she gasps, clutching her heart. ‘This is too much! You’re going to go to the wedding of the year. Actually, scratch that, the century!’
‘It’s just a wedding!’ I remind her. ‘Chill out!’
‘Just a wedding?’ Collette scoffs. ‘Just a wedding!’
Despite spending her days in a lab carrying out sophisticated analysis on cells, Collette can become a giddy schoolgirl over a slushy wedding. Like me, she’s single, except, unlike me, she wishes she wasn’t. She’s a die-hard romantic. Collette adores romantic movies, she always has a pile of romance novels stacked on her bedside table and she’s hooked on celebrity love affairs. She even has a Pinterest board entitled ‘My Dream Wedding’. She left it open once on her computer and went bright red when I spotted it, claiming it was research for some bridal cards she wanted to design. But despite being obsessed with love, Collette somehow struggles to apply the romance of books and movies to her own life. There’s a physics researcher at her university who she’s been into for ages. His name’s Michael and apparently, he looks like ‘a cross between Ryan Gosling and Johnny Depp’, which I can never quite picture. But despite Collette having a serious crush on the guy, who’s apparently single and quite flirty, they’ve been working in the same lab for more than two years now and neither of them has made a move. Collette’s hardly dated either apart from a regrettable fling she had with this creepy guy called Leonard a few months ago.
‘Yes! It really is just a wedding!’ I remind her. ‘You know, those things that have a fifty per cent divorce rate?! Those things we idolised in the Victorian era when women had nothing better to do than to sit around waiting for a man to pluck them out of obscurity and make them his wife? This is the twenty-first century, Collette! It’s literally just a wedding. Yes, it’ll be silly and pretty and fun! But it’s just a fricking wedding.’
‘Wow!’ Collette scoffs, eyeing me with an expression bordering on derision. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone quite so unromantic.’
‘I’m not unromantic,’ I insist. ‘I’m just practical. I just don’t get why women ought to focus on marriage, like it’s the be-all and end-all. Singleness isn’t a problem to be solved! You can have a happy, fulfilled, enjoyable life without a man by your side and a ring on your finger, I mean, come on!’
‘Urgh!’ Collette rolls her eyes. ‘Do you know what you remind me of?’
‘What?’ I mumble.
‘An amoeba,’ she announces proudly.
‘An amoeba?’
‘Yeah. An amoeba. They don’t need to find mates. They can reproduce alone through mitotic division. That’s what you are. An amoeba!’
‘Fine!’ I shrug. ‘I’ll take it! Amoeba and proud! I’ll get it on a T-shirt. Or you can make a card. An alternative Valentine’s Day card, for people who don’t need anyone, with a big fat amoeba on the front and the caption, “I love myself!”’
Collette laughs, rolling her eyes. ‘Somehow I doubt that would be a bestseller.’
I grin, picturing myself buying a Valentine’s Day card for myself. ‘No, possibly not.’
We lapse into silence for a moment, sipping our tea.
‘You haven’t always been an amoeba, though,’ Collette muses, looking at me over her steaming mug.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, remember when we were kids and you always wanted to sit around at lunch break on the grass playing that game with daisies when you pull out the petals and say, “He loves me, he loves me not”?’
I wince, shrinking into my seat. I’d totally forgotten how obsessed with that game I used to be, but it’s true. While other kids were swinging on the monkey bars or running around playing tag, I’d be sitting under a tree, plucking daisies from the grass and playing 'he loves me, he loves me not' while thinking about boys at school (most of whom I didn’t even interact with) or inventing imaginary heroes.
‘You used to drag me with you and make me sit there, just plucking the petals out of the daisies,’ Collette sniggers. Damn her and her annoyingly good memory.
‘Whatever,’ I grumble.
‘He loves me, he loves me not,’ Collette trills teasingly.
‘That was years ago,’ I remind her. ‘It was literally decades ago.’
Collette giggles. ‘And?’
‘I was seven. I’m twenty-eight now. I’ve grown up,’ I insist and it’s true, I have. Love has never really worked out for me, even before The Day That Shall Not Be Named. The problem with love is it’s just so distracting. My first proper taste of it (not just playing with daises) was when I was sixteen and I fell for this guy I met at sixth-form college called Luke. He was so gorgeous and funny and cool, and everyone fancied him, but for some reason, he chose me, and I was totally into him. Besotted. Smitten. And let’s face it, probably a little obsessed. So much so in fact, that when he dumped me a week before my A levels, I ended up falling apart and flunking all of them apart from politics. Politics was the only subject I managed not to fail, which is probably another reason I’ve stuck with it. All my other exams were a disaster and I had to retake them in the autumn, meaning that while my friends were having a good summer, I was bunkering down to revise. I lost the university place I had lined up and the whole thing was just a mess. You see, the problem with falling in love is that you end up off your game and I can’t afford to do that, literally and figuratively. I need to do well at work, I need to get on the property ladder. I have stuff to do that doesn’t involve romance and, anyway, I’m fine on my own. I really am.
Collette raises an eyebrow. ‘I think there’s still a romantic heart in there somewhere.’ She pokes my chest. ‘Deep down, there’s a little romantic heart beating away, just waiting to break out!’
‘No there isn’t!’ I bat her hand away. ‘I know you find this hard to believe, but it is possible to feel complete and happy without a man.’
Collette eyes me, unsure.
‘I know! Groundbreaking! But look at me, I’m living proof. I get by just fine. I don’t need anyone to give me some kind of fairy-tale happy ending. I’m already getting along just great. And take my mum for example! She’s single and she’s got a great life,’ I remind her.
My mum is one of the reasons I feel so confident in my single status. She never really knew my dad. I was conceived during a holiday romance and she brought me up alone. She’s had a few boyfriends, but she never married. She has loads of friends and an incredible career. Since I left home, she’s been travelling the world brokering deals in her role as an international event manager. At the moment, she’s living it up in Dubai.
Collette rolls her eyes. ‘Okay, fine, well you’re both amoebas then. Runs in the family.’ She places her empty mug down.
‘So anyway, have Holly and Isaac confirmed where the wedding will be yet? Can you take a plus one?’ Collette asks.
‘No, they haven’t. And err...’ I try to picture Collette at the wedding, snapping every second and crying with joy when Holly and Prince Isaac say ‘I do’. ‘I don’t really get a plus one! I’m not actually invited like a guest would be, I’m just there for work, aren’t I?’
Collette lets out a little sigh. ‘I wish I had your job.’
‘You didn’t get this excited when I got invited to Washington to cover the White House press conference!’ I point out, reminding her of the trip I took a few months ago which was definitely one of the coolest things I’ve ever got to do for work.
Collette wrinkles her nose. ‘Yeah but that’s just politics,’ she says, like it’s a dirty word. ‘This is the royal wedding!’ Her eyes sparkle once more.
I take a sip of tea. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things they’ve lined up for me to cover! Cake tasting with the royal wedding baker! A masterclass on flower arranging with the royal wedding florist!’
