How

by Zoe May

  I’ve never been much of a hugger. In fact, it never even occurred to me that a hug might be what I need, but I rest my head on his chest and even though he’s ridiculously sexy, I’m not thinking about that. I’m just thinking that it’s nice to be held. To be comforted and cared for. And it’s nice to hold someone too, however messed up the world is. Eventually, we pull apart, and Anders says a few reassuring words before we part ways. I wave over my shoulder and get back into my car and, as I drive home, I find myself thinking that maybe, just maybe, being alone isn’t so great after all.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Sorry, Sam,’ Jeremy, the politics editor sighs, scanning the email I sent him last night with all the quotes and facts I’d written up about the Phoenix Centre closure, ‘but we can’t cover this. It’s a sad story, but we’re a national newspaper. Readers up in Manchester or down in Portsmouth aren’t going to care about the closure of a charity in Bromley.’

  ‘But it’s indicative of the situation across the country,’ I insist. ‘Charities are closing down left, right and centre. It’s got human interest and it’s an extreme case. Bromley is one of the poorest parts of London and this is one of the oldest charities, a pillar of the community.’

  ‘Sorry, Sam.’ Jeremy purses his lips together. ‘No can do.’

  ‘Okay.’ I know there’s no point in pushing it. He’s made his mind up. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  I slope off back to my desk, feeling defeated. I published a blog post last night and I check my phone as I cross the newsroom. The tweet I posted about it this morning only has four likes and one retweet. Urghh. I saw someone post a photo of their bacon butty earlier that got more attention. It’s as though no one cares. I picture the weary faces of the people at the centre yesterday and I really wish there was something I could do. Some way I could get people to engage. But I can’t think of anything else.

  ‘Oh emm geee!’ Becky cries, running up to my desk. ‘Holly just posted a picture on Instagram of the earrings she’s wearing for the wedding and they are beauts!’

  Becky brandishes her phone at me. Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes, I take a look. Holly’s shared a snap of a pair of teardrop diamond earrings lined with sapphire studs.

  ‘Nice.’ I hand the phone back to her.

  ‘Nice? Is that it!? Did you see the caption?’ Becky asks, shoving her phone back into my hand.

  I scan the caption. ‘Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue! Got the blue bit sorted,’ Holly’s written, with a wink emoji.

  ‘Cool,’ I comment flatly.

  Becky eyes me warily. ‘What’s up, Sam?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I shrug. Much as I love Becky, I know she’s not going to be particularly fussed about the centre’s closure. Becky’s cool, but sometimes her eyes mist over when I go on about what some of my meaner colleagues call my ‘social justice warrior’ stuff.

  ‘Oh wow!’ Simon exclaims, looking over from his laptop. ‘A press release from the palace has just come through! The wedding venue has been confirmed. It’s Kongelig Palace!’

  ‘Ahhh!’ Becky cries, swooping over to Simon’s desk to peer at the press release on his screen.

  ‘Oh my goodness, it is SO romantic! Isn’t it, Sam?’ Becky turns to me, as Simon scrolls through the photos attached to the release. I eye them and they’re even better than the images I found on Google. They must have been taken by a special royal photographer or something. The river surrounding the palace is even bluer. The stone walls are even more golden and shimmery. Blackbirds glide above the spires. The rich green fir trees in the distance look an almost unreal shade of emerald and the fjord sparkles in the distance. It’s stunning. It’s unbelievably stunning. Not even the hardest of hearts could deny that.

  ‘Yeah, it’s gorgeous,’ I admit, gazing at the images. It’s such a pretty palace that even I feel like a misty-eyed romantic looking at it. It really does seem like something from a fairy tale.

  ‘This is going to be the wedding to end all weddings!’ Becky gushes.

  ‘It’s six hundred years old,’ Simon comments. ‘A genuine medieval castle!’

  ‘It’s so impressive,’ I admit.

  We all drink in the images. The castle and the surrounding scenery looks otherworldly, particularly to hardened Londoners like ourselves.

  Eventually, I snap back to reality. ‘You know that reporter for The Chronicle?’

  ‘That one from the lift?’ Becky asks, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, clearly recalling the ‘I think ewe are sexy’ incident.

