How

by Zoe May

  ‘It’s about time,’ Sarah chimes in.

  ‘Definitely!’ Anna adds. ‘When was the last time you got some action?’

  Anna is our most blunt friend. She’s Russian and works at the lab with Collette. She’s exceptionally smart, but never minces her words.

  ‘Oh, it must have been at least a decade. There are cobwebs down there. That’s why we have a feather duster in the cupboard,’ Collette sniggers.

  I take a swig of champagne. ‘You can talk!’

  ‘Hey, I got it on with Leonard!’ Collette reminds us, referring to a regrettable fling she had with an older guy she met on a dating app who had man boobs and an unappealing habit of laughing uproariously at his own jokes.

  ‘Leonard doesn’t count!’ I insist.

  ‘He had a penis, he counts!’ Collette objects.

  ‘No.’ Sarah shakes her head. ‘Sorry, Collette, Leonard doesn’t really count.’

  ‘Look,’ Collette huffs. ‘Leonard had a penis and it penetrated my vagina. He counts.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Rachel!’ I apologise, cringing with embarrassing over my uncouth friends.

  ‘For what? You guys aren’t a patch on some of the stuff I’ve heard! A few weeks ago, I did make-up for a bride who needed me to cover her boob with foundation because a male stripper had sucked it so hard on her hen do that she had a bruise!’

  ‘Oh wow!’ I comment.

  ‘Yeah, and then she and her mates spent a good half an hour describing his abs “cut like marble” and other body parts too. I felt like I’d personally slept with the guy by the time I left.’

  We all giggle.

  ‘This stuff about Leonard, whoever he is, is pretty PG by my standards,’ Rachel adds.

  ‘Okay, well, I dated this guy called Leonard.’ Collette takes a sip of her champagne. ‘He certainly didn’t have abs cut from marble, more like rolls moulded from dough, but he was a man, he had a penis, and not a bad one at that, and we had sex. Sexual intercourse!’ Collette giggles, clearly a little tipsy.

  ‘Okay fine, you had sexual intercourse!’ I laugh.

  ‘So, when did you last get some action?’ Anna pipes up.

  I take another swig of champagne. They all look at me, including Rachel, who’s stopped dabbing at my face with a concealer stick for a moment, awaiting my answer.

  ‘Okay, so it wasn’t exactly last week but I’m fine! I’m fine! Honestly!’

  ‘You didn’t answer the question,’ Anna observes, before scoffing a mouthful of popcorn.

  ‘Umm . . . ’ They’re all looking at me. ‘About three years ago,’ I mumble, glancing down.

  ‘Three years!’ they all pipe up.

  ‘Three years!’ Anna gawps.

  ‘Oh, Sam,’ Sarah says regretfully as though I’ve just told her someone’s died.

  Even Rachel looks taken aback. It takes her a moment to gather herself. She clears her throat and resumes touching up my face.

  ‘No wonder you’re chasing this Anders dude,’ Sarah comments. ‘I’d be humping his leg by now.’

  ‘Guys, it’s not that bad! Three years isn’t that long in the grand scheme of things.’

  ‘Three years is a long time!’ Anna points out. ‘Was Ajay the last guy?’ she asks.

  I nod. It’s not that I’ve been against having sex with someone since him, it’s just that I’ve been busy. After The Day That Shall Not Be Named, I threw myself into work and then a few months without sex somehow became a year, and then a year became two and then, before I knew it, two became three. But honestly, it hasn’t really bothered me. I promise. Okay, maybe I get a little twitchy from time to time, but I haven’t wanted to have sex with any old random guy just to end my dry spell.

  ‘You’re in the prime of your life. You’re in your twenties and you’ve wasted three years without any action! I can’t believe it!’ Anna shakes her head.

  Anna lives with her long-term boyfriend Bruno. They’re both athletic, sporty, outgoing and unashamedly into sex. To the point that Anna often posts photos of her latest sexy underwear purchases on Facebook.

  ‘I haven’t wasted three years!’ I scoff, as Rachel dusts my face in powder.

  Anna raises an eyebrow cynically.

  ‘I’ve been working. I’ve written exclusives. I’ve been shortlisted for journalism awards. I’ve been saving for a flat deposit. It’s been really productive.’

  ‘Productive!’ Anna tuts. ‘Productive doesn’t sound like much fun.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sarah giggles. ‘Who needs sex when you have productivity!’

  Even Rachel’s lips twitch as she reaches for a mascara wand.

  ‘Okay, guys, well I’m going to do my best, okay? I’ll ask him out and maybe he can personally sweep some of those vaginal cobwebs away!’

  They all giggle, even Rachel.

  ‘Lucky guy!’ Collette jokes. ‘But seriously, I can see why you’d want a dusting session with him!’

  ‘Is he really that hot?’ Sarah asks.

  ‘Smoking!’ Collette comments. ‘And he seems really nice too.’

  I think back to Anders yesterday and the way he held my gaze, the smile playing on his lips, the twinkle in his eye, that feeling of a connection. He’s more than just a hot guy to end my dry spell, he’s special. He’s the man I didn’t even realise I was waiting for.