‘Wow!’ Collette’s eyes shimmer. ‘Oh my God, this is going to be amazing!’
‘One sec.’ I take my phone out of my handbag and open up my work inbox, scrolling through the press invites. ‘Oh yeah, a three course Michelin star meal at the Horsham Hotel by the royal wedding chef.’
‘Incredible!’ Collette beams.
I scroll down. ‘A bridal fair!’
‘Wow,’ Collette utters dreamily. ‘That sounds amazing! I don’t think I’ve ever been so jealous of anyone in my life. What else?’
I keep scrolling. ‘Oh!’ I land upon an email I received earlier from an enthusiastic PR woman for a company specialising in kitschy royal memorabilia. ‘I’m being sent a load of wedding trinkets tomorrow! Can you believe it? The wedding isn’t for months.’
‘Yeah but everyone wants to be part of this wedding!’ Collette reasons. ‘And you get first dibs on all the cool stuff! Oh my God, do you think you’ll get to see Holly’s wedding dress ahead of the big day?’
I scan my inbox until I find the right email. ‘Oh yes, I’ve been invited to meet the bridalwear designer so maybe!’
‘What!?’ Collette’s eyes widen with awe. ‘This is incredible, Sam!’
She moves closer and takes my hands. ‘You have to tell me everything. Every last detail! Please! I know I wasn’t that interested in the White House, but this is Holly and Isaac! You know how much I love them!’
‘I know!’ I laugh. I’m not generally one for celebrity culture but part of the reason I know about Holly’s rise to fame is because Collette adores her. She grew up in the same part of Leeds as us and, while that doesn’t really mean much to me, it’s part of the reason Collette loves her so much and has followed her career so closely as Holly’s catapulted to stardom. Collette’s always watched the shows Holly’s presented, meaning that she’s often been on our TV, in the background on lazy Saturdays or when we’re making dinner together. Holly’s pretty face has been the backdrop to quite a few of our evenings, with her big blue eyes and sweeping blonde hair. Collette is probably the reason I’m also so familiar with Prince Isaac. When the pair first announced their engagement, Collette bought all the gossip magazines and pored over all the glossy photos of the couple, looking perfect together. Prince Isaac is the kind of man little girls dream about marrying when they grow up: tall, strong and breathtakingly handsome, with kind-looking blue eyes. The adoring, affectionate, smitten way he looked at Holly in the pictures was almost enough to make my cold single heart melt.
Collette fixes me with a serious look. ‘I know you’re not the biggest fans of weddings, but this isn’t just a wedding, this is a super wedding. This is a movie brought to life. A fairy tale before our very eyes. You have to enjoy every moment, Sam. Even if you just do it for me!’
‘Okay, okay!’ I insist, but Collette holds her imploring stare.
‘You’re living every girl’s dream right now. You have to make the most of it. Think of it as a holiday from all the serious stuff you write about. A bit of fun!’
She looks so incredibly earnest. I give her hands a squeeze. Thinking of it as a holiday isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe it will be fun, and maybe I should try lightening up for once.
‘Okay, you’re right,’ I tell her. ‘I promise I’ll make the most of it.’
Collette grins. ‘I can’t wait!’
Chapter Three (#ucb10743e-dfa0-5de6-aab5-bcbff1039871)
I glance up from an article I’m reading on my phone about yesterday’s earthquake as I push the swing door open and arrive at work. I still feel a twinge of guilt as I read the serious news coverage, but I’ve got a spring in my step this morning because I’m determined to do Collette proud and make the most of this opportunity, even if it isn’t going to fast-track my career towards winning the Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Reporting any time soon.
‘Morning, Al,’ I say to the receptionist as I slip through the revolving doors. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Not too bad, not too bad,’ Al says, scratching his beard. ‘Haven’t had a day off for eight days now. Always working. Always working. But can’t complain, eh? A job’s a job.’
Al’s one of these people that somehow manages to be completely negative and misanthropic, and yet stays wholly likeable and down-to-earth. If I’m totally honest, I quite like his brand of whingey optimism. He’s a fellow news junkie and we often have a quick chat about the top stories of the day before I head up to the office.
‘True, true. Terrible about the earthquake!’
‘Tragic,’ Al agrees, looking up from a paper open in front of him emblazoned with images of the wreckage and people fleeing through the streets. Not only did the earthquake kill five people, but it shook the city at night, causing a few of its tallest buildings including the town hall to crumble to dust.
‘Can you imagine if it had been during the day?’ he says.
‘Oh yes, would have been so much worse.’ I shudder. ‘High-rise buildings and earthquakes clearly don’t mix.’
‘Definitely not.’ Al clears his throat and averts his gaze towards a man walking into reception.
I turn to look. He’s not just your average office worker; he’s different. He’s tall, probably around six foot two, with clear glowing skin, blond, perfectly-styled hair and striking eyes. He’s dressed in a three-piece navy suit and looks extraordinary. The Daily Post may be based in a swanky fifteen-storey office block, but no one, not even the most senior editors, dresses like this guy. His suit is clearly expensive; it’s perfectly tailored and fits him like a glove, unlike the frumpy Marks & Spencer numbers the unfashionable journalists always rock. He glances at me, no doubt sensing my lingering gaze, and the second his eyes land on mine, I look away.
I glance at Al, who subtly raises an eyebrow. Was I drooling that obviously? What’s got into me? The sight of a man in a three-piece suit and I turn to jelly? That isn’t me. I don’t do crushes or love at first sight. Surely Phil’s royal wedding Cupid plan to convince me love exists isn’t already having an effect?
‘I’m heading upstairs. See you, Al.’
‘See you later, Sam,’ Al replies, and I scurry off, not daring to look back at the gorgeous guy, even though I can feel him watching me as I head over to the lift.
I press the button for it and wait, expecting the doors to ping open immediately like they usually do. Except today, they don’t. I glance at the display to see the lift is stuck at floor fifteen. Floor fifteen! I sigh and try the adjacent lift, but it’s at floor eleven. I check the time on my phone: it’s five past nine now. Great, I’m late. I’ll have to sneak into the office and hope Phil doesn’t notice me, except he’s almost as much of a stickler for punctuality as he is for grammar.
Both of the lifts drop down a few floors but they’re still taking their sweet time. Holding my phone, I decide that while I’m waiting, I’ll see if any news updates have come through. On the train this morning, I set up Google alerts for every royal wedding key word and a few articles have already started pinging through.
I open one of the links.
‘Good morning,’ a man’s voice says. I look up and, naturally, it’s the guy from reception. Of course, it is, where did I think he was going to go after signing in with Al? He must have a meeting with someone from one of the other companies here. Although the Daily Post has five out of fifteen floors, there’s also a law firm, a rival paper called The Chronicle and a marketing agency. Dressed as smartly as he is, I’d imagine he’s heading to the law firm. Perhaps he’s some kind of fancy legal consultant.