  ‘Yeah, that one,’ I grumble. ‘Well, he knew about this yesterday. He had a seating plan of the chapel and everything.’

  ‘What? A seating plan! How do you know?’ Simon asks.

  I tell them about the crash. ‘Seriously, guys, this guy is on it. He’s going to put us to shame.’

  Simon wrinkles his nose. ‘How does he know all this stuff?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know, he must have contacts or something.’

  ‘Well, he’s not the only one,’ Becky comments, raising an eyebrow. Simon and I both turn to look at her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, guess who managed to wrangle us an exclusive sneak preview of Holly’s wedding dress?’ Becky says with a flourish.

  ‘Seriously? It’s embargoed for weeks.’

  ‘Yeah! How did you manage that?’ Simon asks, voicing my exact thoughts.

  ‘Well, it’s Alicia Johnson, do you know her?’ Becky looks from Simon to me. We both shake our heads.

  Becky sighs exasperatedly. ‘Honestly,’ she tuts. ‘Alicia’s designed gowns for tons of famous people. Red carpet stuff, bridalwear, she’s INCREDIBLE!’

  Simon and I are still blank.

  Becky tuts. ‘Well, anyway. Only a couple of years ago, she was completely unheard of, just a struggling designer trying to get her boutique off the ground, but nobody was giving her the time of day. She called me up one afternoon and, for once, I didn’t actually have that much to do and so I told her to email over some shots of her designs. They were beautiful! Like bridalwear, but fresh and modern! Just the most stunning dresses I’d ever seen.’

  ‘Mmm-hmmm . . . ’ I murmur.

  ‘So, I took a punt on her and gave her some coverage along the lines of “young cutting-edge designer rethinks bridalwear”. Then after that, all the other fashion editors jumped on the story, even The Chronicle. She got her own TV slot in the end, giving advice to brides on a wedding show. She’s always thanked me because she thinks I was the catalyst for getting her out there, when, in reality, she’s an amazing designer and someone would have given her coverage eventually,’ Becky comments. ‘But anyway, she thinks she owes me a favour, so she said we can have a sneak preview!’

  ‘Wow! That really is quite the coup!’ I enthuse.

  ‘I know!’ Becky squeals.

  ‘So, when are we going?’ I ask, eager to get my hands on this story, especially since Anders seems to be constantly one step ahead. If Becky and I can break an exclusive story about Holly’s bridalwear designer to the public, then we’re definitely back in the game.

  ‘Now!’ Becky claps her hands together.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yeah! No time like the present, right?’ Becky grins.

  ‘I guess!’

  ‘I’ll go and get my bag. Any excuse to vacate my desk for a day.’ Becky rolls her eyes over at Neil before heading over to grab her stuff.

  I pull on my coat and check my phone again to see if my blog post has had any more likes or retweets, but there’s nothing. It’s just getting lost in the ether. I tweet it again.

  ‘Come on, girl!’ Becky hooks her arm through mine. ‘What’s up?! We’re going to a bridalwear boutique. Why aren’t you buzzing?’

  I laugh. ‘You’re right.’ I drop my phone into my bag and force myself not to think about the Phoenix Centre. Yes, it’s horrible that it’s probably going to have to close down, but any of the little girls there
would be absolutely on top of the world to have an opportunity like this. I owe it to them and myself to make the most of this.

  We say goodbye to Simon and head out of the office. We chat away about wedding dresses, lace, veils and tiaras and speculate about what Holly’s dress is going to look like as we make our way across London. The boutique is located in Notting Hill and by the time the tube has arrived, Becky and I have come up with all manner of ideas for Holly’s gown. But, in the end, we both agree that with her long blonde hair and the traditional palace setting, she’ll probably opt for something lavishly feminine and befitting of a princess.

  ‘I hope it’s diamond encrusted!’ Becky enthuses as we head down the street towards the boutique. ‘How cool would it be if it literally sparkled. I wonder how long her train will be . . . ’

  My phone rings, interrupting. I take it out of my pocket: it’s Angie. She’s probably calling to chase up the feature. My stomach churns as I accept the call.

  ‘Hi, Sam!’ she chirps, sounding uncharacteristically upbeat.

