by Zoe May
‘Well no, you won’t need to quit, will you? Because you’ll have been fired,’ Neil points out.
Becky sighs dramatically. ‘I know that, Neil. But I’ll quit journalism as a career.’
Neil rolls his eyes. I glance at his monitor to see he’s working on a feature entitled, Solve your storage issues these top five cloud storage providers. I’m yawning just reading the headline. Typical Neil.
‘Right. So, what will you do instead?’ Neil asks.
‘I don’t know,’ Becky huffs exasperatedly, clearly sick to death of him. ‘I’ll find something.’
‘Yeah, because there are so many jobs that require you to write about . . . ’ he glances at Becky’s monitor and scans her article ‘ . . . “whether pashminas are a fashion faux pas or this season’s hottest trend?”’
‘Oh, piss off, Neil!’ Becky snaps. ‘I’ll find something! It’s not exactly like there are a ton of jobs that require you to write about cloud storage.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not quitting journalism,’ Neil states matter-of-factly.
‘Well, where are you going to go then?’ Becky presses him. ‘Because none of the other nationals are going to take us. Not when there’s a whole new generation of cooler, younger, cheaper, tech-savvy graduates snapping at our heels. I mean, you’re a technology editor who only downloaded WhatsApp a few months ago. I mean, seriously! You don’t even have Snapchat!’
Neil’s cheeks colour. ‘That’s because Snapchat’s history. I have Instagram. I have eleven thousand followers.’
‘Yeah, because you bought them from buyrealfollowers.com. The receipt they emailed you popped up on your screen the other day when you were in the loo,’ Becky says.
‘Whatever!’ Neil’s cheeks are now crimson. ‘That was just spam.’
‘So how come you have no interaction on your feed then?’ Becky asks. ‘Your last post only had about ten likes.’
Neil squirms, his cheeks burning, and although I am quite enjoying watching Becky take him down a peg or two, I decide to chime in and put him out of his misery.
‘Guys, this isn’t helping!’ I interject. ‘Let’s actually go to this meeting before we start thinking about new career paths.’
‘I’m not changing career paths!’ Neil insists, a little too loudly, causing a couple of our colleagues to look over.
‘Sure,’ Becky mutters under her breath. Neil shoots her daggers before returning his attention back to his monitor.
‘Becks, let’s just go.’ I stand up, and gesture for her to follow. She grabs her handbag – a ridiculous fluffy pink number – and glares at Neil one last time, before heading off with me to the boardroom.
‘I guess one good thing about getting made redundant is that I’ll never have to sit next to that moron again,’ Becky comments as we cross the office.
‘Tell me about it.’
Becky wrinkles her nose. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s just Simon. He’s a bit . . . ’ I pause, questioning whether to tell Becky about the email I just read, but we have enough on our plates right now. ‘Annoying sometimes,’ I land upon.
‘Oh really?’
We arrive at the boardroom and Becky pushes the door open. There are already about a dozen staff waiting inside. Some are chatting nervously, speculating about what’s to come, while others seem to have sunk into pensive silence. Becky and I take a seat.
‘This is so weird,’ I mutter.
‘Yup.’ Becky widens her eyes and nods, and suddenly, the whole situation becomes far too real. I scan the pale harried-looking faces of my colleagues, their livelihoods at stake, and my stomach twists. I’m so close to saving for my flat deposit, and now this? If I lose my job, I won’t be able to finish saving, let alone convince anyone to grant me a mortgage. But it’s not just losing out on my flat and getting my own home that’s bothering me, it’s about journalism. Becky may want to change careers if we get the boot, but I don’t. I love my job. Okay, maybe I prefer writing about politics to the royal wedding, but I love the Daily Post. Working here is just what I do. This place is a second home to me. I scratch my nail into a grove on the boardroom table, nervously fidgeting as I contemplate my future becoming a chasm.
Phil enters the room, sweat glistening on his forehead. A flurry of staff hurry in after him. The editors claim the half-dozen seats left at the table, while the other reporters stand, looking stiff and uncomfortable as they await the news.