  ‘Hold still,’ Rachel says as she slicks mascara on my lashes. She already spent a good half-hour doing my eyes earlier and this feels like the seventh or eighth coat. She finishes with the mascara and paints my lips with a tiny lipstick brush before sealing them with some kind of lipstick coating. Meanwhile, Collette waxes lyrical about what how Anders is ‘sex on legs’.

  Rachel holds out a mirror to me. ‘What do you think?’

  I have to double take. I barely recognise my reflection. She’s made my eyes pop. My lips look pretty and pouty. My face is contoured and defined. My skin looks flawless.

  ‘If that doesn’t get you laid, I don’t know what will,’ Anna comments.

  Collette chuckles. ‘Seriously, Sam, you look beautiful.’

  ‘You do,’ Sarah agrees. ‘You look absolutely stunning.’

  ‘You really do!’ Liv nods approvingly.

  ‘He won’t know what’s hit him,’ Rachel comments, with a wink.

  I take one last look at myself, and I can’t help smiling. Maybe there’s something to be said for all this make-up stuff, because right now, I feel more confident than ever. All I want to do is see Anders and finally tell him how I feel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Trust me, I am not normally a head-turner. At least not for the right reasons. There was one time at work when I noticed that people’s eyes were following me across the office and then I realised I was trailing a six-foot long piece of loo roll from my shoe. I was a head-turner that day. And then there was another time when people kept glancing at me on the tube. I thought maybe they were checking me out. It was only when I got off that I realised I had bird shit in my hair. I was definitely turning heads that day. But today, as I head down Oxford Street towards the Horsham Hotel – one of oldest and most prestigious hotels in the city – I’m pretty sure I’m turning heads for all the right reasons. People’s eyes keep lingering on my face, their gaze staying fixed on me as they walk by. It’s a type of attention I’ve never really had before. It’s not that I’m unattractive, but it’s more that I’ve just got used to not making much effort and flying under the radar. There’s a certain comfort to being just another face in the crowd, but tonight, I’m most certainly not. I’ve had my make-up done by a world-famous make-up artist and I’m wearing a designer dress I borrowed from Collette (which she managed to buy super cheap from a charity shop years ago). I don’t feel like every-day Sam, I feel like a special version.

  I arrive at the Horsham Hotel and a doorman pulls open the door for me, giving me a chivalrous smile. The foyer is incredible, with shiny marble floors, soft lighting spilling from chandeliers and tall lamps, ostentatious flower arrangeme
nts, ornate mirrors on the walls and a fountain centre-piece trickling. I head down the corridor towards the dining room, pointed out by a receptionist. I take a deep breath before heading inside. I’ve seen pictures of the Horsham Hotel dining room online but it’s far more beautiful in person. The room has been decked out like a wedding reception, the ceiling has been draped in white with fairy lights strung up to create a soft ethereal glow. Round tables spread across the room have been intricately laid out with plates and shiny silver cutlery. The bridal press gang is already milling around, lingering by a drinks table and quaffing champagne. They’re wearing their usual uniform of pencil skirts and blouses, dotted with pearls and diamonds, blonde hair tumbling or pinned up into chignons. I know I still don’t quite fit the mould, but I can tell from the raised eyebrows and wide eyes as I approach, that I’ve definitely upped the glamour stakes in my own way. I glance around the room, looking out for Anders, but I can’t see him. He must be running late, I tell myself with a sinking feeling, unless he’s managed to get a takeout version of tonight’s dinner personally delivered to him by the chef. I wouldn’t put it past him.

  I take a glass of champagne and chat to a few of the girls, but five minutes becomes ten and ten becomes fifteen and Anders still isn’t here. I excuse myself from the conversation and head to the loo. I need a moment to gather myself and try to overcome my disappointment. I was convinced Anders would be here tonight. No one in their right mind would miss it! A three-course meal cooked by Jerome Bassinger – one of the most famous chefs in the world?! But no, Anders is too aloof even for this. Sighing, I cross the dining room and head down the corridor, trying to walk carefully in my stiletto shoes on the marble floor.

  ‘Hey!’

  I turn around to see Anders, pacing towards me. Relief and happiness spreads over my face.

  ‘Anders!’

  His eyes widen. ‘Sam!’ He looks me up and down, with an impressed look, and I can’t help lapping up the attention.

  ‘You look . . . ’ He hesitates, scratching his head as he searches for the right word. ‘I was going to say beautiful, but I didn’t want to be inappropriate, but then I realised none of the other words felt right.’

  ‘Thank you!’ I beam at him, feeling that spark, that charge of emotion, as our eyes meet. He doesn’t look so bad himself. For once, he’s not wearing the jeans and T-shirt combo he seems to rock anywhere other than The Chronicle. He’s dressed in a black dinner suit with a crisp white shirt and white satin tie. He looks next level handsome. The kind of handsome that belongs in movies.

