How (Not) to Date a Prince. Zoe May
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.
‘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...’