‘Morning,’ I reply in a small awkward voice that makes me wince. I meet his gaze and quickly take in his eyes (bluest of blues, penetrating), his eyebrows (angular, artfully shaped, like bird wings) and his mouth (thin and wide, masculine, a little severe but somehow incredibly sexy.)
‘Will it be a long wait?’ he asks, glancing up at the number illuminated above the nearest lift: seven. His accent sounds Scandinavian.
‘Maybe. Not too long. Depends…on whether it actually stops at those floors. Obviously,’ I add, clarifying, but it comes out unintentionally snooty and patronizing. I wince. I’m so out of the game when it comes to romance that I can’t even answer a simply question to an attractive man without coming across as rude.
I smile in an effort to show I’m not being horrible, but, fortunately, he doesn’t seem put out. He simply nods.
‘Well, hopefully no one else will get on then,’ he says with a smile that suddenly transforms the hard line of his mouth into something humorous and playful, his eyes twinkling with what I’m pretty sure is flirtation. Even though, to be fair, I’m pretty rusty when it comes to these things.
‘Hopefully not,’ I laugh, glancing coquettishly at him. What am I doing?
Yes, he’s being a bit flirty, and yes, the idea of being alone in a lift with this mysterious stranger is undeniably appealing, but what am I doing getting hot under the collar when I should be focusing on the day ahead? I have a ton of work to do. I turn my attention back to my article and force myself to read it. What was I thinking? Comparing his eyebrows to bird wings!
Finally, one of the lifts arrives. The doors ping open and we step inside. I’m closest to the floor buttons so after pressing the button for my floor, I turn to him.
‘Where are you heading?’
‘Floor eight,’ he says, which is the floor of The Chronicle, meaning he’s here to visit the newspaper, not the law firm like I’d suspected.
‘Right.’ I press the button, trying to conceal my surprise. This guy looks nothing like the journalists at The Chronicle, who are even scruffier than our lot at the Daily Post. They treat pretty much every day like dress-down Friday, sporting faded jeans, baggy T-shirts and ratty old jumpers day in, day out.
‘And you’re heading to floor nine. Is that the Daily Post?’ he asks, glancing at the glowing button as the doors close and the lift shoots up the shaft. His accent is thick and strong, his voice deep. It almost sounds Norwegian.
‘Yes, I’m a journalist there. Where are you from?’
‘I’m from Norway,’ he replies. ‘My name’s Anders.’
‘So, do you work for The Chronicle?’ I ask and it’s only then that I notice that he’s carrying some wedding brochures under his arm.
He looks momentarily confused. ‘Oh, yes! Yes, I do.’
‘You’re new though, right?’
‘Yeah, I am.’
‘So, if you’re from Norway, are you covering the royal wedding? Holly and Prince Isaac?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he says. ‘And you are…?’
‘Oh, sorry! I’m Sam. Samantha Fischer.’ I reach out to shake his hand and, as our palms clasp, it feels like a current is passing through us. The air fizzes and everything else is drowned out. I gaze into his eyes, deep and blue as a fjord. His face really is remarkably handsome, strong boned with high cheekbones, smooth skin and a healthy glow. He’s magnetic, but it’s not just his conventional good looks that are appealing, it’s the twinkle in his eyes that feels infectious. As we hold the handshake for a fraction of a second too long, our gaze lingering on one another, I can’t help wondering if he feels it too. Does he feel that pull? The tension? The spark?
My phone buzzes, piercing the moment.
‘Sorry.’ I let go of his hand and reach into my handbag to get my phone, but as I take it out of my bag, something falls off the back of it. A piece of card. One of Collette’s designs. It lands on the floor.
It’s one of her cheeky Valentine’s Day cards, featuring a picture of a sheep surrounded by love hearts with the caption, ‘I think ewe are sexy.’ My eyes widen in alarm as the card stares back at me and this ridiculously attractive man, taunting me like a gremlin. We both stand in silence, staring at it, for a horribly painful moment.
‘Oh my God!’ I plunge to the floor to pick it up. ‘Sorry. Flatmate. Card designer. Must have left it in my bag. She puts these stupid notes on them,’ I babble, unable to meet his gaze.
I turn the card over and scrawled in black ink inside is a message telling me: ‘Enjoy every second! Ewe are going to smash this!! Xxx.’ I shove it in my bag and steal a glance at Anders, whose lips are twitching with the effort of trying not to laugh. I can feel my cheeks blazing crimson. He can’t hold it in any longer and he lets out a chuckle, his eyes flickering with humour. I try to laugh too, but I’m dying inside and my cheeks are burning up. If the card wasn’t embarrassing enough, the fact that I can’t stop blushing shows that the ewe clearly hit a nerve.
The lift arrives at the eighth floor and the doors ping open.
‘Well, it was nice meeting ewe,’ Anders jokes, still smiling cheekily.
‘Yes. Uh-huh. Great!’ I groan.
He steps out of the lift and I avoid his gaze, my cheeks still hot.
‘See ewe around.’ He winks.
‘Yep, see you around!’ I sigh as the lift doors close.
Chapter Four (#ucb10743e-dfa0-5de6-aab5-bcbff1039871)
I check the text that buzzed on my phone, causing me to drop that mortifying card. It’s from Phil.
Where are you? Lots of wedding press samples have arrived. On your desk!
As the lift arrives at my floor and I head into the newsroom, I can’t help wondering what I’m going to find at my desk, even if I am still reeling with the embarrassment of my encounter in the lift. I never normally receive press samples. I’m usually happier to have a Freedom of Information request granted than get a freebie. I get the odd sample from time to time, normally when an inexperienced PR intern takes a scatter-gun approach and sends free stuff to everyone and anyone at the national press. I was randomly sent some luxury bubble bath a few weeks ago, but on the whole as a politics reporter, my desk is pretty much sample free. Although my colleague Becky, who I sit next to, makes up for both of us on that front. Becky’s the Daily Post’s fashion editor and her desk is often overflowing with freebies from the latest designer collections. There’s generally an assortment of handbags, scarves and the latest luxury footwear scattered about, but today, as I approach our desk, it’s a whole different story.
I stop in my tracks. My desk no longer resembles a desk. It’s a mountain of wedding kitsch, like a six-year-old girl’s fairy-tale fantasy has exploded all over the place where my computer used to sit. I can barely see it for all the reams of lace, veils, glittering tiaras, roses, bottles of Moët, sparkly cupcakes and pastel-coloured macarons in tiny wedding favour pouches swamping it. I take a step closer and see a pile of lace is a pair of rhinestone-embellished glass slippers resting on top of where my keyboard used to be. They’re quintessential princess shoes, the kind of thing Cinderella would have worn.
‘What is going on?’ I utter in absolute shock to a guy I’ve never seen before who’s sitting at Becky’s desk. Even coming up to fashion week, when Becky was constantly getting new stuff, our desks never looked like this. It’s like a fairy godmother has come along and waved her magic wand, not once, but over and over again in some kind of demented frenzy. I can’t even sit down because there’s a huge box of keyrings on my desk chair featuring tiny sculptures of Holly and Prince Isaac in a passionate embrace, gazing into each other’s eyes.
