How (Not) to Date a Prince

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 to 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 macarons in tiny wedding favour pouches swamping it. I take a step closer and see a pile of lace is a pair of rhinestone-embellished glass slippers resting on top of 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 keyrings 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 says. 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 keyrings 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've 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, umm, 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 say 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 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. He’s probably trying to suppress first day nerves, and 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 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 macarons 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.

‘Sorry I was late,’ I say to Simon. ‘I met this Norwegian reporter in the lift on my way in. He’s working for The Chronicle.’

‘Oh, they hired a Norwegian guy! To cover the royal wedding?’ Simon asks.

‘Yeah. He was carrying all these brochures on weddings!’ Just thinking about that guy in the lift – Anders – is making me feel a little flushed and giddy all over again, even if I am still mortified about that card. Clearly all this girly wedding stuff is going to my head.

‘That’s interesting,’ Simon muses. ‘Well, we’d better up our game if they’ve got a Norwegian guy on the story!’

‘I guess—' I laugh '—but honestly, I doubt he can be drowning in as much wedding stuff as we are!' I pick up one of the rhinestone-embellished slippers, with a huge dazzling jewel arrangement at the toe. I turn it under the strip lighting and it shimmers. I have to admit it really is quite spectacular.

‘It’s great, isn’t it? All this stuff!’ Simon tears open another bag of macarons.

‘Yeah, it’s cool,’ I reply, placing the shoe back down. I start rifling through the press releases scattered among everything like confetti. ‘But I don’t have a clue where to start.’

Even though my desk is covered in royal wedding stuff, my eyes keep being pulled back to the glittering Cinderella shoes catching the light.

‘Will Holly be wearing these on the day?’ I gesture towards them.

Simon shrugs. ‘Not sure. Shall I find out?’

‘Yeah, if you could, that would be great. We can do a story on that.’

‘No problem.’ Simon picks up one of the shoes and inspects its twinkling form.

‘Well, if you’re doing that, I’ll go and get some coffee,’ I say. ‘Want one?’

‘Yes please,’ Simon replies, with a sweet smile.

‘Milk, sugar?’

‘Milk, three sugars,’ he says absently, as he gazes at the glittering shoe, which is truly captivating.

‘Coming up.’ I leave him to it and make my way across the newsroom towards the canteen. To think it was only a few weeks ago that I was at a White House press conference and now I’m working with some guy I’ve never met before and we’re writing about sparkly stilettos! Perhaps I was too negative in my meeting with Phil yesterday and now, even though I’ve pretty much come around to covering the wedding, he's decided that I’m not fully up to it. I approach his desk.

‘Morning,’ I greet him.

‘Morning, Sam,’ he replies chirpily. He flicks his eyes vaguely in my direction and then continues to study the day’s news agenda open on his screen.

‘So, you hired extra reinforcements? Were you planning on telling me?’ I ask. ‘Because I almost kicked him off Becky’s desk.’

Phil half smiles. ‘I thought you knew.’

‘What? How am I meant to know if you don’t tell me! Sorry, but I’m not subscribed to the psychic newsletter.’

Phil rolls his eyes. ‘I’m busy, Sam. It slipped my mind, okay?’

‘Fine,’ I sigh.

‘Simon will be helping you. You didn’t think I was going to let you cover the royal wedding on your own, did you?’

‘Umm...yes?’

‘You’re good, Sam, but you’re not Superwoman.’

‘This isn’t because I was being negative about it yesterday, is it?’

‘No!’ Phil scoffs. ‘It’s because it’s a big job!’

‘Okay.’ I glance across the office at Simon, who appears to be studiously researching the glass slipper. ‘I’ve never had a sidekick before.’

Phil smirks. ‘A sidekick who you’ve already abandoned. Go and keep him company,’ he says, giving me a pointed look.

‘Actually, I haven’t abandoned him, I was off to get him a coffee, like a good co-reporter.’

Phil pauses for thought. ‘Are you heading to the canteen?’

I nod.

‘I’ll come with you’ he says, pushing his chair back from the desk. ‘Just got out of the news conference and I could do with a pick-me-up.’

