How (Not) to Date a Prince

by Zoe May

‘Good.’

  A waiter lays intricate place settings for us, replicating the arrangement from downstairs with multiple plates and layers of cutlery. Anders pours us glasses of champagne.

  ‘What about your article?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, I interviewed Jerome earlier,’ Anders explains.

  ‘Right… But don’t you need to make notes on the food?’ I already have my pen and pad by the side of my plate, ready for note-taking. Much as I want to just enjoy Anders’ company and have a romantic meal, I can’t forget the fact that I have an article to write, for a job I need to save. Hopefully, after getting exclusive quotes from Holly as well as a coveted interview with Jerome, I’ll be spared the cull.

  ‘Notes on the food!?’ Anders looks flustered. ‘Oh yes, of course. I, er, left my stuff outside. Whoops! Let me just go and get it.’

  ‘Okay!’ I reply, watching him as he gets up, glancing around the room a little manically before knocking into a chair as he dashes out. For someone who looks so suave and has such incredible connections, he’s pretty ditzy. While he’s gone, the waiter brings out the starter, explaining that it’s seared scallops on a bed of wilted baby spinach with a garnish of finely chopped cherry tomatoes, black gold Almas caviar and watercress. It looks delicious. He places down a serving jug of saffron-infused butter to drizzle over it.

  Anders comes back and sits down a little breathlessly.

  ‘Got it!’ he says, placing a large leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen down on the table. I raise an eyebrow.

  He unscrews the cap from the pen to reveal a shiny gold nib.

  ‘So, scallops?’ He looks down at the food.

  ‘Yes, with cherry tomatoes, wilted baby spinach, Almas caviar and watercress,’ I explain.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Anders murmurs as he makes notes on a crisp textured sheet of his clearly very expensive notebook. It’s the kind of notebook you’d use to write epic diary entries detailing your hopes and dreams. It’s not the 99p reporters’ pads every other journalist uses, spiral bound with lined paper that you can flip over in a second. I can’t exactly imagine Anders standing at the scene of a breaking story making sloping notes in fountain pen on his gigantic textured pad.

  ‘Well it looks great, doesn’t it?’ he says.

  ‘Mmmm! Definitely!’

  ‘Can you pass the saffron butter?’ Anders asks.

  ‘Sure.’ I reach for it, and then I realise I didn’t even tell him what it was before. ‘How did you know this was saffron butter?’

  Anders looks taken aback. ‘Oh, I just… I asked Jerome earlier,’ he says as he pours it over his scallops.

  ‘Okay . . . ’

  I take the jug and drizzle some over my own food, while Anders makes another painstaking note in his notebook, writing ‘with saffron butter’ in his neat sloping handwriting. He screws the cap back on his fountain pen and reaches for his knife and fork, effortlessly going for the cutlery the waiter pointed out that we should use, even though he wasn’t even here for that bit. The wet ink still glistens on the page of his notebook as he takes a bite.

  ‘Do you not find it a little difficult covering stories like that?’ I glance at the pad as I take a bite of the scallops, which are melt-in-your-mouth delicious.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Anders asks, perplexed.

  ‘A fountain pen? An expensive leather-bound notebook?!’

  ‘Oh!’ Anders shrugs. ‘Yeah, I guess!’ He blushes a little.

  ‘It’s a little impractical, don’t you think?’

  ‘A bit,’ Anders says, taking another bite of the starter, although he looks a bit blank.

  ‘I mean, how are you meant to write in that thing when you’re on the go. You can’t exactly do get quotes down at super-fast speed with a fountain pen.’

  Anders cuts another piece of scallop. ‘Actually, I just use this pad for special events. Obviously when I’m on the go, I bring more practical stuff.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Delicious!’ Anders comments, pointing at his plate with his fork.

  ‘Mmmm, yes, they’re amazing. Incredible actually.’

  ‘Mmm, perfectly cooked,’ Anders adds. ‘And you can tell they’re fresh. I can’t bear it when scallops aren’t quite fresh and they get that chewy texture.’

  ‘Oh yeah, no that’s awful,’ I reply, even though I can’t even remember the last time I ate scallops, let alone chewy ones. They’re certainly not the kind of thing Collette and I whip up at home and I hardly ever dine out at fancy restaurants. Although by the sounds of it, Anders does so all the time. He seems to be a scallop aficionado.