I glance at Neil, who’s standing, arms folded, behind Phil. For someone who was acting blasé ten minutes ago, he looks markedly uncomfortable now. His jaw’s tight and his eyes are fixed on a point in the middle distance, a worried expression on his face.
‘Okay, everyone,’ Phil says, glancing around at us all. ‘I’m just going to come out and say it. I only found out this morning, so this is as much of a shock to me as it is to you. The Regency News Group have put in a bid to buy us out.’
We all gasp. The Regency News Group is the biggest media company in the world.
‘At this stage, the bid hasn’t been formally accepted but negotiations are underway,’ Phil continues. ‘It’s not public yet, and it’s imperative that word doesn’t get out, but it’s inevitable. A deal will be struck. We’re going to become a part of Recency News.’
‘So, what does that mean for us?’ Nigel, the sports editor asks, voicing the thoughts of every single person in the room.
Phil sighs. ‘Not entirely clear, I’m afraid. Lionel Williams, the Group Editor of Recency News, is coming in next week. He’ll be observing us, all of us, and then decisions will be made,’ Phil says, his brow furrowing. ‘Every single one of us could get the chop, so I’d suggest, if you want to keep your job, then show him what you’re made of. I’d recommend pulling out all the stops.’
Phil looks around the room, his eyes sad and intense as they roam between us. ‘All of us have careers to save. Including myself.’
I gulp, my stomach twisting. My colleagues begin firing questions at Phil, asking him when the takeover is likely to happen, how long we’ve got in our jobs and whether there’s anything we can do to lobby the big bosses to stop redundancies from happening, but Phil doesn’t seem to have much insight into any of it apart from the certainty that there’s nothing any of us can do to prevent this turn of events from running its course.
‘Look.’ Phil raises his voice above the furore. ‘You have two choices. You can either complain about this – you can whinge, rant and moan – which I guarantee will get you nowhere, or you can smash it over the next couple of weeks and prove that you belong here and that you’re indispensable. That way you might just save your skin. The choice is yours. But I’d recommend the latter unless you want your P45.’
And with that, Phil turns on his heel and leaves the room.
Chapter Eleven
Why people gather in their hundreds to see a couple they don’t even know, and will never know, walk past them waving for the grand sum of two minutes is something I will never truly understand. But clearly, it’s a thing, because there are over three hundred people gathered outside this old Sixties charity building, under a drizzling grey sky, clad in bobble hats and scarves with their camera phones poised at the ready, waiting with bated breath for the moment Holly and Prince Isaac arrive. I take a sip of my takeout coffee and try to hide my feelings of dread, which are completely at odds with the buzzing crowd.
‘Ready?’ Simon says, turning away from a mother and child, both decked out in matching patriotic red, white and blue outfits, who he’s been interviewing.
‘Ready for anything,’ I reply grimly.
‘Oh, come on. It’s fun. Aren’t you just a teensy-weensy bit excited to rub shoulders with royalty?’ Simon asks, nudging me.
‘No.’ I shrug.
‘Really?’ He nudges me again. ‘Not even a teeny-weeny, little smidge?’
‘Errr…if you hadn’t noticed, Simon—’ I give him a pointed look, which makes the chirpy smile fall off his face ‘—our paper
might be about to go under and we could all lose our jobs,’ I tell him, in a hushed voice, checking over my shoulder to make sure there are no nosy reporters standing within earshot.
‘Doesn’t affect me.’ Simon shrugs. ‘I’m freelance.’
I glare at him. ‘So that means you’re incapable of empathy?’
‘I could say the same for you,’ he retorts.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
But before Simon has a chance to respond, the crowd suddenly whoops and cheers as a huge shiny black car pulls up with the Holly and Prince Isaac in the back seat. I watch, with a raised eyebrow, as people start taking pictures before the couple have even got out of the car. Prince Isaac gets out first, causing the crowd to go wild, cheering and snapping picture after picture. He does look dashing, incredibly dashing actually. He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored suit and a dark overcoat with a blue scarf that brings out his eyes. He smiles at the crowd, a perfect movie star smile. He has the captivating appeal of the rich and famous and it’s hard not to stare; he’s just so shiny, well-groomed and expensive looking. His skin has the glow of someone who eats well, sleeps plenty and holidays a lot. He looks so pampered and perfect that even I catch myself gazing in awe at him, trying to imagine his incredible life.