The stranger in Becky’s seat watches me, his mouth full of a glittering pink cupcake he’s holding, half eaten, in his hand. He swallows.
‘Fabulous, isn’t it?’ he says. I check him out again, but I’ve definitely not seen him around the office before even though he looks completely at ease amid the debris of the royal wedding explosion that seems to have occurred at my desk.
‘Umm…yeah! Where did it all come from?’ I ask as I move the box of royal wedding keyrings from my chair and sit down, except one falls out and I fail to notice before I sit on it.
‘Ouch!’ I pull a mini Prince Isaac and Holly from under my bum.
‘Phil said a ton of press stuff’s been in storage while Ella’s been away but now that we’re covering the royal wedding, they've brought it all out! Plus a few couriers arrived this morning with more stuff.’ He picks up a basket of frosted pink cupcakes and thrusts it towards me. ‘They’re great, try one!’
‘Er…okay!’ I reach into the basket and take one of the baby pink cupcakes dusted in tiny hearts and edible glitter.
‘So, umm, what was that you said about us covering the royal wedding?’ I ask, meeting his gaze. He looks about my age, with sleepy-looking brown eyes that match his tie and artfully messy dark gelled hair. ‘And where’s Becky?’
‘Oh, she’s over there,’ he says, taking another cupcake from the basket, before pointing across the office towards the technology desk where Becky’s sitting next to a geeky guy called Neil, the technology editor, who brags in his Twitter bio about being ‘comically witty’ despite having never, in living memory, made anyone in the office laugh. Becky doesn’t notice me looking over, her eyes fixed dully on her monitor.
‘What’s she doing over there?’ I ask as I take a bite of my cupcake. It’s delicious: sweet but not too sweet with the softest, lightest, fluffiest sponge. The tiny hearts and edible glitter taste ever so slightly tangy, adding a moreish touch. I reach for another.
‘I don’t know. That’s just where Phil put her.’ He shrugs, popping the rest of his cupcake into his mouth.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say distractedly as I tuck into my second one.
‘Didn’t Phil tell you?’ He looks taken aback. ‘Phil hired me to help with the royal wedding coverage.’
I glance at this guy’s computer screen, which unlike mine isn’t swamped in vast lace veil, and spot pictures of Prince Isaac and Holly and half a dozen tabs on royal wedding stories.
‘I’m Simon Chamberlaine. I’m freelance.’ He shakes my hand. ‘Phil brought me in to support you with the coverage. Didn’t he mention it?’ He looks a little embarrassed.
‘Umm…no, he didn’t.’
‘Well, I’m on a three-month contract. Phil said he needed “extra reinforcements”,’ Simon explains, doing air quotes. He’s smiling, but I can’t help noticing a flush creeping across his neck. He’s probably trying to suppress first day nerves, and here I am, acting like he shouldn’t even be here at all. Suddenly, I feel really bad, realizing just how unwelcoming I’ve been, but even though I’m disappointed in myself, I’m mostly irritated at Phil. He told me that press samples had arrived and yet somehow failed to mention that so had my helper!
‘I just finished a contract at the Weekly Echo and Phil head-hunted me on LinkedIn,’ Simon adds.
‘Oh, I see. Well, it’s good! It’s great!’ I insist. ‘I’m Sam.’ I extend my hand.
‘Hi, Sam,’ he laughs.
‘Sorry about that introduction! Wasn’t exactly my finest moment.’
‘No worries,’ Simon smiles.
‘I’ll have to have word with Phil later.’ I tut, rolling my eyes. ‘Anyway, welcome to the team! Ha!’
‘Thanks!’ Simon enthuses.
‘Wow, I can’t believe all this stuff!’ I pick up a packet of macarons in gentle yellow and green shades, with a tag around the packet indicating in calligraphy text that they’re pistachio and lemon-flavoured.
‘Those are delicious!’ He nods towards them. ‘I got here early so I tucked in. Hope you don’t mind!’
‘Not at all,’ I reply, opening the bag and popping a yellow macaroon into my mouth. It melts in my mouth, releasing a rich explosion of lemon-flavoured deliciousness. It’s incredible.
‘Sorry I was late,’ I say to Simon. ‘I met this Norwegian reporter in the lift on my way in. He’s working for The Chronicle.’
‘Oh, they hired a Norwegian guy! To cover the royal wedding?’ Simon asks.
‘Yeah. He was carrying all these brochures on weddings!’ Just thinking about that guy in the lift – Anders – is making me feel a little flushed and giddy all over again, even if I am still mortified about that card. Clearly all this girly wedding stuff is going to my head.
‘That’s interesting,’ Simon muses. ‘Well, we’d better up our game if they’ve got a Norwegian guy on the story!’
‘I guess—' I laugh '—but honestly, I doubt he can be drowning in as much wedding stuff as we are!' I pick up one of the rhinestone-embellished slippers, with a huge dazzling jewel arrangement at the toe. I turn it under the strip lighting and it shimmers. I have to admit it really is quite spectacular.
‘It’s great, isn’t it? All this stuff!’ Simon tears open another bag of macarons.
‘Yeah, it’s cool,’ I reply, placing the shoe back down. I start rifling through the press releases scattered among everything like confetti. ‘But I don’t have a clue where to start.’
Even though my desk is covered in royal wedding stuff, my eyes keep being pulled back to the glittering Cinderella shoes catching the light.
‘Will Holly be wearing these on the day?’ I gesture towards them.
Simon shrugs. ‘Not sure. Shall I find out?’
‘Yeah, if you could, that would be great. We can do a story on that.’
‘No problem.’ Simon picks up one of the shoes and inspects its twinkling form.
‘Well, if you’re doing that, I’ll go and get some coffee,’ I say. ‘Want one?’
‘Yes please,’ Simon replies, with a sweet smile.
‘Milk, sugar?’
‘Milk, three sugars,’ he says absently, as he gazes at the glittering shoe, which is truly captivating.
‘Coming up.’ I leave him to it and make my way across the newsroom towards the canteen. To think it was only a few weeks ago that I was at a White House press conference and now I’m working with some guy I’ve never met before and we’re writing about sparkly stilettos! Perhaps I was too negative in my meeting with Phil yesterday and now, even though I’ve pretty much come around to covering the wedding, he's decided that I’m not fully up to it. I approach his desk.
‘Morning,’ I greet him.
‘Morning, Sam,’ he replies chirpily. He flicks his eyes vaguely in my direction and then continues to study the day’s news agenda open on his screen.
‘So, you hired extra reinforcements? Were you planning on telling me?’ I ask. ‘Because I almost kicked him off Becky’s desk.’
Phil half smiles. ‘I thought you knew.’