‘Okay,’ I reply as Phil grabs his wallet.

We start walking out of the office.

‘You do know Simon’s not your co-reporter, don’t you?’ Phil asks in a hushed voice.

I shoot him a curious glance.

‘I very much want you to take charge on this one,’ he insists. ‘Simon’s good. He comes with good references, but he’s pretty inexperienced.’

‘He looks about my age,’ I comment as we leave the newsroom and approach the lifts.

‘Yeah, but he hasn’t always been a journalist. He did something else for a while. Admin, I think.’ Phil shrugs.

‘Admin?’

‘Yeah,’ Phil says as we wait for the lift. ‘Look, he came from the Weekly Echo, he’s cut his teeth.’

‘Cut his teeth?’ I frown. ‘How long has Simon actually been a journalist?’

‘About a year and a half,’ Phil tells me as the lift doors ping open and we step inside.

‘That’s not long,’ I say, struggling to figure out why Phil would hire someone with relatively little journalism experience to help me on what he keeps insisting is the biggest story of the year.

Phil looks away, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor, where the canteen is based. The doors close and the lift shoots up the shaft.

‘Look, Simon may not be that experienced, but I think having him around might be good for you,’ Phil remarks.

‘How does that work?’

‘Well…you’ll have some male company.’

‘I’ll have some male company?’ I echo, in shock, as the lift arrives at the fifteenth floor.

‘Yes, you two might hit it off,’ Phil says matter-of-factly as we head into the canteen, towards the coffee counter.

‘Two flat whites,’ Phil says to the bored-looking barista.

‘Make that three. Don’t forget Simon,’ I add.

Phil smiles. ‘See, you’re warming to him already.’

‘What the hell?’ I hiss under my breath, although judging by the way the barista’s eyes dart over at us from the coffee machine, she clearly heard.

‘Not too much milk in mine,’ Phil tells her, deliberately ignoring me. I study him, taking in his naughty smile and the stiff way he’s deliberately leaning over the counter instead of facing me.

‘Have I heard this right? You hired Simon because you thought he and I would hit it off, romantically?’

‘No. Yes, yeah, that’s enough. Perfect,’ Phil says to the barista as she pours in the milk. She places the jug of milk down and hands Phil his coffee.

‘Thank you.’ He takes it from her.

‘Stop ignoring me, Phil,’ I sigh.

‘Okay.’ He turns to look at me. ‘Maybe it crossed my mind that you and Simon might hit it off in that way and that he might help you get over your hatred of men. Yes, maybe it did occur to me that you two might have fun covering the royal wedding together and that maybe he could be the Isaac to your Holly! Yes, maybe that did cross my mind.’ Phil holds up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Is that so bad?’

‘Yes, it is!’ I balk, in disbelief, shaking my head in exasperation as the barista pours a slug of milk into mine and Simon’s drinks.

‘The Isaac to my Holly!’ I repeat, dumbstruck.

‘Just trying to help!’ Phil shrugs, wincing after taking a sip of his boiling coffee. ‘I know you work hard and you’re very career-focused, which is obviously great, but there is more to life.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Honestly, I’m fine.’

‘Sam.’ Phil turns to look at me, fixing me with a serious expression. ‘I’m not messing around. Have you thought about the future? I mean, really thought about it?’

‘What?’ I wrinkle my nose.

‘You can’t be single for ever, for practical reasons alone. What if you had a stroke in the middle of the night, who would call 999?’

I scoff. ‘Phil, I’m twenty-eight.’

‘Yes, but you still have a pension fund, don’t you? You invest into that, you think about the future when it comes to that, so why aren’t you worried about having a person by your side in older age? They could save your life.’

I eye him warily.

‘If you have a heart attack in the middle of the night and you’re bent double in pain, who’s going to call the paramedics? Who?’

For once, I’m speechless.

‘See? Having a partner can make the difference between life and death sometimes. I thank my lucky stars I met Jill. I really do,’ Phil says, taking another tentative sip of his coffee.

