by Zoe May
Becky comes over to my desk. ‘Oh man, I don’t know about you, but I could kill for a drink!’ she says, eyeing a bottle of Moët by my computer. ‘Shall we?’
‘Oh, go on then!’
Most of our colleagues have already headed home, but it’s been such an intense day and I’m still buzzing that the Phoenix Centre got its funding, so it would be nice to celebrate. And anyway, quaffing champagne seems to be just what I do these days! Becky and I have a poke around the kitchenette of the newsroom for some champagne flutes, heck even wine glasses would do, but there’s nothing, just one Spurs mugs. Becky cleans it and I grab the only other drinking vessel I can find – a plastic protein shake beaker.
‘Wow, this has to be the least classy way anyone has ever drunk Moët in the history of mankind!’ I chuckle, as Becky pours some into my beaker.
We clink drinking vessels (I would say glasses, but let’s face it, that would be an overstatement) and swig back the Moët. It’s been a while since I’ve ended up working late in the newsroom with Becky. It used to happen more when we first started working here, when we were both putting in extra hours to impress Phil. Back in those days, our shifts were pretty much confined to the office and we’d be writing menial desk-based stories day in, day out. It was before I was trusted to go out and cover actual stories in Westminster and before Becky was allowed to go out and interview designers or attend shows. Even though mine and Becky’s paths still cross, we don’t spend anywhere near as much time together in the office as we used to, so it feels almost nostalgic to be sitting here, staying late, chatting away. Not that we’d get to sit around drinking Moët in the old days. A few of the automatic strip lights switch off around us, no longer sensing movement and we end up marooned in a pool of light in the middle of the newsroom, getting increasingly giddy as the bubbles go to our heads.
Becky reaches for a bag on my desk, overflowing with bridal garters sent by a PR.
‘Garters!’ she exclaims, pulling one out of the bag. She raises an eyebrow.
‘I meant to give those to you! A PR sent them but they’re probably more your fashion realm.’
Becky pulls a face as she fingers the cheap-looking material. ‘I doubt Holly is going to be wearing a garter from . . . ’ She checks out the label. ‘Busty Brides,’ she scoffs.
‘Hmm…Yeah, doubtful.’
I reach for a tiara on my desk, another delivery from an overzealous PR. ‘Another tiara arrived,’ I tell Becky as I place it on my head and pout.
‘Looking good!’ Becky comments and then her eyes flick towards the boxes containing the wedding dresses from Alicia.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ she says.
‘Oh no, what are you thinking?’
‘Let’s do it!’ Becky’s eyes twinkle.
‘Do what?!’
‘Try them on, of course.’ Becky dives drunkenly towards one of the boxes, pulling it open to reveal a neatly packaged exquisite white gown.
‘Becky, no! We have to give them back, don’t we?’
‘Yeah! And?’ Becky shrugs, as she pulls the dress out.
‘What if we rip them or spill something on them or something? They’re so expensive, it would be terrible.’ I grimace.
‘Oh, come on, we’re not idiots,’ Becky slurs. ‘We can try on a few dresses without spilling something on them!’
I eye Becky’s glass of champagne, which she’s left precariously close to the edge of the desk. Somehow, I’m not so sure.
‘Becky, I really don’t think we should. It seems like a really bad idea,’ I implore, but it’s too late. My words are falling on deaf ears. I try to reach for the dress to pull it away from her, but Becky snatches it out of my grasp.
‘Well, I’m trying one on. I know I’m capable of trying on a dress without spilling something on it!’ Becky insists, except she slurs so badly that ‘capable’ comes out ‘capibable’. I eye her warily as she dumps the shimmering gown on her desk chair and starts unzipping her shift dress in the middle of the newsroom.
‘Oh God, you’re actually doing this.’ I hang my head in my hands as she steps into the dress and when I finally look up, she’s standing with a hand on her hip in a decadent trailing gown.
‘Wow!’ I utter, slightly awestruck.
‘What do you think?’ Becky asks. ‘It’s a bit big.’
‘You still look stunning!’ I comment, meaning it.
‘Aww, thanks, Sam!’ Her face lights up.
‘If only Richard could see you now!’ I add, thinking of her husband.
