How

Chapter Two

‘So, let me get this straight,’ my best friend and housemate Collette says, clearing her throat. ‘You’ve been assigned to cover the most adorable love story of the century and you’re complaining.’

‘Yeah, kind of.’ I shrug as I stir the mugs of tea I’m making.

‘Why?’

‘Because I write hard news, Collette,’ I remind her.

‘Yeah, but this is Holly and Isaac, they are hashtag goals!’ Collette enthuses.

‘You’re ridiculous.’ I laugh as I carry the steaming mugs over to the kitchen table.

‘So, what’s first? Do you get to meet them? I want to hear everything!’ Collette places her drawing pad down on the table and takes the mug I hand her. I glance at her drawing pad as I sit down. As well as studying for a PhD in biology, specialising in amoebas, Collette is also an illustrator and makes quirky greetings cards that she sells online. With their jaunty drawings and cheeky off-beat slogans, they sell so well that she barely needs a student loan. It’s actually really impressive and she makes it look so effortless. She has an idea and, with a few flicks of her pen, it’s down on paper, whereas whenever I’ve had a go, my attempts have looked like something a toddler brought home from nursery.

I glance at her drawing pad. For the past couple of weeks, Collette’s been working on her upcoming Valentine’s Day collection and her latest design features a sketch of a fried egg with the slogan, ‘You’re a good egg, maybe I’ll keep you.’ I smile. It’s certainly less of a shocker than last night’s, which showed a drawing of a rhino, with the slogan ‘You make me horny.’ But Collette always insists that it’s the cheekiest cards that sell the best. She has a habit of leaving them around the flat for me with notes to pick up some milk or that it’s my turn to do the hoovering. If I recall correctly, the last one was a picture of a naughty Santa with the slogan ‘Jingle my bells’ left over from her Christmas collection, on which she’d scrawled, ‘Wanna get takeaway tonight?’ It’s far less effective than just texting, but her cards do make me smile. They add colour to the flat, just like all the patterned cushions, patchwork throws, scented candles, artsy prints and fairy lights she decorates the place with. Even though we’ve been best friends since school, Collette and I had never lived together before and, at first, she’d tease me about my ‘bachelor pad’ aesthetic, because of how minimalistic I was. But I’ve warmed to her style now. I like flicking through the magazines she leaves on the coffee table and snuggling up under her throws. Now, if our hallway doesn’t smell like molten scented wax when I get home from work, I have to light a candle straight away.

‘So, will you get to go to the wedding?’ Collette asks, wide-eyed.

‘Yeah, of course!’

‘Oh my God!’ she gasps, clutching her heart. ‘This is too much! You’re going to go to the wedding of the year. Actually, scratch that, the century!’

‘It’s just a wedding!’ I remind her. ‘Chill out!’

‘Just a wedding?’ Collette scoffs. ‘Just a wedding!’

Despite spending her days in a lab carrying out sophisticated analysis on cells, Collette can become a giddy schoolgirl over a slushy wedding. Like me, she’s single, except, unlike me, she wishes she wasn’t. She’s a die-hard romantic. Collette adores romantic movies, she always has a pile of romance novels stacked on her bedside table and she’s hooked on celebrity love affairs. She even has a Pinterest board entitled ‘My Dream Wedding’. She left it open once on her computer and went bright red when I spotted it, claiming it was research for some bridal cards she wanted to design. But despite being obsessed with love, Collette somehow struggles to apply the romance of books and movies to her own life. There’s a physics researcher at her university who she’s been into for ages. His name’s Michael and apparently, he looks like ‘a cross between Ryan Gosling and Johnny Depp’, which I can never quite picture. But despite Collette having a serious crush on the guy, who’s apparently single and quite flirty, they’ve been working in the same lab for more than two years now and neither of them has made a move. Collette’s hardly dated either apart from a regrettable fling she had with this creepy guy called Leonard a few months ago.

‘Yes! It really is just a wedding!’ I remind her. ‘You know, those things that have a fifty per cent divorce rate?! Those things we idolised in the Victorian era when women had nothing better to do than to sit around waiting for a man to pluck them out of obscurity and make them his wife? This is the twenty-first century, Collette! It’s literally just a wedding. Yes, it’ll be silly and pretty and fun! But it’s just a fricking wedding.’

