by Zoe May
‘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 began 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
‘So, let me get this straight,’ my 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 awa
y.
‘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 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 have a happy, fulfilled, enjoyable life without a man by your side and a ring on your finger! I mean, come on!’
‘Urgghhh!’ 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! Ground-breaking! 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 G
od, 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 from 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 bridal-wear designer so maybe!’
‘What!?’ Collette’s eyes widen with awe. ‘This is incredible, Sam!’