‘What? How am I meant to know if you don’t tell me! Sorry, but I’m not subscribed to the psychic newsletter.’
Phil rolls his eyes. ‘I’m busy, Sam. It slipped my mind, okay?’
‘Fine,’ I sigh.
‘Simon will be helping you. You didn’t think I was going to let you cover the royal wedding on your own, did you?’
‘Umm...yes?’
‘You’re good, Sam, but you’re not Superwoman.’
‘This isn’t because I was being negative about it yesterday, is it?’
‘No!’ Phil scoffs. ‘It’s because it’s a big job!’
‘Okay.’ I glance across the office at Simon, who appears to be studiously researching the glass slipper. ‘I’ve never had a sidekick before.’
Phil smirks. ‘A sidekick who you’ve already abandoned. Go and keep him company,’ he says, giving me a pointed look.
‘Actually, I haven’t abandoned him, I was off to get him a coffee, like a good co-reporter.’
Phil pauses for thought. ‘Are you heading to the canteen?’
I nod.
‘I’ll come with you’ he says, pushing his chair back from the desk. ‘Just got out of the news conference and I could do with a pick-me-up.’
‘Okay,’ I reply as Phil grabs his wallet.
We start walking out of the office.
‘You do know Simon’s not your co-reporter, don’t you?’ Phil asks in a hushed voice.
I shoot him a curious glance.
‘I very much want you to take charge on this one,’ he insists. ‘Simon’s good. He comes with good references, but he’s pretty inexperienced.’
‘He looks about my age,’ I comment as we leave the newsroom and approach the lifts.
‘Yeah, but he hasn’t always been a journalist. He did something else for a while. Admin, I think.’ Phil shrugs.
‘Admin?’
‘Yeah,’ Phil says as we wait for the lift. ‘Look, he came from the Weekly Echo, he’s cut his teeth.’
‘Cut his teeth?’ I frown. ‘How long has Simon actually been a journalist?’
‘About a year and a half,’ Phil tells me as the lift doors ping open and we step inside.
‘That’s not long,’ I say, struggling to figure out why Phil would hire someone with relatively little journalism experience to help me on what he keeps insisting is the biggest story of the year.
Phil looks away, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor, where the canteen is based. The doors close and the lift shoots up the shaft.
‘Look, Simon may not be that experienced, but I think having him around might be good for you,’ Phil remarks.
‘How does that work?’
‘Well…you’ll have some male company.’
‘I’ll have some male company?’ I echo, in shock, as the lift arrives at the fifteenth floor.
‘Yes, you two might hit it off,’ Phil says matter-of-factly as we head into the canteen, towards the coffee counter.
‘Two flat whites,’ Phil says to the bored-looking barista.
‘Make that three. Don’t forget Simon,’ I add.
Phil smiles. ‘See, you’re warming to him already.’
‘What the hell?’ I hiss under my breath, although judging by the way the barista’s eyes dart over at us from the coffee machine, she clearly heard.
‘Not too much milk in mine,’ Phil tells her, deliberately ignoring me. I study him, taking in his naughty smile and the stiff way he’s deliberately leaning over the counter instead of facing me.
‘Have I heard this right? You hired Simon because you thought he and I would hit it off, romantically?’
‘No. Yes, yeah, that’s enough. Perfect,’ Phil says to the barista as she pours in the milk. She places the jug of milk down and hands Phil his coffee.
‘Thank you.’ He takes it from her.
‘Stop ignoring me, Phil,’ I sigh.
‘Okay.’ He turns to look at me. ‘Maybe it crossed my mind that you and Simon might hit it off in that way and that he might help you get over your hatred of men. Yes, maybe it did occur to me that you two might have fun covering the royal wedding together and that maybe he could be the Isaac to your Holly! Yes, maybe that did cross my mind.’ Phil holds up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Is that so bad?’
‘Yes, it is!’ I balk, in disbelief, shaking my head in exasperation as the barista pours a slug of milk into mine and Simon’s drinks.
‘The Isaac to my Holly!’ I repeat, dumbstruck.
‘Just trying to help!’ Phil shrugs, wincing after taking a sip of his boiling coffee. ‘I know you work hard and you’re very career-focused, which is obviously great, but there is more to life.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Honestly, I’m fine.’
‘Sam.’ Phil turns to look at me, fixing me with a serious expression. ‘I’m not messing around. Have you thought about the future? I mean, really thought about it?’
‘What?’ I wrinkle my nose.
‘You can’t be single for ever, for practical reasons alone. What if you had a stroke in the middle of the night, who would call 999?’
I scoff. ‘Phil, I’m twenty-eight.’
‘Yes, but you still have a pension fund, don’t you? You invest into that, you think about the future when it comes to that, so why aren’t you worried about having a person by your side in older age? They could save your life.’
I eye him warily.
‘If you have a heart attack in the middle of the night and you’re bent double in pain, who’s going to call the paramedics? Who?’
For once, I’m speechless.
‘See? Having a partner can make the difference between life and death sometimes. I thank my lucky stars I met Jill. I really do,’ Phil says, taking another tentative sip of his coffee.
I take a moment to gather my thoughts after having pictured myself old and haggard, clutching at my heart while unable to reach for my phone. I have to admit, the thought is kind of unnerving. I mean, who doesn’t want to be in reaching distance of their phone?
The barista places mine and Simon’s coffees on the counter.
‘Seriously, Phil, are you a news editor or Cupid?’ I ask.
‘Can't I be both?’ Phil grins cheekily as he retrieves a £10 note from his wallet.
‘Looks like you’re going to be whether I like it or not.’ I sigh as I pick up the coffees.
‘Great!’ Phil winks at me, before handing the barista the money.
Chapter Five (#ucb10743e-dfa0-5de6-aab5-bcbff1039871)
‘Oh my God!’ Becky cries as she rushes up to my desk, her eyes lighting up. ‘Have I died and gone to heaven?’
‘Nope, you’ve just arrived in wedding mania,’ I laugh, as her eyes roam over the flowers, tiaras, lace, veils, cupcakes and macaroons that are still swamping my desk, until finally they land on the shimmering glass slippers. Becky picks one of them up reverently, taking in every detail as she turns it under the light.
‘Wow, this is beautiful,’ she says, in awe. Even though Becky, being a total girly girl, is my complete opposite, we started working at the Daily Post on exactly the same day seven years ago, and she’s my best friend here. She’s always been the glamorous one, with her long lustrous brown hair and impeccable dress sense, while I’m nerdy Sam, chasing the latest story at Westminster in my trouser suits. Becky’s always perfectly turned out, she even wears false lashes every day, while on a good day, I might bother with BB cream and a slick of mascara. I used to wear proper make-up, but one day I overslept and didn’t have time for it, and after realizing that the quality of my day was in no way diminished by not slathering on the slap, I just stopped bothering. It’s not exactly necessary for Westminster anyway – it’s hardly the most glamourous of places – whereas being glamourous is part and parcel of Becky’s job. She lives and breathes fashion, to the point that even her nail varnish is limited edition by Dior.