I take a moment to gather my thoughts after having pictured myself old and haggard, clutching at my heart while unable to reach for my phone. I have to admit, the thought is kind of unnerving. I mean, who doesn’t want to be in reaching distance of their phone?

The barista places mine and Simon’s coffees on the counter.

‘Seriously, Phil, are you a news editor or Cupid?’ I ask.

‘Can't I be both?’ Phil grins cheekily as he retrieves a £10 note from his wallet.

‘Looks like you’re going to be whether I like it or not.’ I sigh as I pick up the coffees.

‘Great!’ Phil winks at me, before handing the barista the money.

Chapter Five

‘Oh my God!’ Becky cries as she rushes up to my desk, her eyes lighting up. ‘Have I died and gone to heaven?’

‘Nope, you’ve just arrived in wedding mania,’ I laugh, as her eyes roam over the flowers, tiaras, lace, veils, cupcakes and macaroons that are still swamping my desk, until finally they land on the shimmering glass slippers. Becky picks one of them up reverently, taking in every detail as she turns it under the light.

‘Wow, this is beautiful,’ she says, in awe. Even though Becky, being a total girly girl, is my complete opposite, we started working at the Daily Post on exactly the same day seven years ago, and she’s my best friend here. She’s always been the glamorous one, with her long lustrous brown hair and impeccable dress sense, while I’m nerdy Sam, chasing the latest story at Westminster in my trouser suits. Becky’s always perfectly turned out, she even wears false lashes every day, while on a good day, I might bother with BB cream and a slick of mascara. I used to wear proper make-up, but one day I overslept and didn’t have time for it, and after realizing that the quality of my day was in no way diminished by not slathering on the slap, I just stopped bothering. It’s not exactly necessary for Westminster anyway – it’s hardly the most glamourous of places – whereas being glamourous is part and parcel of Becky’s job. She lives and breathes fashion, to the point that even her nail varnish is limited edition by Dior.

‘They’re the same as the pair Holly’s going to be wearing on the big day,’ I tell her, thanks to Simon’s research.

‘No way!’ Becky enthuses. ‘Oh my God, they’re amazing.’ She turns the shoe over to glance at the size embossed on the sole. ‘Urgh, too small for me!’

‘I don’t think we’re meant to wear them,’ I comment, although Becky just shrugs.

‘But what they’ll never know isn’t going to hurt them, right?’ She grins and it’s only then that she notices Simon, who’s looking over at her curiously.

‘Have you two met?’

‘No, not yet,’ Simon replies.

‘Simon, this is Becky, fashion editor; Becky, this is Simon, he’s helping with the royal wedding coverage.’

‘Nice to meet you!’ Becky extends her hand with a big welcoming smile that’s far friendlier than my botched welcome.

‘You too!’ Simon smiles back.

‘Lucky you getting all this wedding stuff! Although maybe it’s not quite your thing...’ Becky says.

Simon shrugs. ‘Cake is everyone’s thing,’ he says, offering her a cupcake.

The pair of them munch their way through cupcakes, macaroons and frosted almonds as I research the shoe designer, adding details into the article about her professional accolades working with luxury brands and the host of celebrity clients she’s designed bespoke footwear for. I’m writing a line about how the designer created shoes inspired by butterflies for a famous actress’s wedding when I overhear one of the news reporters on the phone interviewing a politician about the government’s latest welfare cuts. Even though it is quite fun to be surrounded by all this royal wedding stuff, I can’t help feeling a little bit envious of my colleague, chasing the pressing political stories of the day. Suddenly, my thoughts are pierced by a shrill scream. I turn around to see Becky, swamped in a veil, contorting her arms around the back of her neck.

‘Ouch! It’s caught in my zip!’ Becky cries, from underneath the flowing white gauze as she tries to tug the veil free from the zip at the back of her shift dress. ‘My zip’s caught on my skin!’

Simon watches her, flummoxed. I jump up from my chair and try to help. She’s swamped in a veil down to her knees and it’s hard not to laugh as she wriggles around in the middle of the office, trying to pull the veil free while shrieking in pain.