  ‘Hi,’ I murmur, waiting for what I expect is going to be some new angle or pitch for coverage. Becky eyes me with a concerned expression, sensing my discomfort.

  ‘Guess what!?’ Angie says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘So, I got to the centre this morning and I had a call from a donor. He wants to stay anonymous but has pledged a hundred thousand pounds for the centre! At first, I thought it must be a wind-up, but I’ve spoken to him and it’s not. He’s legit. We can stay open!’ Angie cries with joy.

  ‘No way!’ I grab Becky’s arm, grinning.

  She gawps at me, looking confused. ‘It’s incredible, Sam!’ Angie enthuses. ‘My prayers have been answered!’

  ‘That’s amazing, Angie!’

  ‘I know! He wouldn’t say how he’d heard about us. Maybe it was the protest. Maybe it was your blog post. I don’t know! All I know is that we’re not closing!’

  ‘Oh my God! I’m absolutely thrilled for you!’ I gush.

  ‘I knew you would be!’ Angie says, her voice flooded with happiness. ‘That’s why I picked up the phone to call you! I knew you’d be happy!’

  ‘That’s absolutely made my day!’ I grin. Becky mouths ‘What?’ at me.

  ‘Anyway, Sam! I know you’re at work, so I’ll leave you to it. I just thought I’d let you know!’

  ‘I’m so glad you did!’ I tell her, before saying goodbye and hanging up. Becky asks me what the call was about and I explain. Of course, Becky isn’t quite as delighted as I am, but she’s happy for me and by the time we arrive at the bridal boutique, we’re both in great spirits, although I think Becky’s excitement is brought on more by the sight of the decadent gowns on display in the window. She opens the door and inside, sitting behind the counter, bathed in light flooding in through the bay windows, is a pretty blonde woman in her mid-thirties. She smiles broadly, revealing a perfect Hollywood smile.

  ‘Becky!’ she trills, her face lighting up as she gets up from behind the counter and comes over to give Becky a hug.

  ‘Alicia!’ Becky cries, as Alicia leans in and plants two big kisses on each of Becky’s cheeks, making loud ‘mwah’ noises as she does so.

  She turns to me. ‘Samantha Fischer, pleased to meet you.’ I reach out to shake hands, but Alicia ignores my outstretched hand and showers me with air kisses and ‘mwah’ noises as well. I try not to smirk, although this kind of greeting is completely foreign to me. I’ve only ever shaken hands with interviewees. I’m familiar with all manner of handshakes in Westminster, from the feeble wet fish to the break-your-knuckles grip, but flamboyant air kisses?! Never before.

  After Becky and Alicia have caught up, she locks the front door of the shop.

  ‘This way,’ Alicia says, showing us to the back of the store, where there’s an arrangement of white satin chairs and a couple of chaises longues, surrounded by rails and mannequins adorned with dazzling sequins and intricately beaded wedding gowns. Each one is comprised of plumes of lace, tulle and organza, with unique details like pastel-coloured bows, unusual cut-out shapes and ruffle embellishments. I dread to think how much they cost.

  We sit down on the chaise longues and Alicia pops open a bottle of champagne – another thing I’m struggling to get used to. Is every royal wedding story I report on going to involve champagne? In Westminster, the best I can hope for is decent coffee. I accept a bubbling glass.

  ‘Cheers to you, Alicia!’ Becky enthuses. ‘Congratulations on getting the wedding dress commission of the century!’

  Alicia blushes. For someone who has designed dresses for the stars, she certainly doesn’t seem to have the ego to match, and appears somewhat taken aback by the situation, as though she can’t really believe her luck either.

  ‘Thanks, Becky, but I’d rather propose a toast to Holly and Isaac! Aren’t they just the sweetest couple you’ve ever seen?’

  We all agree that they are totally adorable as we clink glasses.

  ‘Cheers to Holly and Isaac!’ Becky and I echo.

  Even though Holly and Isaac are a sweet couple and it’s lovely to be in this beautiful shop, surrounded by stunning dresses, I’m not just thinking about that when I clink glasses and take a sip of the delicious champagne; I’m thinking about the Phoenix Centre and the anonymous donor who’s saved the day, because it’s not just Holly and Isaac who are getting their happy ending, it’s Angie too. Only yesterday she was on the brink of defeat and now the charity she’s been working so hard on for so long has a future.

