by Zoe May
‘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 poured 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 fairytale 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
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 comments 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
I check the text that buzzed on my phone, causing me 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 macaroons in tiny wedding favour pouches swamping it. I take a step closer and resting on top of a pile of lace is a pair of rhinestone-embellished glass slippers 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 key rings 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 comments. 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 key rings 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 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, ummm, 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 comment 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 a 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. It’s his first day, and he’s probably trying to suppress first day nerves, and yet 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 fairly 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 macaroons 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.