‘Ha! To be honest, I don’t think he’d be that bothered,’ Becky sighs, looking suddenly far less care-free.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She reaches for her glass of champagne. ‘I’ll tell you another time. Let’s have fun. Try on the dress! Go on!’
‘Oh God,’ I grumble.
‘Come on! Look at me!’ Becky gestures expansively over the beautiful dress. ‘I’m not ripping things or spilling things!’
‘Hmmm…I guess.’ I take another sip of champagne.
I’m not sure what Becky was getting at with her comment about Richard, but something’s definitely up. I’m not going to force her to talk about it, but I don’t want her to be down either and I’ll feel like a bit of a spoilsport if I don’t join in with this dress-up session. Plus, there is a small part of me that does really want to try on the other dress. I think of the little girls yesterday prancing about in their tiaras. I guess we all have a little girl inside us that never truly tires of dressing up.
‘Oh, go on then! I’ll try it on!’
I follow Becky’s lead and take off my clothes in the middle of the office, after all, we are the only people here.
‘Wait!’ Becky grabs the bag of garters from Busty Brides. ‘We wouldn’t be proper brides if we didn’t have one of these!’ she jokes, taking a few from the bag and chucking one at me.
I laugh, pulling it up my thigh. ‘What do you think?’ I angle my leg, showing off the cheap tacky garter.
‘Sexy!’ Becky jokes as she puts her own under the billowing skirt of her dress.
Gartered up, I reach for the box and take out the wedding dress, putting it on as delicately as possible.
‘Oh my God, you look so pretty!’ Becky says, staring at me as I tease up the zip, her eyes wide.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, you look gorgeous!’ she insists and from the enchanted look on her face, I’m inclined to believe her.
‘Well, it is a beautiful dress,’ I comment, looking down to admire the flower embellishments crafted from tiny beads and sequins flowing over the flared skirt. The dress is so feminine, with a fitted bodice and capped lace sleeves. It’s genuinely a Disney princess kind of dress. I feel like Cinderella, as if my fairy godmother (a.k.a. a drunken Becky) has waved a magic wand over my head and told me I shall go to the ball.
‘You have to see what you look like,’ Becky insists. ‘Let’s go to the loos. They’ve got big mirrors.’
‘Okay,’ I laugh.
We parade across the newsroom, taking deliberately dainty steps, while giggling away, the excitement and champagne going to our heads.
I don’t know what I’m expecting when I look in the mirror of the women’s loos, but I certainly didn’t think the dress would transform me quite as much as it has. Becky’s right; I do look pretty. The dress is insanely flattering and I feel like a different person wearing it. It makes my waist look tiny, it gives me a bust, it’s so well cut and crafted that I really do feel like a princess in it. I can see why Holly chose Alicia – this dress is leagues beyond anything I ever tried on for my wedding day.
‘Do you see what I mean?’ Holly comments.
I nod. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’ I admire my reflection, turning to check out the back. ‘What do you think of yours?’ I ask eventually.
‘Well, obviously it’s a beautiful dress, but I can’t help feeling like a kid dressing up in mummy’s wardro
be,’ Becky says, eyeing her reflection. Her dress is beautiful too, but it is a little big for her. ‘Anyway, let’s go drink more champagne and take selfies!’
‘Good idea!’ I take one last look at myself, before we stumble back into the hallway.
Becky staggers ahead.
‘Wait!’ I call out, eyeing the long shiny hallway, which to my drunken brain kind of reminds me of the aisle of a church. ‘Let’s pretend we’re walking up the aisle!’
‘Okay! I’ll stand at the end. I’ll be groom!’
Becky positions herself at one end of the hallway and stands there, her back to me. She peers over her shoulder with a proud smile as if she’s a groom having just laid eyes on his beautiful bride in her wedding dress for the first time. I gaze back at her, with an overly smitten look, which I can’t resist topping off with a wink. We both giggle.