‘Wow!’ Collette scoffs, eyeing me with an expression bordering on derision. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone quite so unromantic.’

‘I’m not unromantic,’ I insist. ‘I’m just practical. I just don’t get why women ought to focus on marriage, like it’s the be-all and end-all. Singleness isn’t a problem to be solved! You can have a happy, fulfilled, enjoyable life without a man by your side and a ring on your finger, I mean, come on!’

‘Urgh!’ Collette rolls her eyes. ‘Do you know what you remind me of?’

‘What?’ I mumble.

‘An amoeba,’ she announces proudly.

‘An amoeba?’

‘Yeah. An amoeba. They don’t need to find mates. They can reproduce alone through mitotic division. That’s what you are. An amoeba!’

‘Fine!’ I shrug. ‘I’ll take it! Amoeba and proud! I’ll get it on a T-shirt. Or you can make a card. An alternative Valentine’s Day card, for people who don’t need anyone, with a big fat amoeba on the front and the caption, “I love myself!”’

Collette laughs, rolling her eyes. ‘Somehow I doubt that would be a bestseller.’

I grin, picturing myself buying a Valentine’s Day card for myself. ‘No, possibly not.’

We lapse into silence for a moment, sipping our tea.

‘You haven’t always been an amoeba, though,’ Collette muses, looking at me over her steaming mug.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, remember when we were kids and you always wanted to sit around at lunch break on the grass playing that game with daisies when you pull out the petals and say, “He loves me, he loves me not”?’

I wince, shrinking into my seat. I’d totally forgotten how obsessed with that game I used to be, but it’s true. While other kids were swinging on the monkey bars or running around playing tag, I’d be sitting under a tree, plucking daisies from the grass and playing 'he loves me, he loves me not' while thinking about boys at school (most of whom I didn’t even interact with) or inventing imaginary heroes.

‘You used to drag me with you and make me sit there, just plucking the petals out of the daisies,’ Collette sniggers. Damn her and her annoyingly good memory.

‘Whatever,’ I grumble.

‘He loves me, he loves me not,’ Collette trills teasingly.

‘That was years ago,’ I remind her. ‘It was literally decades ago.’

Collette giggles. ‘And?’

‘I was seven. I’m twenty-eight now. I’ve grown up,’ I insist and it’s true, I have. Love has never really worked out for me, even before The Day That Shall Not Be Named. The problem with love is it’s just so distracting. My first proper taste of it (not just playing with daises) was when I was sixteen and I fell for this guy I met at sixth-form college called Luke. He was so gorgeous and funny and cool, and everyone fancied him, but for some reason, he chose me, and I was totally into him. Besotted. Smitten. And let’s face it, probably a little obsessed. So much so in fact, that when he dumped me a week before my A levels, I ended up falling apart and flunking all of them apart from politics. Politics was the only subject I managed not to fail, which is probably another reason I’ve stuck with it. All my other exams were a disaster and I had to retake them in the autumn, meaning that while my friends were having a good summer, I was bunkering down to revise. I lost the university place I had lined up and the whole thing was just a mess. You see, the problem with falling in love is that you end up off your game and I can’t afford to do that, literally and figuratively. I need to do well at work, I need to get on the property ladder. I have stuff to do that doesn’t involve romance and, anyway, I’m fine on my own. I really am.

Collette raises an eyebrow. ‘I think there’s still a romantic heart in there somewhere.’ She pokes my chest. ‘Deep down, there’s a little romantic heart beating away, just waiting to break out!’

‘No there isn’t!’ I bat her hand away. ‘I know you find this hard to believe, but it is possible to feel complete and happy without a man.’

Collette eyes me, unsure.

‘I know! Groundbreaking! But look at me, I’m living proof. I get by just fine. I don’t need anyone to give me some kind of fairy-tale happy ending. I’m already getting along just great. And take my mum for example! She’s single and she’s got a great life,’ I remind her.

My mum is one of the reasons I feel so confident in my single status. She never really knew my dad. I was conceived during a holiday romance and she brought me up alone. She’s had a few boyfriends, but she never married. She has loads of friends and an incredible career. Since I left home, she’s been travelling the world brokering deals in her role as an international event manager. At the moment, she’s living it up in Dubai.