‘They’re the same as the pair Holly’s going to be wearing on the big day,’ I tell her, thanks to Simon’s research.
‘No way!’ Becky enthuses. ‘Oh my God, they’re amazing.’ She turns the shoe over to glance at the size embossed on the sole. ‘Urgh, too small for me!’
‘I don’t think we’re meant to wear them,’ I comment, although Becky just shrugs.
‘But what they’ll never know isn’t going to hurt them, right?’ She grins and it’s only then that she notices Simon, who’s looking over at her curiously.
‘Have you two met?’
‘No, not yet,’ Simon replies.
‘Simon, this is Becky, fashion editor; Becky, this is Simon, he’s helping with the royal wedding coverage.’
‘Nice to meet you!’ Becky extends her hand with a big welcoming smile that’s far friendlier than my botched welcome.
‘You too!’ Simon smiles back.
‘Lucky you getting all this wedding stuff! Although maybe it’s not quite your thing...’ Becky says.
Simon shrugs. ‘Cake is everyone’s thing,’ he says, offering her a cupcake.
The pair of them munch their way through cupcakes, macaroons and frosted almonds as I research the shoe designer, adding details into the article about her professional accolades working with luxury brands and the host of celebrity clients she’s designed bespoke footwear for. I’m writing a line about how the designer created shoes inspired by butterflies for a famous actress’s wedding when I overhear one of the news reporters on the phone interviewing a politician about the government’s latest welfare cuts. Even though it is quite fun to be surrounded by all this royal wedding stuff, I can’t help feeling a little bit envious of my colleague, chasing the pressing political stories of the day. Suddenly, my thoughts are pierced by a shrill scream. I turn around to see Becky, swamped in a veil, contorting her arms around the back of her neck.
‘Ouch! It’s caught in my zip!’ Becky cries, from underneath the flowing white gauze as she tries to tug the veil free from the zip at the back of her shift dress. ‘My zip’s caught on my skin!’
Simon watches her, flummoxed. I jump up from my chair and try to help. She’s swamped in a veil down to her knees and it’s hard not to laugh as she wriggles around in the middle of the office, trying to pull the veil free while shrieking in pain.
‘Careful!’ I check out the damage. The veil has somehow got twisted into the track of the zip on Becky’s dress, along with her skin.
‘It hurts!’ Becky cries
‘Were you trying to take your dress off?’ I ask, bemused, casting a glance at Simon, who has gone slightly red-faced and is clearly trying hard not to laugh.
‘No! I was just adjusting it!’ Becky insists.
I try to pull the veil free, but Becky shrieks. ‘Ouch!’
A couple of our other colleagues are now looking over, giggling from behind their monitors.
‘Let’s go to the loos, Becks!’ I tug her arm.
‘I can’t see properly!’ she moans as I take her arm and guide her across the newsroom towards the toilets. Fortunately, the veil is swamping her head so much that she also can’t see our colleagues pissing themselves laughing.
We get to the loos and, after making her stand still for a full five minutes, I finally manage to gently tease the zip free, loosening the veil, without tearing her skin. Becky pulls it off her head.
‘Oh my God I can see again!’ she says, blinking. ‘That was SO embarrassing!’
I snort. ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ I lie.
Becky eyes me sceptically.
‘Okay, it was pretty bad,’ I admit. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve already had a pretty humiliating moment this morning, too.’
‘Oh, really?’ Becky’s face lights up. ‘Pray tell!’
I fill her in on meeting Anders in the lift and the cringe-worthy moment that card landed on the floor.
‘I think ewe are sexy! That’s brilliant!’ Becky giggles. ‘I think ewe are hilarious!’
‘And I think ewe are just as bad!’ I laugh.
‘Oh God! I’m not sure which of us is worse to be honest. Ewe or me,’ Becky says as she pats some wet tissue against her reddened skin.
I sigh, shaking my head. Although the moment with Anders was unbelievably embarrassing, my thoughts are still lingering on his gorgeous blue eyes, his playful smile, and that incredible feeling of magnetism. Even though I’m perfectly happy being single, I can’t deny the effect he had on me. Everything about him was just on another level, it was as though my mind, body and soul gave him one big fat tick.
‘Simon seems nice.’ Becky interrupts my girlish thoughts.
‘Oh yeah, he’s not bad,’ I admit, still feeling slightly reserved towards him after Phil’s revelation that he’s trying to set us up.
‘He’s sweet. He’s a hell of a lot better than Neil,’ Becky insists. ‘You know, I’m doing a feature on kitten heels and he’s been making all these lame jokes about how he didn’t know cats wore shoes.’
I can’t help snickering. ‘Comically witty.’
‘Please don’t tell me you find that funny?’ Becky grumbles.
‘No, the joke isn’t funny, but the way you tell it is. I mean, who does he think he is? Technology editor meets stand-up comedian? He seems to think there’s a stipulation in his job description to entertain.’
‘Urgh.’ Becky sighs. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck sitting next to him until after the royal wedding. I want my desk back!’
‘Neil’s jokes aren’t that bad, Becks. Chill out,’ I tell her.
‘Hmph...’ Becky twists her body to inspect the back of her neck in the mirror. It’s still quite red. ‘Don’t you think this whole thing is a bit weird though? Moving us around and hiring new people. All these changes...’
Although Becky has one of the most seemingly frivolous jobs in the newsroom, when she’s not messing around with press samples, she’s often found fretting about stuff. She loves her job, but there tends to be an undercurrent of neurosis to everything she does, from worrying about whether a rival paper is going to publish an exclusive interview with a top designer before she does, to getting anxious that the pollution in the London air is causing skin dullness and premature ageing. To combat some of her fears, she takes half a dozen vitamin supplements a day, wears SPF 50 moisturiser even in winter and has a Filofax bursting with notes so she doesn’t forget anything. But even though Becky’s in a state of near-total anxiety, she’s actually incredibly sorted. She’s twenty-eight, like me, and yet she’s married to her childhood sweetheart and they already have their own home in Balham.
‘What do you mean? How is this whole thing weird?’ I press her.
‘All this reshuffling. I’ve got a bad feeling about it,’ Becky groans, straightening out and adjusting her dress in the mirror.
‘All this reshuffling?’ I scoff as I tweak my hair in the mirror. ‘I’m covering the royal wedding and you’ve moved desks. It’s hardly mass redundancies.’
‘And Simon’s been brought in. And Neil mentioned something about an industry shake-up. It might not be redundancies yet, but I’ve got a bad feeling,’ Becky says, giving me a concerned look.
‘Well, I reckon you’re worrying over nothing, Becks. You’ve moved desks. That’s literally all you need to worry about.’
‘What about the cull they had here in the Eighties,’ Becky says, referring to a massive tranche of overnight redundancies the paper inflicted on staff more than thirty years ago. Although it was ages ago, its cut-throat heartlessness has made it somewhat legendary.