‘Right!’ I straighten my back and pretend to hold an imaginary bouquet. Becky starts singing ‘Here Comes the Bride” and I begin parading down the hallway, chuckling away to myself. I’m halfway along when my garter falls down my leg and gets caught on my foot, tripping me up. The lift doors ping open as I begin to stumble. Panicked thoughts race through my brain. What if I trip on this ridiculously expensive dress and tear it? I’m falling, panic racing through me, when all of a sudden, I feel a grip on my arm. Someone’s catching me. I look up, flooded with relief, and it’s only then, saved from disaster, that I realise who has caught me: Anders.
I gaze up at him as he holds me in his strong masculine arms and, for a moment, our faces are only inches apart. Our eyes locked.
‘Thank you,’ I gasp. He helps me back onto my feet, and once I’ve regained my balance, he lets go.
He looks me up and down, taking in my dress and it’s only then, once the panic has subsided, that I realise just how utterly embarrassing this moment is. Here I am, parading around in a wedding dress at work. Anders raises an eyebrow.
‘Getting married?’ he asks, his lips twitching.
‘Haha!’ I laugh awkwardly, feeling my cheeks flare up. ‘What are you doing here? This isn’t the floor of The Chronicle.’
‘Our toilets are out of service for cleaning, so I thought I’d use yours. I didn’t expect to run into two brides though,’ Anders jokes, glancing over at Becky, who also looks completely embarrassed.
‘We got these from Holly’s designer. Just thought we’d try them on. You know, in the name of research.’ I clear my throat.
‘Right.’ Anders nods. ‘Thorough reporting.’
‘Exactly. At the Daily Post, we like to really immerse ourselves in the story.’
‘Excellent work!’ Anders comments, his eyes flickering with humour. ‘I even heard the singing. Very authentic indeed.’
‘Yep.’ I glance at Becky, who looks mortified. ‘Okay, well, errr, we’d better crack on.’
‘Okay.’ Anders grins.
I scurry over to Becky, who’s already holding the door of the newsroom open, ready for our escape.
‘Sam?’ Anders says.
‘Yep?’ I look over my shoulder to see him standing there, holding my garter.
‘You dropped this.’
Chapter Ten
‘Sam, why are you googling, “Norwegian journalist, Anders, The Chronicle”?’ Simon asks, as he places a coffee on the desk for me. I reach eagerly for it, hoping it’ll banish my champagne hangover from yesterday’s prancing around in wedding dresses with Becky.
‘What?’ I close the window. I may have got a little carried away seeing Anders yesterday, and yes, maybe I did want to find out more about him, or see a few photos, but there’s nothing wrong with that is there? I’m just scoping out the competition.
‘I was just googling that royal wedding journalist from The Chronicle. Seeing what we’re up against.’ I take a sip of coffee, avoiding eye contact since I’m pretty sure Simon won’t buy my story. ‘Thanks for this by the way.’ I gesture at the cup.
‘Well you know what The Chronicle’s like,’ Simon says as he sits down. ‘You probably won’t find him.’
‘I guess,’ I sigh. He’s right, after all. While everyone at the Daily Post has social media accounts where we promote our stories, connect with interviewees and interact with members of the public, The Chronicle is notoriously discreet. Its only social media account is a Twitter page for the entire paper. None of the journalists are tagged in tweets. The paper itself doesn’t even follow any of them, I’ve checked! I sip my coffee again and wince. It’s black.
‘Eww…You forgot the milk!’
‘Really?’ Simon takes a sip of his own coffee and pulls a face. ‘Damn, she didn’t put any in mine either,’ he says. ‘I’ll go back up.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, no worries.’ Simon shrugs. I hand him my coffee and he heads up to the canteen. I turn back to my monitor. Holly and Prince Isaac are due to hold their first public appearance together this afternoon while visiting a veterans’ charity in south-east London and it’s a big deal. Simon and I have already done a ton of research on the charity, interviewing its founders about the visit. Becky’s even written a speculative piece on what Holly might wear.
I reread my article so far, but realise I’m missing a detail about one of the founders. I try to find the press release, but I must have erased it from my inbox as it’s nowhere to be seen. I glance over at Simon’s screen, which shows an article about the royal wedding from one of our rivals. His inbox is open on one of the tabs. I look over my shoulder to see if he’s coming back yet, but he’s still upstairs. Without thinking, I click into his emails. The press release should be there, hopefully near the top so I can just forward it to myself and crack on with my article. Except when I scan his inbox, something else catches my eye and it’s definitely not a press release. There’s an email with the subject line: ‘Dude, help!!! Girl at work driving me crazy.’