Collette rolls her eyes. ‘Okay, fine, well you’re both amoebas then. Runs in the family.’ She places her empty mug down.

‘So anyway, have Holly and Isaac confirmed where the wedding will be yet? Can you take a plus one?’ Collette asks.

‘No, they haven’t. And err...’ I try to picture Collette at the wedding, snapping every second and crying with joy when Holly and Prince Isaac say ‘I do’. ‘I don’t really get a plus one! I’m not actually invited like a guest would be, I’m just there for work, aren’t I?’

Collette lets out a little sigh. ‘I wish I had your job.’

‘You didn’t get this excited when I got invited to Washington to cover the White House press conference!’ I point out, reminding her of the trip I took a few months ago which was definitely one of the coolest things I’ve ever got to do for work.

Collette wrinkles her nose. ‘Yeah but that’s just politics,’ she says, like it’s a dirty word. ‘This is the royal wedding!’ Her eyes sparkle once more.

I take a sip of tea. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things they’ve lined up for me to cover! Cake tasting with the royal wedding baker! A masterclass on flower arranging with the royal wedding florist!’

‘Wow!’ Collette’s eyes shimmer. ‘Oh my God, this is going to be amazing!’

‘One sec.’ I take my phone out of my handbag and open up my work inbox, scrolling through the press invites. ‘Oh yeah, a three course Michelin star meal at the Horsham Hotel by the royal wedding chef.’

‘Incredible!’ Collette beams.

I scroll down. ‘A bridal fair!’

‘Wow,’ Collette utters dreamily. ‘That sounds amazing! I don’t think I’ve ever been so jealous of anyone in my life. What else?’

I keep scrolling. ‘Oh!’ I land upon an email I received earlier from an enthusiastic PR woman for a company specialising in kitschy royal memorabilia. ‘I’m being sent a load of wedding trinkets tomorrow! Can you believe it? The wedding isn’t for months.’

‘Yeah but everyone wants to be part of this wedding!’ Collette reasons. ‘And you get first dibs on all the cool stuff! Oh my God, do you think you’ll get to see Holly’s wedding dress ahead of the big day?’

I scan my inbox until I find the right email. ‘Oh yes, I’ve been invited to meet the bridalwear designer so maybe!’

‘What!?’ Collette’s eyes widen with awe. ‘This is incredible, Sam!’

She moves closer and takes my hands. ‘You have to tell me everything. Every last detail! Please! I know I wasn’t that interested in the White House, but this is Holly and Isaac! You know how much I love them!’

‘I know!’ I laugh. I’m not generally one for celebrity culture but part of the reason I know about Holly’s rise to fame is because Collette adores her. She grew up in the same part of Leeds as us and, while that doesn’t really mean much to me, it’s part of the reason Collette loves her so much and has followed her career so closely as Holly’s catapulted to stardom. Collette’s always watched the shows Holly’s presented, meaning that she’s often been on our TV, in the background on lazy Saturdays or when we’re making dinner together. Holly’s pretty face has been the backdrop to quite a few of our evenings, with her big blue eyes and sweeping blonde hair. Collette is probably the reason I’m also so familiar with Prince Isaac. When the pair first announced their engagement, Collette bought all the gossip magazines and pored over all the glossy photos of the couple, looking perfect together. Prince Isaac is the kind of man little girls dream about marrying when they grow up: tall, strong and breathtakingly handsome, with kind-looking blue eyes. The adoring, affectionate, smitten way he looked at Holly in the pictures was almost enough to make my cold single heart melt.

Collette fixes me with a serious look. ‘I know you’re not the biggest fans of weddings, but this isn’t just a wedding, this is a super wedding. This is a movie brought to life. A fairy tale before our very eyes. You have to enjoy every moment, Sam. Even if you just do it for me!’

‘Okay, okay!’ I insist, but Collette holds her imploring stare.

‘You’re living every girl’s dream right now. You have to make the most of it. Think of it as a holiday from all the serious stuff you write about. A bit of fun!’

She looks so incredibly earnest. I give her hands a squeeze. Thinking of it as a holiday isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe it will be fun, and maybe I should try lightening up for once.

‘Okay, you’re right,’ I tell her. ‘I promise I’ll make the most of it.’