‘Careful!’ I check out the damage. The veil has somehow got twisted into the track of the zip on Becky’s dress, along with her skin.

‘It hurts!’ Becky cries

‘Were you trying to take your dress off?’ I ask, bemused, casting a glance at Simon, who has gone slightly red-faced and is clearly trying hard not to laugh.

‘No! I was just adjusting it!’ Becky insists.

I try to pull the veil free, but Becky shrieks. ‘Ouch!’

A couple of our other colleagues are now looking over, giggling from behind their monitors.

‘Let’s go to the loos, Becks!’ I tug her arm.

‘I can’t see properly!’ she moans as I take her arm and guide her across the newsroom towards the toilets. Fortunately, the veil is swamping her head so much that she also can’t see our colleagues pissing themselves laughing.

We get to the loos and, after making her stand still for a full five minutes, I finally manage to gently tease the zip free, loosening the veil, without tearing her skin. Becky pulls it off her head.

‘Oh my God I can see again!’ she says, blinking. ‘That was SO embarrassing!’

I snort. ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ I lie.

Becky eyes me sceptically.

‘Okay, it was pretty bad,’ I admit. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve already had a pretty humiliating moment this morning, too.’

‘Oh, really?’ Becky’s face lights up. ‘Pray tell!’

I fill her in on meeting Anders in the lift and the cringe-worthy moment that card landed on the floor.

‘I think ewe are sexy! That’s brilliant!’ Becky giggles. ‘I think ewe are hilarious!’

‘And I think ewe are just as bad!’ I laugh.

‘Oh God! I’m not sure which of us is worse to be honest. Ewe or me,’ Becky says as she pats some wet tissue against her reddened skin.

I sigh, shaking my head. Although the moment with Anders was unbelievably embarrassing, my thoughts are still lingering on his gorgeous blue eyes, his playful smile, and that incredible feeling of magnetism. Even though I’m perfectly happy being single, I can’t deny the effect he had on me. Everything about him was just on another level, it was as though my mind, body and soul gave him one big fat tick.

‘Simon seems nice.’ Becky interrupts my girlish thoughts.

‘Oh yeah, he’s not bad,’ I admit, still feeling slightly reserved towards him after Phil’s revelation that he’s trying to set us up.

‘He’s sweet. He’s a hell of a lot better than Neil,’ Becky insists. ‘You know, I’m doing a feature on kitten heels and he’s been making all these lame jokes about how he didn’t know cats wore shoes.’

I can’t help snickering. ‘Comically witty.’

‘Please don’t tell me you find that funny?’ Becky grumbles.

‘No, the joke isn’t funny, but the way you tell it is. I mean, who does he think he is? Technology editor meets stand-up comedian? He seems to think there’s a stipulation in his job description to entertain.’

‘Urgh.’ Becky sighs. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck sitting next to him until after the royal wedding. I want my desk back!’

‘Neil’s jokes aren’t that bad, Becks. Chill out,’ I tell her.

‘Hmph...’ Becky twists her body to inspect the back of her neck in the mirror. It’s still quite red. ‘Don’t you think this whole thing is a bit weird though? Moving us around and hiring new people. All these changes...’

Although Becky has one of the most seemingly frivolous jobs in the newsroom, when she’s not messing around with press samples, she’s often found fretting about stuff. She loves her job, but there tends to be an undercurrent of neurosis to everything she does, from worrying about whether a rival paper is going to publish an exclusive interview with a top designer before she does, to getting anxious that the pollution in the London air is causing skin dullness and premature ageing. To combat some of her fears, she takes half a dozen vitamin supplements a day, wears SPF 50 moisturiser even in winter and has a Filofax bursting with notes so she doesn’t forget anything. But even though Becky’s in a state of near-total anxiety, she’s actually incredibly sorted. She’s twenty-eight, like me, and yet she’s married to her childhood sweetheart and they already have their own home in Balham.

‘What do you mean? How is this whole thing weird?’ I press her.

‘All this reshuffling. I’ve got a bad feeling about it,’ Becky groans, straightening out and adjusting her dress in the mirror.