Girl at work driving me crazy? Is he talking about me? Am I driving Simon crazy? Yeah, he fetches me the odd coffee and sometimes I ask him to do boring inane fact-checking but I’m not that bad, surely? I look over my shoulder and open it. It’s addressed to a guy whose name I’ve never heard of, probably one of Simon’s mates.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Mate,
How boss was Dembele’s performance last night? What a player he is.
Can’t concentrate at work today. It’s that girl I told you about. She’s so pretty, I don’t know what to do. I want to ask her out but I’m not sure she’d be up for it. Someone in the office said she got her heart broken and she’s still not ready for romance? Do you think I should go for it? Or just leave it…?
Still up for watching the game later? 7 p.m. at The Swan?
Oh my God. What the hell? I quickly close the email, click back onto the tab Simon had open before and return my attention to my screen, scrolling blankly down my half-written article, my mind reeling. Simon fancies me? He wants to ask me out? Oh my God! Phil’s stupid Cupid plan has actually worked, at least on his end, but certainly not on mine. And what was that about me having had my heart broken! I got stood up at the altar three years ago, I think I’m over it by now. Just because I don’t go on many dates, doesn’t mean I have a gaping hole in my heart. I’m simply content being alone. I wish people could just accept that.
I look up to see Simon coming back with our coffees.
‘Here you go. I watched her pour in the milk this time,’ Simon comments as he places my cup by my keyboard.
‘Great! Thanks!’ I reply, a little too brightly.
Simon sits down and sips his coffee as he reads the article on his screen. I pretend to focus on my work, but I can’t. Instead, I’m wondering what I could have possibly done to make Simon fall for me? Half the time he’s just been sitting there munching macaroons. We’ve barely even chatted beyond discussing the royal wedding. Maybe he’s some kind of weird masochist who enjoys fetching coffees for me? Does he get o
ff on being my lackey? I scroll down my article, pretending to be engaged. Oh God, what will I do if he tries to ask me out? I really don’t need this in my life.
‘Oh no,’ Simon mutters. I turn to look at him. ‘Phil just sent an email round. He wants us all in the boardroom in ten minutes. He says he needs to hold a meeting about some “major changes at the paper”.’
‘What?’ I utter, all thoughts of Simon’s stupid crush suddenly eclipsed. I click into my inbox and there it is: a brisk yet foreboding two-line email from Phil addressed to all the editorial staff informing us of an urgent meeting. My heart sinks. Becky must have been right. A major restructure must be underway. Major changes presented to us like this, in the form of an emergency meeting, are unlikely to be good.
‘One sec.’ I get up and head over to Becky’s desk. She’s in a serious-looking conversation with Neil, and from the worry etched on both their faces, I can tell they’ve seen Phil’s email too.
‘Becks. What’s going on?’ I groan.
She turns to me, her eyes ridden with stress. ‘It’s terrible. I just knew it,’ she sighs.
‘I can’t believe it.’ I pull over a spare chair and sit down next to her. ‘I thought you were overreacting.’
‘No. I had a feeling this was going to happen.’ Becky shakes her head sadly.
‘Well your instincts were spot on.’
‘What do you mean?’ Neil asks.
‘Becky said we were probably going to get the boot and that Phil would want to bring in fresh blood. She called it.’
Neil scoffs. ‘It might not be as bad as you think. A meeting about major changes doesn’t necessarily mean we’re all about to get fired.’
‘If only we all had your optimism, Neil,’ I comment.
‘It’s the cull of the Eighties all over again,’ Becky grumbles as Phil strides over.
We all visibly stiffen as he nears.
‘Boardroom in five,’ he says gruffly, not quite looking us in the eye, before striding off again. He’s sweating through his pale blue shirt and he looks just as stressed as the rest of us.
‘I can’t believe this,’ Becky groans, watching him walk away. ‘I can’t actually believe this. Journalism is bullshit. Why did we become journalists? Screw this. If we get fired, that’s it. I quit.’