He walks round to open the car door for Holly, who steps elegantly out and waves at the crowd, a shy smile on her face. If I thought the crowd had whooped and cheered loudly before, the noise they made for Isaac was nothing compared to the rapturous greeting Holly gets. She looks beautiful in a pretty pink dress and cream-coloured coat, her long blonde hair blowing in the breeze. Prince Isaac takes her hand and leans in to kiss her and everyone hollers even louder. As their lips meet, they hold the pose for a few beats longer than would be natural, as though they’re on the red carpet, to give press photographers a chance to take their picture. Holly slips her hand into Prince Isaac’s and gazes at him with an adoring expression as they walk towards us all.
Suddenly, I’m aware of Simon watching me.
‘What?’ I shoot him a look.
‘You say I’m incapable of empathy but look at you!’ he comments. ‘You look at a couple who are quite clearly loved up and absolutely smitten and you feel nothing.’
‘How do you know they’re loved up?’ I challenge him, playing devil’s advocate. ‘How do you know it’s not just a performance for the cameras? A showmance?’
‘Just look at them!’ Simon huffs, exasperated.
Reluctantly, I cast my eyes back towards them. Prince Isaac keeps glancing over at Holly as they greet the crowd and chat to fans, and the expression on his face does look tender and sweet. In fact, there is a sparkle in his eyes, a look of seemingly genuine affection that she matches whenever she catches his eye. Hmmphh. Maybe they are in love, or else they’re exceptionally good actors.
‘See?’ Simon regards me. ‘Everyone else is so happy for them but you feel nothing! The very definition of no empathy.’
‘I wouldn’t say I feel nothing.’
‘Oh, really? You could have fooled me. What do you feel then?’ Simon presses me.
I narrow my eyes at him, wondering whether his eagerness to make me believe in love has anything to do with his crush on me.
‘What do I feel? Oh, I don’t know . . . ’ I sigh as I watch the couple.
What do I feel? I’m not sure. You see, the problem with love is you get swept up in it, lost in the fantasy and then before you know it, you’re off your game. Take me, for example. Only a few days ago, I was trying on wedding dresses and falling into the arms of a handsome man, and yes, I had been beginning to entertain girly romantic fantasies. Then the next thing I know, my job is at risk and my paper might be going under and all of that time I spent daydreaming could have been better invested in working hard and protecting my own future. Love is like a hobby that only the rich can really afford to entertain, like an elevated form of croquet. It’s okay for Prince Isaac, he’s royalty! He has the time and luxury to fall in love with Holly and sweep her off her feet, but for normal people like me, nope, love is not an option.
‘You’re right, I feel nothing,’ I tell Simon.
‘What the hell?’ Simon balks.
I watch them. Prince Isaac has his arm around Holly’s waist, while hers rests on his back. They can barely take two steps without touching each other. It’s okay for them to be that lovey-dovey, but most of us have to stand on our own two feet. We have to fight our own battles.
‘Well look at them,’ I grumble. ‘They can barely take two steps without holding each other. They can barely go for more than thirty seconds without exchanging one of those cutesy looks.’
‘That’s called love, Sam,’ Simon informs me.
‘Well, you call it that. I’d call it co-dependence. Smothering. Get that close to someone, and you’ll forget where you end and they begin. You’ll lose yourself.’
‘Yeesh!’ Simon shoots me a look, taking a step backwards. ‘I think I’m going to leave you to ruminate on that thought, while I head off to get some quotes. Maybe speak to people who don’t hate love quite as much as you do.’
A middle-aged woman with tears in her eyes cries out with joy as Prince Isaac shakes her hand. It’s as though she’s been touched by Jesus reincarnate himself.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Shouldn’t be hard!’
Simon looks over at the weeping woman and the corners of his lips twitch, which makes a welcome break from him eyeing me stone-faced like I’m some kind of heartless monster.