Collette grins. ‘I can’t wait!’

Chapter Three

I glance up from an article I’m reading on my phone about yesterday’s earthquake as I push the swing door open and arrive at work. I still feel a twinge of guilt as I read the serious news coverage, but I’ve got a spring in my step this morning because I’m determined to do Collette proud and make the most of this opportunity, even if it isn’t going to fast-track my career towards winning the Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Reporting any time soon.

‘Morning, Al,’ I say to the receptionist as I slip through the revolving doors. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Not too bad, not too bad,’ Al says, scratching his beard. ‘Haven’t had a day off for eight days now. Always working. Always working. But can’t complain, eh? A job’s a job.’

Al’s one of these people that somehow manages to be completely negative and misanthropic, and yet stays wholly likeable and down-to-earth. If I’m totally honest, I quite like his brand of whingey optimism. He’s a fellow news junkie and we often have a quick chat about the top stories of the day before I head up to the office.

‘True, true. Terrible about the earthquake!’

‘Tragic,’ Al agrees, looking up from a paper open in front of him emblazoned with images of the wreckage and people fleeing through the streets. Not only did the earthquake kill five people, but it shook the city at night, causing a few of its tallest buildings including the town hall to crumble to dust.

‘Can you imagine if it had been during the day?’ he says.

‘Oh yes, would have been so much worse.’ I shudder. ‘High-rise buildings and earthquakes clearly don’t mix.’

‘Definitely not.’ Al clears his throat and averts his gaze towards a man walking into reception.

I turn to look. He’s not just your average office worker; he’s different. He’s tall, probably around six foot two, with clear glowing skin, blond, perfectly-styled hair and striking eyes. He’s dressed in a three-piece navy suit and looks extraordinary. The Daily Post may be based in a swanky fifteen-storey office block, but no one, not even the most senior editors, dresses like this guy. His suit is clearly expensive; it’s perfectly tailored and fits him like a glove, unlike the frumpy Marks & Spencer numbers the unfashionable journalists always rock. He glances at me, no doubt sensing my lingering gaze, and the second his eyes land on mine, I look away.

I glance at Al, who subtly raises an eyebrow. Was I drooling that obviously? What’s got into me? The sight of a man in a three-piece suit and I turn to jelly? That isn’t me. I don’t do crushes or love at first sight. Surely Phil’s royal wedding Cupid plan to convince me love exists isn’t already having an effect?

‘I’m heading upstairs. See you, Al.’

‘See you later, Sam,’ Al replies, and I scurry off, not daring to look back at the gorgeous guy, even though I can feel him watching me as I head over to the lift.

I press the button for it and wait, expecting the doors to ping open immediately like they usually do. Except today, they don’t. I glance at the display to see the lift is stuck at floor fifteen. Floor fifteen! I sigh and try the adjacent lift, but it’s at floor eleven. I check the time on my phone: it’s five past nine now. Great, I’m late. I’ll have to sneak into the office and hope Phil doesn’t notice me, except he’s almost as much of a stickler for punctuality as he is for grammar.

Both of the lifts drop down a few floors but they’re still taking their sweet time. Holding my phone, I decide that while I’m waiting, I’ll see if any news updates have come through. On the train this morning, I set up Google alerts for every royal wedding key word and a few articles have already started pinging through.

I open one of the links.

‘Good morning,’ a man’s voice says. I look up and, naturally, it’s the guy from reception. Of course, it is, where did I think he was going to go after signing in with Al? He must have a meeting with someone from one of the other companies here. Although the Daily Post has five out of fifteen floors, there’s also a law firm, a rival paper called The Chronicle and a marketing agency. Dressed as smartly as he is, I’d imagine he’s heading to the law firm. Perhaps he’s some kind of fancy legal consultant.

‘Morning,’ I reply in a small awkward voice that makes me wince. I meet his gaze and quickly take in his eyes (bluest of blues, penetrating), his eyebrows (angular, artfully shaped, like bird wings) and his mouth (thin and wide, masculine, a little severe but somehow incredibly sexy.)

‘Will it be a long wait?’ he asks, glancing up at the number illuminated above the nearest lift: seven. His accent sounds Scandinavian.