  He unscrews the cap of his fountain pen and makes another note.

  ‘Perfectly cooked, fresh, tender,’ he writes.

  I can’t help giggling. ‘Are you going to do a food review too?’ I ask. So far, all of the questions I’ve asked have been factual – how long it took Jerome to devise the menu, how much input Holly and Isaac had, where the ingredients are from, what inspired it. I’m not here to give my verdict on Holly and Isaac’s wedding menu, but apparently Anders is.

  ‘It’s just my two cents.’ He shrugs.

  ‘Okay! Fair enough!’

  He’s possibly the strangest journalist I’ve ever met and yet on some level, he must know what he’s doing. There’s clearly some method to his madness.

  Although the starter is delicious, in a few mouthfuls it’s gone and the waiter comes along to take away our plates.

  He brings out the main course – pasture-reared fillet of beef with tempura oysters and heirloom carrots – and I make notes in my notepad.

  ‘What’s that?’ Anders asks as he observes my shorthand. ‘Hieroglyphics?’

  ‘It’s shorthand,’ I point out, shocked. He looks blank.

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t use shorthand either?!’

  Anders frowns. ‘Oh, no. I’m just fast at writing,’ he insists, making another fountain pen notation, this time a bit quicker and messier than before.

  Once we’ve both made notes and tucked in, complimenting the food, which is incredible, I seize the opportunity to get to know him better.

  ‘So, what brought you over to London?’ I ask.

  ‘Umm . . . ’ He reaches for his champagne. ‘I suppose I just needed a change of scenery. I had to get away and just clear my head for a bit, you know?’

  I nod sympathetically, although I’m intrigued to know more. ‘In what sense?’

  ‘I had some family pressure I was running from, I suppose,’ Anders admits, with a sad smile.

  ‘Mmm . . . ’ I murmur.

  I want to press him more, but I probably shouldn’t. After all, this is only a first date. In fact, it’s not even really a date. And anyway, whatever he’s talking about sounds a bit intense. I’ve never had much family pressure to deal with. My mum doesn’t exactly get my obsession with politics, but she’s never tried to pressure me into doing anything different. The closest I’ve had to being pressured by her is the odd comment or two she’ll make about my love life, or lack thereof, asking whether I’ve ‘met anyone nice recently’ or ‘been on any dates’. It’s a bit annoying but it’s certainly not something I’d leave the country to escape. I look over at Anders as he cuts a piece of his steak. He seems strangely vulnerable – this wealthy ditzy journalist living here all on his own.

  ‘Do you miss home at all?’ I venture.

  ‘Not really,’ Anders says. ‘Norway is beautiful, but I can go back if I feel like it. And London is cool too. I’m not really a sentimental person. I try to focus on the moment. Like sitting here with you, eating this amazing meal.’

  I smile. He’s right, this moment is perfect. Why would anyone miss anything when the present is so good?

  ‘What about you, Sam? You’ve been in London a while, you must like it here? You must be happy?’

  He looks over at me with those penetrating blue eyes and instead of trotting out a glib answer, I feel a compulsion to be completely honest. There’s something abou
t being in this private dining room with him, overlooking the city, as though we’re in our own little bubble, that would unmask a dishonest trite response. I consider the question as I chew my food.

  ‘I’m content,’ I reason. ‘I have good friends, a decent job, a nice home. I’m lucky in many ways, but happy seems like a bit of an overstatement. I think, if I’m totally honest, that maybe I’m still waiting for happy.’

  ‘I know what you mean. What do you think would make you happy?’ Anders asks and our eyes lock. I know the answer. It’s staring me right in the face. The key to unlocking my happiness is love. The one thing I’ve been afraid of letting in all this time for fear of compromising contentment is also the key to rising above it. Love is the answer, but finding someone special to love, I suppose that’s been the hard part.

  ‘Erm . . . ’ I squirm. It’s one thing admitting to Anders that I’m not one hundred per cent happy, but it’s a whole other kettle of fish fessing up to the fact that love is missing, especially given the charged energy between us. I don’t want him to feel like he’s the key to unlocking my happiness, even though the implication is kind of hanging in the air.