‘What about it?’
‘That probably started like this too, little reshuffles here and there, moving people around and then bam, we come into work and our passes don’t work. We’re getting on a bit, Sam. I wouldn’t put it past them to bring in some fresh blood.’
‘We’re twenty-eight!’ I remind her. ‘We’re hardly past it.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Becky sighs, as she leans against the sink counter. ‘Because this 21-year-old sent me her CV last week. She has 157,000 followers on Instagram. I’ve only got two thousand! Two thousand!’
‘She might have a ton of followers, but when was the last time she got an exclusive interview with a top designer or managed to get a sneak peak of the hottest collection at London Fashion Week? We’ve worked to get to where we are,’ I remind her. ‘And despite how grumpy Phil is, he does value us. Take Simon, for example – if the paper was falling on hard times, why would they be hiring new people?’
‘Well, look at The Chronicle. They’ve hired a Norwegian reporter! We don’t have that,’ Becky points out and suddenly, I’m thinking about Anders all over again.
‘I guess, but I really wouldn’t worry. Anyway, we should head back to the office. Did I tell you they sent us bridal underwear?’ I say, recalling the lace suspenders, basques and garters I found hidden under a sample of bridal lace.
‘Oh really?’ Becky’s face lights up. ‘Let’s go!’
Sometimes I think fashion is the only thing that takes away Becky’s anxiety. Maybe that’s why she’s so good at her job, even if she does only have two thousand Instagram followers.
We head back to the office, but as we’re passing the lifts, I find myself glancing towards them, as if they’ll suddenly open to reveal Anders. Ridiculous! I mentally berate myself as we head into the newsroom. One day of royal wedding coverage and I’ve already started swooning schoolgirl-style over a dashing Norwegian hunk.
Chapter Six (#ucb10743e-dfa0-5de6-aab5-bcbff1039871)
First up on my royal wedding itinerary: cake tasting. Yes, that’s right. It’s now my job to visit a fancy cake maker in Kensington to sample a slice of the wedding cake due to be served on Holly and Isaac’s big day. Of course, when I told Collette where I was heading this morning, she begged to come and now we’re walking down a wide affluent west London street, heading to a cake shop so exclusive that it doesn’t even have a public entrance. If you want to buy something, you have to ring a doorbell and be personally let in by the owner, who wows you with champagne while you make your selection.
‘Do I really have to pose as work experience?’ Collette groans as we head down the street. Tall slender elm trees line the pavement, making the sunlight flash as we pass under their shadows. ‘I feel like a 15-year-old girl.’
‘It’s the only way, Collette. I’m not meant to be bringing my flatmate along on stories. Anyway, just tell them you’re changing careers or something!’
‘Fine!’ Collette sighs. ‘The things I do for cake. And anyway, maybe I will change careers. If I’m being totally honest, I always thought your job was kind of boring – but being paid to eat cake, I mean...wow!’
I laugh. ‘I can’t believe the girl who spends her days inspecting amoeba thought my job was boring!’
Collette grins. ‘Well you know, you’re always hanging around Westminster, talking to boring old fat men in suits. It’s not exactly the coolest thing ever!’
‘Yeah, they may be fat—’ I laugh, thinking back to a particularly obese politician I interviewed a few weeks back, ‘—but some of them are kind of interesting.’
‘But so’s cake,’ Collette notes as we arrive outside the cake shop. It’s based inside a tall Edwardian building and the frontage is fairly discreet, apart from a white sign above a golden door that reads ‘Esmeralda’s’.
‘Are you ready, intern?’ I tease, as I reach for the doorbell.
‘Oh, I’m ready. I’m ready all right!’ Collette rubs her hands together, licking her lips.
I crack up as I ding the bell. Even though it’s not exactly the House of Commons, I have to admit, there is something pretty special about visiting a world-renowned exclusive French bakery on a beautiful Kensington street. I may still feel a little bit guilty for neglecting the key political issues of the day, but even I can’t deny that this is pretty fun, and I can’t wait to discover what fancy cake paradise awaits us on the other side of this door.
‘Hello!’ A woman dressed entirely in white with tendrils of dark hair framing her pretty face pulls the door open and gives us a smile even brighter than the crisp spring sunshine.
‘I’m Esmerelda and welcome to my bakery!’ She beams.
‘Hi, I’m Sam, from the Daily Post. And this is Collette, she’s on work experience.’
‘Yep!’ Collette grins, a little overenthusiastically. ‘I’m just shadowing Sam. Considering a career change, you know!’ she adds, a little nervously, but Esmerelda doesn’t seem in the least bit put out that I’ve brought someone, her smile plastered over her face.
‘Welcome!’ Esmerelda repeats with a flourish, stepping back and ushering us into a wide hallway lined with shining mirrors in gilded frames. Lilies spill from vases on display tables.
Collette and I exchange impressed looks as she leads us towards two frosted glass doors, through which I can only make out shades of pink, blue and white. She pushes down on a gold handle and opens one of the doors to reveal the prettiest room I think I’ve ever seen in my life. Until now, bakeries to me have been the kind of place you nip into at lunchtime to grab a sausage roll, or, if you’re feeling naughty, a French Fancy, before heading back out into the hustle and bustle of the high street. They’ve been nothing – nothing! – like the absolutely magnificent splendour before my eyes now. Not only does the room have a domed ceiling like the Sistine Chapel, with intricately painted winged cherubs, and a chandelier that must be taller than me dangling from the centre, but everywhere I look there are cakes. And not just your standard apple turnovers or Battenberg, these are dream cakes, the kind of cakes that have been created so artfully that you can barely even bring yourself to eat them. The cupcakes aren’t just cupcakes, they’re adorned with petals intricately crafted from icing. There are fruit tarts with glazed fruit so bright that it glistens like jewels and frosted sponges with seven or eight wafer-thin layers. Everything looks delectable. More than just delectable – beautiful. They’re works of art. In the centre of the room is a ginormous sculpted plinth upon which sits a dome-shaped object draped in a shimmering throw.
‘Ah! I see you’ve spotted the pièce de résistance!’ Esmerelda says, catching my eye. A waiter, also dressed head-to-toe in white apart from a gold bow tie, offers me and Collette glasses of champagne from an ornate tray. I take a glass, thanking him, before returning my attention to the mysterious draped structure.
‘Yes, what is it?’ I ask, before taking a sip of the champagne, which fizzes over my tongue.
‘Well, it’s the wedding cake of course!’ Esmerelda enthuses. ‘It’s absolutely identical to the one I’ll be making for Holly and Isaac’s big day. Seven tiers. Thirty-five layers of sponge. Five hundred hand-crafted frosted roses. One hundred hours of labour and three hundred pounds a slice!’ she adds with a wink.
‘Wow!’ Collette gawps at me. I can’t help gawping back.
‘Can we see it?’ I ask.
Esmerelda raises her eyebrows. ‘All in good time, my darlings, all in good time! But first, let me introduce you to the delicacies of Esmerelda’s!’