‘Maybe. Not too long. Depends…on whether it actually stops at those floors. Obviously,’ I add, clarifying, but it comes out unintentionally snooty and patronizing. I wince. I’m so out of the game when it comes to romance that I can’t even answer a simply question to an attractive man without coming across as rude.

I smile in an effort to show I’m not being horrible, but, fortunately, he doesn’t seem put out. He simply nods.

‘Well, hopefully no one else will get on then,’ he says with a smile that suddenly transforms the hard line of his mouth into something humorous and playful, his eyes twinkling with what I’m pretty sure is flirtation. Even though, to be fair, I’m pretty rusty when it comes to these things.

‘Hopefully not,’ I laugh, glancing coquettishly at him. What am I doing?

Yes, he’s being a bit flirty, and yes, the idea of being alone in a lift with this mysterious stranger is undeniably appealing, but what am I doing getting hot under the collar when I should be focusing on the day ahead? I have a ton of work to do. I turn my attention back to my article and force myself to read it. What was I thinking? Comparing his eyebrows to bird wings!

Finally, one of the lifts arrives. The doors ping open and we step inside. I’m closest to the floor buttons so after pressing the button for my floor, I turn to him.

‘Where are you heading?’

‘Floor eight,’ he says, which is the floor of The Chronicle, meaning he’s here to visit the newspaper, not the law firm like I’d suspected.

‘Right.’ I press the button, trying to conceal my surprise. This guy looks nothing like the journalists at The Chronicle, who are even scruffier than our lot at the Daily Post. They treat pretty much every day like dress-down Friday, sporting faded jeans, baggy T-shirts and ratty old jumpers day in, day out.

‘And you’re heading to floor nine. Is that the Daily Post?’ he asks, glancing at the glowing button as the doors close and the lift shoots up the shaft. His accent is thick and strong, his voice deep. It almost sounds Norwegian.

‘Yes, I’m a journalist there. Where are you from?’

‘I’m from Norway,’ he replies. ‘My name’s Anders.’

‘So, do you work for The Chronicle?’ I ask and it’s only then that I notice that he’s carrying some wedding brochures under his arm.

He looks momentarily confused. ‘Oh, yes! Yes, I do.’

‘You’re new though, right?’

‘Yeah, I am.’

‘So, if you’re from Norway, are you covering the royal wedding? Holly and Prince Isaac?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ he says. ‘And you are…?’

‘Oh, sorry! I’m Sam. Samantha Fischer.’ I reach out to shake his hand and, as our palms clasp, it feels like a current is passing through us. The air fizzes and everything else is drowned out. I gaze into his eyes, deep and blue as a fjord. His face really is remarkably handsome, strong boned with high cheekbones, smooth skin and a healthy glow. He’s magnetic, but it’s not just his conventional good looks that are appealing, it’s the twinkle in his eyes that feels infectious. As we hold the handshake for a fraction of a second too long, our gaze lingering on one another, I can’t help wondering if he feels it too. Does he feel that pull? The tension? The spark?

My phone buzzes, piercing the moment.

‘Sorry.’ I let go of his hand and reach into my handbag to get my phone, but as I take it out of my bag, something falls off the back of it. A piece of card. One of Collette’s designs. It lands on the floor.

It’s one of her cheeky Valentine’s Day cards, featuring a picture of a sheep surrounded by love hearts with the caption, ‘I think ewe are sexy.’ My eyes widen in alarm as the card stares back at me and this ridiculously attractive man, taunting me like a gremlin. We both stand in silence, staring at it, for a horribly painful moment.

‘Oh my God!’ I plunge to the floor to pick it up. ‘Sorry. Flatmate. Card designer. Must have left it in my bag. She puts these stupid notes on them,’ I babble, unable to meet his gaze.

I turn the card over and scrawled in black ink inside is a message telling me: ‘Enjoy every second! Ewe are going to smash this!! Xxx.’ I shove it in my bag and steal a glance at Anders, whose lips are twitching with the effort of trying not to laugh. I can feel my cheeks blazing crimson. He can’t hold it in any longer and he lets out a chuckle, his eyes flickering with humour. I try to laugh too, but I’m dying inside and my cheeks are burning up. If the card wasn’t embarrassing enough, the fact that I can’t stop blushing shows that the ewe clearly hit a nerve.