  ‘How was the food?’ The waiter comes back to collect our plates, and I’ve never been so grateful for his timing.

  Anders and I are both full of praise. The waiter brings out dessert – an orange-infused crème brûlée – and, as we eat it, I change the subject to the royal wedding, which is now only a couple of weeks away. Anders confirms that he’ll be flying to Norway to cover it and we both wax lyrical about the beauty of Kongelig Palace as we finish our deserts. My phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Phil.

  Bridal fair at the Horsham this evening. Check it out. Might be something relevant.

  I tell Anders, but he doesn’t seem particularly interested.

  ‘Oh, come on, we’ve got to go! There might be something good to write about. An angle we don’t want to miss.’

  ‘We’ve already chatted to Jerome, we’ve got enough!’ Anders insists. He’s got a point, but I know I can’t go against Phil, especially not at the moment with the paper in crisis.

  ‘But aren’t you curious? It can’t hurt, right?’

  ‘Okay, fine,’ he sighs and we get up and thank the waiter before heading downstairs. I still don’t quite understand his reluctance.

  ‘It’ll be fun!’ I insist as we head towards the hall where the wedding fair is taking place.

  ‘I thought you were a die-hard politics reporter?’ Anders teases.

  ‘Hmm, well maybe I’m warming to this wedding stuff? I mean, look!’ I push the doors open, revealing a wonderland that even the most cynical person would struggle not to get a teensy bit excited by. The room is full of balloons and wedding decorations with stands offering everything from wedding cupcakes to flower arrangements to bridal underwear.

  ‘Wait!’ Anders cowers in the doorframe and reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a pair of sunglasses, which he pulls open and slides onto his face.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I laugh.

  ‘It’s just too bright in there.’

  ‘So, you’re going to wear sunglasses?’

  Anders shrugs. ‘I have very sensitive eyes.’

  ‘Okay, then . . . ’ I eye him strangely. First, he has a massive leather-bound notebook and a gold nib fountain pen and now he covers stories wearing sunglasses indoors like some kind of Mafioso. Trust me to fall for the weirdest journalist in London.

  We walk into the room. The first stand that catches my eye is hard to miss. It’s covered in love hearts and has a huge sign emblazoned with the words ‘Eros Wedding Aphrodisiacs’. We head over. A woman in lingerie and a slinky kimono holds out a tray and invites us to try a sample. The aphrodisiacs look like tiny red sweets.

  ‘They’re made from goat weed, maca root, ginseng and fig extract. All ingredients that have been proven to increase libido and stamina in the bedroom. Each one is flavoured with raspberry,’ she explains, her eyes lingering flirtatiously on Anders.

  ‘Proven?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies with a smile.

  ‘I’d like to have been there for that study,’ Ander jokes, giving me a cheeky smile, before reaching for one of the pills.

  I try to block his hand. ‘Are you seriously going to take that?’

  ‘Yeah! Why not?’ He shrugs, shaking his arm free and popping the aphrodisiac into his mouth.

  ‘Oh my God! You don’t know what it’s going to do to you!’

  ‘I’m willing to find out,’ he says, holding my gaze, his eyes flirty and dark with sultriness. To be fair, I wouldn’t half mind being there to find out what it does to him.

  ‘Are you having one too?’ the woman in lingerie asks, presenting the tray to me.

  ‘Go on, Sam!’ Anders urges, a naughty glint in his eye.

  ‘Okay, fine!’ I reach for one of the pills and pop it into my mouth. It’s sweet and chewy and actually quite nice. I think of what Sarah said earlier about how if she’d been celibate for three years she’d be humping someone’s leg and I silently pray that I don’t end up doing the same.

  Anders and I thank the woman and wander off to the next stand, which specialises in bridal ice sculptures with a giant frosted dove sculpture on display. It’s presented on an ice-cold plinth and Anders and I both shiver as we approach.

  ‘I dare you to lick it,’ Anders teases, eyeing the sculpture which is so cold that its surface is misty.

  ‘Is the aphrodisiac kicking in already?’ I tease.

  ‘Maybe,’ Anders replies with a wink.

  ‘I’ll lick it if you lick it!’ I comment.