‘See you in a bit,’ he says, before turning to chat to a few people in the crowd. I watch Holly and Prince Isaac work their way along the barrier, greeting the adoring crowd. I contemplate all the things I’ll be writing about later at the office, the lines about how Holly ‘wowed the crowds’ while Prince Isaac ‘couldn’t take his eyes off his bride-to-be’. Urghh. I should be writing about real news. Hard news. The stuff I’m good at: politics, exclusives, Westminster scandals. It’s crucial right now that I save my job and yet all I can do is trot out this slushy romantic stuff. I can’t even talk to the couple, because the royal protocol is so restrictive that any interviewer has to be carefully screened by a palace press officer weeks beforehand. Questions are checked and approved in advance, and each quote is probably carefully scripted ahead of any interview. It’s impossible to get a decent story.
I contemplate talking to a couple of people in the crowd, but what good will that do? A quote from Marjorie from Surrey isn’t going to save my job. I sigh and look down at my phone. I start scrolling through jobs listings in case there’s another politics role I can apply to as backup, but I can’t find anything. I click onto another site, when all of a sudden, a voice interrupts me.
‘Hi! How are you?’
I look up to see Holly standing in front of me. Holly! Actual Holly, standing right in front of me.
‘Hi!’ I look over my shoulder to check she’s definitely talking to me, but she is, she’s looking right at me. I thought she and Isaac were working their way down the crowd, but she must have turned around. Her eyes are a staggering green, lined with a brown outline. She smiles kindly, and maybe I’m just getting sucked in by the Holly charm, but it feels like a genuine smile. It lights up her face. I smile back.
‘I’m great!’ I lie chirpily. I glance over at Simon, who’s gawping at me, clearly unable to believe that Holly is standing right in front of me, talking to me! I snap out of my melancholy and pull my reporter’s pad and a pen out of my handbag. I flick it open, finding a blank page.
‘Congratulations on your engagement!’ I gush. ‘How are you feeling about the big day?’
‘Oh!’ Holly glances at my notebook and poised pen and stiffens a little.
She looks up from my notepad and our eyes meet. I smile, a little shyly. It’s a little awkward that I’m press and that she clearly wasn’t prepared for that, but she smiles back and even though she’s dressed up in excruciatingly expensive designer clothes, marrying one of the
most eligible bachelors in the world, we’re also kind of similar in some ways and it’s as if, in her friendliness, she’s recognising that. We’re both women, in our late twenties, from Leeds.
‘When you were a kid growing up in Leeds, did you ever imagine you’d marry a prince?’ I ask. ‘I’m from Otley too,’ I add.
Holly’s ears suddenly prick up. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah! I grew up there’
‘No way!’
‘Yeah, Hall Lane.’
‘What?’ Holly balks. ‘That’s just around the corner from me!’
‘I know!’ I admit, a little sheepishly. Of course, I’ve read that before in reports about her childhood.
‘Did you used to play in Farnley Hall Park playground? We probably saw each other there,’ she comments.
‘Oh my God, best playground ever!’ I enthuse. ‘We probably played on the swings together!’ I joke. I did quite like the swings, even if I was probably more likely to be sat under a tree daydreaming while pulling the petals out of daisies.
‘That is so funny! We probably played in the sandpit!’ Holly says with a big open grin, and instantly, I can see why everyone loves her so much. This girl is one of the most famous people in the world right now, and here she is chatting away with me about sandpits and swings in Leeds. Even as we talk, cameras are flashing at her, a cameraman with a long lens is standing way too close and people all around us are squealing with excitement, yet she seems unfazed, completely and utterly humble.
She glances down at my pad. ‘Where do you work?’ she asks.
‘The Daily Post.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sam. Samantha Fischer,’ I tell her, touched that she even cares.
‘Well, Sam, yes, I did dream of marrying a prince. What little girl brought up on Disney doesn’t?’ she says with a wink. I start scribbling, making sure I catch every word. A direct quote from Holly is not something to be missed. ‘But obviously, I never thought something like that was ever really going to happen to me, I’m not a fantasist!’