She ushers us across the room and through another set of wide open glass doors towards a seating area. But, of course, it’s not just any ordinary seating area. The walls have been painted to resemble a country garden with a rippling river, lustrous grass, leafy trees, blooming flowers, buzzing dragonflies and fluttering butterflies. The room contains half a dozen multifaceted glass tables, surrounded by pretty chairs adorned with thick white satin cushions. I’m distantly aware that the opulence is ridiculous and yet I find myself gazing in wonder and awe at the beauty of it all.
‘Pinch me,’ Collette whispers.
I eye her strangely. ‘What?’
‘I swear I’m dreaming,’ she says.
I laugh. ‘I think we both are.’
‘This way, my darlings,’ Esmerelda says, leading us towards a table in the centre of the room. ‘Take a seat. And let me take your coats.’
Dazed, I shrug off my coat and hand it to her, with thanks. Collette does the same.
‘This is spectacular!’ I say, still taking in the intricacies of the panoramic landscape painting. Details I’d missed earlier become apparent as I cast my eyes around the room once more, like the tiny fairies dotted across the garden scene. ‘Who painted this? It’s spectacular.’
‘A friend of mine from childhood,’ Esmerelda tells us. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But if you think that’s good, wait until you try our cakes. Then you will truly be in heaven!’
‘Thanks you much,’ I say.
‘This is amazing! Thank you!’ Collette adds, wide-eyed.
‘The pleasure is all mine!’ Esmerelda insists before slipping out of the room, her billowing white dress wafting behind her.
‘This is insane!’ Collette says, the moment Esmerelda is out of earshot. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so Instagrammable in my life!’
‘You’re ridiculous!’ I laugh, although she’s got a point. This has to be one of the most Instagrammable places I’ve ever been. Not that it would fit in my Instagram account, which I use to promote posts about social issues for my blog. I sit down on the soft-cushioned chair.
‘Oh my, Collette, this chair is like a cloud!’ I gush.
‘Oh yeah!’ Collette groans in a way that’s borderline sexual as she lets her body sink into the soft pillowy depths.
‘I swear, I am your intern now. Screw amoebas, I’m done. Journalism career, here I come. This is beyond a shadow of a doubt the best day of my life.’
‘We haven’t even had the cake yet!’ I point out, laughing. ‘But trust me, this is not journalism. I’ve had to endure seven years of Westminster to reach this point!’
‘Oh well, we’re here now!’ Collette leans forward and reaches for her glass of champagne. ‘To the royal wedding!’ She raises her glass in a toast.
‘To the royal wedding!’ I clink my glass against hers and we both giggle excitedly as we sip on the bubbles, unable to believe our luck.
Esmerelda comes back, flanked by waiters carrying tiered trays of afternoon tea laden with finger sandwiches and cakes. They place them on the table alongside an ice bucket containing a bottle of Cristal champagne and a steaming glass teapot. I’m salivating as my eyes roam over the tiers, taking in the elegant fresh finger sandwiches, the fluffy scones and the bite-size beautiful cakes and tiny bowls of puddings.
Esmerelda gestures at the bottom tier. ‘Here we have smoked salmon sandwiches with elderflower crème fraiche drizzle, poached tarragon chicken sandwiches, pastrami with walnut and honey cream cheese, all served on our organic granary bread.’ She moves her hand along. ‘And these ones are goat’s curd with chilli jam on tomato focaccia and red caviar presented with salted churned butter on crisp white bread.’
She works her way to the next tier and describes the ‘buttery scones’ in the kind of rich detail I’ve never heard applied to a scone before. I almost wish she’d stop talking because I’m salivating, but she keeps going, talking us through the pink lemonade cupcakes, red berry and rose compote, French tarts with Normandy apples and orange-infused crème brûlée.
‘Oh...’ She stops, gesturing towards a foil-wrapped cake, which looks like a Tunnock’s teacake. ‘And this is a teacake,’ she says with barely unconcealed derision. ‘They’re Holly’s favourite. Apparently, they’re all the rage up north. Of course, we made our own version, created with a home-made spice-infused biscuit base, and Italian hand-whipped meringue coated in dark chocolate with one hundred per cent cocoa.’
‘Oh my God!’ Collette interjects. ‘We love Tunnock’s teacakes too! Don’t we, Sam?’
‘Yeah,’ I laugh, a little awkwardly.
‘We used to have them in our packed lunches at school? Remember?’
‘Yeah, I remember,’ I say.
Esmerelda raises an eyebrow. She seems so sophisticated that I can’t imagine she was the type to have brought a plastic lunchbox containing Tunnock’s teacakes, squashed, slightly soggy ham sandwiches, a bag of crisps and one of those tiny packets of raisins to school when she was a kid.
I interject in the hope that Collette will stop talking about our pedestrian childhood and start asking Esmerelda about the food, trying to act journalistic, when all I really want to do is tuck in. Esmerelda answers, but then the doorbell rings and she excuses herself. The waiters top up our glasses of champagne and leave us to it.
The moment they’ve left the room, Collette whips out her phone and starts taking pictures. I do the same. To be honest, it’s impossible not to. Every sandwich, every cake and every scone is like a mini masterpiece and I doubt I’ll ever encounter food this amazing again.
A couple of other journalists arrive and sit at a table nearby. I vaguely recognise one of them as a royal editor for another national paper. She’s a tall blonde woman with a pearl-embellished headband that looks almost bridal. She sits down primly in a tight pencil skirt and her eyes wander across the room, taking everything in. Clearly, despite all her years covering royalty, even she’s a little awestruck by this experience.
Collette and I devour the sandwiches, which are all incredible. Packed with flavour. The most delicious punch with every bite. They make every other piece of food I’ve eaten before feel boring. The scones are the butteriest, lightest, fluffiest scones I’ve ever tasted and don’t even get me started on the cakes, which Collette and I photograph from every angle before eating. As we eat, the other journalists Esmerelda invited for the cake reveal filter in. They seem to share a similar look, an unofficial style code that involves blonde hair, and a white or cream frilly blouse teamed with a prim pencil skirt. All of the women are dotted with pearls and diamonds, either shimmering from their ring fingers or studded in their ears, strung around their necks or embellished on hairbands.
‘I can’t believe Holly likes Tunnock’s teacakes, she is just so cool!’ Collette enthuses, as she peels off the foil wrapping and takes a bite of the high-end home-made version.
‘When was the last time you actually ate one?’ I ask her, knowing full well that she hasn’t touched them since school.
‘I don’t know, a while ago.’ Collette shrugs as she pops the other half of the teacake into her mouth. ‘So delicious!’
I have to admit, they are pretty good, even though I still don’t quite understand how meringue can be Italian, as Esmerelda described it. Were the eggs from Italian chickens, was it beaten by Italians? I want to ask her about it at some point.
‘Wow...’ Collette sighs as she sinks back into her chair.

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