How

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

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

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘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.