  ‘Excuse me! You too!’ A voice bellows and I look over to see a woman standing on a stage at a nearby stand, beckoning us over.

  ‘Yes, you two, pretty girl and the guy in the sunglasses. You look like a lovely couple!’ she says in a thick American accent.

  I raise an eyebrow at Anders. ‘What’s happening?’ I mutter through gritted teeth.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Come here!’ the woman bellows.

  ‘Shall we?’ I mumble to Anders.

  ‘What does she want?’ he hisses.

  ‘God knows!’ I reply.

  ‘This way!’ She beckons us over. She’s managed to get the attention of half the room now, and dozens of expectant faces are looking our way.

  ‘We’d better go over.’

  ‘Do we have to?’ Anders asks anxiously.

  ‘Everyone’s looking! Come on!’ I take his hand and pull him over, but it’s only once we’ve moved away from the ice sculpture that I actually see the signage on the woman’s stand, which says ‘You can now kiss the bride! How to perfect your wedding kiss!’

  My eyes widen.

  ‘That’s right! I need a gorgeous couple for this wedding kiss demonstration. How to perfect your wedding kiss!’ the woman says.

  Thoughts race through my head. Maybe it’s not too late to turn around and run? But this could also make quite a fun story for the paper. It’s the kind of thing Phil would love and how better to experience it than trying it myself? Plus, I’ll get to kiss Anders. It may not be quite how I imagined we’d share our first kiss, but still, it’s a first kiss nonetheless.

  ‘Sam, I don’t think so . . . ’ Anders mutters.

  ‘I need the story,’ I tell him. ‘My paper’s going under. I need to prove myself. Please.’ I look at him imploringly. I can just about make out him rolling his eyes indulgently through the dark lenses of his glasses.

  ‘Fine,’ he sighs and we step onto the stage, which has been decked out like a pulpit of a church.

  ‘Wonderful! Wonderful!’ the woman says, kissing us both on the cheek, and whispering ‘thank you’ in our ears before assuming her position behind the pulpit. Anders and I exchange a look. A crowd gathers in front of us.

  ‘Hello, everyone! My name is Sheila Mitchell and I’m a body language expert. I have a PhD in psychology from the Un
iversity of Boston and I’m the author of three bestselling books on the power of body language. Today, I’m going to be giving you my top tips on how to share a perfect wedding kiss at the altar. Wedding kisses can be nerve-wracking at the best of times with the whole congregation watching, but with the world’s media on Holly and Prince Isaac’s wedding, it’s more essential than ever that they get it right and here’s how!’

  I smile awkwardly at Anders, who’s looking back at me, a nervous expression on his face. I think we’re both wondering what the hell we’ve let ourselves in for.

  ‘Now, the perfect wedding kiss isn’t a passionless peck, but it’s also not a sloppy snog. It needs to be tender but also controlled. You can always save your more amorous energy for the bedroom later. After all, your guests didn’t come to your wedding for a sex show!’ Sheila jokes, with a hearty chortle. I cringe.

  ‘Now, you may be excited when you’re pronounced husband and wife, but my first tip is don’t approach each other too quickly. Stay calm. Don’t jump on each other. Got that?’ She turns to me and Anders.

  We nod.

  ‘Second tip. Close your eyes. Open-eyed kisses not only look strange, but they’re self-conscious and while you may feel self-conscious, this is still meant to be a romantic moment. Closing your eyes is far more intimate.’ She looks over at me and Anders, checking we’ve understood.

  We nod again.

  ‘Let’s talk about hands,’ Sheila says. ‘Now, roaming hands are definitely not wedding appropriate, but neither are limp arms hanging at your sides. Touch each other but with gentleness and affection. One of my favourite poses is when the groom places his hands on the bride’s waist.’ She looks expectantly from the audience to me and Anders. ‘Can you demonstrate?’

  ‘Sure,’ Anders comments, taking a step closer to me and placing his hands on my waist. He’s so close. Our bodies are only a few inches apart and I don’t know whether it’s the aphrodisiac or what, but I want to touch him. I want to let my hands roam all over him but I wait for Sheila’s instructions.

  ‘Now, my favourite pose for the bride is one hand on the groom’s arm and the other hand on the groom’s neck.’

  Immediately, I place my hands on Anders’ arm and neck.