  We’re all in a great mood as Alicia reaches for a huge leather-bound sketchbook and begins showing us drawings of the wedding dress, which she’s developed in collaboration with Holly. She shows up digital mock-ups of the dress as well and it’s truly stunning. It has long lace sleeves, a fitted bodice and an elegant tapered skirt embellished with delicate beading. It plunges to the rear with a long lace train. It’s going to be an incredible gown.

  ‘Do you want to see it?’ Alicia asks. ‘It’s very much a work in progress at the moment but my seamstresses have already started working on it if you’d like to see it so far.’

  ‘Of course!’ Becky enthuses.

  Alicia shows us to a light-filled airy workshop attached to the rear of the shop. It’s messier than out front, with rolls of fabric, sewing machines and spindles of thread. In the centre is a dressmaker’s mannequin featuring a half-made dress. So far, only the bodice and lace sleeves have been made, but it still looks beautiful.

  ‘It’s not much, it’s just a chrysalis of what it will be, but you get the idea!’ Alicia says.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Becky nods, taking a step closer to examine it.

  Alicia looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘In fact, I have a few gowns from one of my previous collections that are quite similar to how Holly’s will be. Obviously nowhere near as special but let me just go and get them and I can show you.’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply, before Alicia heads into the storeroom.

  ‘Look at how intricate this is,’ Becky comments, in awe of one of the handmade lace sleeves. ‘To think, Holly will be wearing this exact dress when she walks down the aisle of the palace in front of the world’s media. On TV screens in front rooms all over the world, Holly will be wearing this exact dress, her arms in this exact lace and we are the first journalists to see it! Can you believe it?!’

  Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, or maybe just champagne, and her enthusiasm is infectious. I finger the lace, taking in its intricate stitching. Not only is its workmanship incredible on a dress-making level but there’s also an undeniably dreamy quality to imagining what this dress is going to look like when it’s finished and picturing Holly wearing it at Kongelig Palace. It truly is a real-life fairytale. Becky’s mobile starts ringing, piercing our daydreams.

  ‘It’s Phil,’ she groans, before picking up. She listens for a few seconds and then responds, ‘But we can’t leave now, we’ve only just seen the dress.’

  They talk f
or a minute or so, and it’s clear that Phil wants us to get back to the office. Becky insists that we need more time at the boutique, but I can hear Phil loudly reminding her that there’s a paper that needs publishing and a print deadline that isn’t going to wait. Sighing, Becky agrees that we’ll head back and hangs up. At that exact moment, Alicia pulls a rail into the room with two wedding dresses hanging from it.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Alicia, but we have to go,’ Becky sighs. ‘We’re needed back at work.

  ‘Oh really?’ Alicia comments, looking disappointed.

  Becky explains about our print deadline.

  ‘Well, it’s not a problem,’ Alicia says. ‘I’ll just package these for you and you can take them back to the office and look at them there!’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t have to do that!’ I insist.

  Becky shoots me a glare. ‘That would be helpful, thanks, Alicia!’

  A short while later, Alicia has boxed up the dresses and we’re all air-kissing goodbye. Becky and I take a taxi back to the office, already typing up the articles on our phones as we sit on the back seat. Phil’s right, our deadline is looming, and we definitely got carried away in there, sipping champagne and admiring Alicia’s designs. The taxi pulls up outside our office and we heave the wedding dresses out. They’re surprisingly heavy.

  ‘Why did you want us to take the dresses so much?’ I ask, especially since we got most of the information we needed from chatting to Alicia.

  ‘Because I’m a fashion editor, Sam!’ Becky tuts as her arms sag under the weight of one of the dresses. ‘If the bridal-wear designer of the moment offers to lend me a dress to look at, I’m hardly going to say no. That would be like you saying no to a draft of a political party’s latest manifesto!’

  ‘Okay! Point made!’

  We pay the driver and head to the office, where Phil is immediately on our backs about the stories. We bash them out, writing away at our desks before submitting them just in the nick of time.

  Becky comes over to my desk. ‘Oh man, I don’t know about you, but I could kill for a drink!’ she says, eyeing a bottle of Moët by my computer. ‘Shall we?’