  ‘Are you coming to the dinner?’ I ask. ‘You’re late!’

  ‘The dinner?’

  ‘Yeah! It’s next door! Come on!’ I gesture for him to follow as I turn to head back to the dining room.

  ‘Oh, errr . . . ’ Anders hesitates.

  ‘Come on! They’ll be serving up the first course any minute!’

  ‘Oh! Right . . . ’ Anders frowns. I eye him warily, wondering why he’s hanging around. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Okay . . . ’ he murmurs, following me.

  The moment we walk into the dining room, there’s a hush as everyone turns to look, the girls all clock Anders, their eyes widening, followed by a tittering hum of conversation as they all start unashamedly talking about him, making comments, nudging each other, even pointing. I get that he’s handsome and it’s hard not to be impressed but a bit of subtlety wouldn’t go amiss.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ Anders says, stopping in his tracks. ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come with me,’ he says, slipping his hand through mine before leading me back out of the dining room and into the hallway. The sensation of his hand in mine sends a pulse of electricity through me. Maybe the three years of celibacy have taken their toll because the touch of his hand feels sensual, erotic and exciting, turning me to jelly. Once we’re back in the hallway, he sighs, a serious expression on his face.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t be in there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just can’t,’ he insists, looking inexplicably pained.

  I can’t figure out what’s up. ‘But what about your story. We need to write about the meal, every other journalist will be covering it, you can’t just miss out.’

  Anders nods. ‘You’re right. Look, come with me. We’ll have the meal, but in private. I’ve hired a private dining room, we can eat it there.’

  I laugh. ‘Are you serious?’

  He shrugs, as if hiring a private dining room to have a meal cooked for you by Jerome Bassinger is no big deal. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What?’ I scoff. ‘How do you pull this off? Takeaway cake, personalised bouquets, chats with Holly. I don’t get it.’

  Anders smiles. ‘I have contacts.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Clearly.’

  ‘Come on, it’ll be so much nicer than having it in there,’ he says dismissively, even though the dining room is spectacular.

  ‘Just you and me?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah. Just you and me.’

  Our eyes lock and I feel that intensity, that twinge of desire, the pull of passion, that spark of lust. A royal banquet in a private dining room with Anders. Wow. I haven’t even had to ask for a date, because this is practically a date!

  ‘Lead the way,’ I tell him.

  ‘Great!’ He takes my hand, sending a current through me once more as he leads me down the corridor towards the lifts in reception. Heads turn and people’s eyes linger on us, and I try to imagine how we must look to them. They don’t know that I’m normally a nerdy politics reporter/social justice warrior who lives in fusty trousers suits and barely wears make-up. To these people, I’m a glamourous girl in a fancy dress, spending the evening at a five-star hotel with an incredibly handsome man. To them, I’m the kind of girl I’ve never really felt I could be.

  We step inside the lift.

  ‘It’s on the top floor,’ Anders says as he presses the button.

  ‘I’m amazed you manage to pull this stuff off,’ I comment.

  Anders shrugs as the lift doors close. ‘I try.’

  ‘You must have a lot of experience in journalism?’

  ‘A bit,’ he answers vaguely.

  I narrow my eyes at him. ‘It’s just…I’ve never met anyone as connected as you. Are you just really good at schmoozing people? How do you do it?’

  ‘I guess I’ve just made contacts over time,’ Anders explains. ‘People do favours for me.’

  ‘Hmmm . . . ’ I murmur. I’ve worked in journalism for years and people don’t do pull these kinds of favours for me, but news journalism isn’t really like that. I guess maybe it makes sense that someone who’s been covering the royals their entire career could pull strings.

  ‘Have you always covered royal news?’ I ask.

  ‘Pretty much,’ Anders answers. ‘What about you?’

  ‘No, I’m new to it,’ I tell him, before explaining my journalistic background in politics.

  ‘Impressive,’ Anders comments, after I tell him about my experience in Westminster.

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘You’re clearly more than just a pretty face, although I already knew that,’ he adds with a flirty smile as the lift arrives at the top floor. More than just a pretty face? So, Anders thinks I’m pretty!

  We cross the hallway and Anders opens the door to an intimate private dining room. It’s very different to the wedding-themed room downstairs, with a sultry vibe. Dark walls, a shiny black table, low lighting from gold lamps and a huge panoramic window giving way to a stunning view of the city, glittering in the night’s sky.

  ‘I’m just going to go and have a word with Jerome,’ Anders says, totally casually, as though ‘having a word’ with Jerome Bassinger is totally normal, even though every question I’ve had for him has had to go through press officers.

  ‘Cool,’ I reply. Anders leaves the room and I sit there, taking in the view. Could this evening have worked out any better?
Although this bridal stuff feels a bit silly to me sometimes, I can’t deny the fact that I’m enjoying myself. In all my years covering politics, I’ve never had a dinner in a private dining room in a five-star hotel. I’ve never had the chance to dress up like this. I’ve never met anyone like Anders.

  He arrives back in the room, with Jerome Bassinger in tow. Jerome Bassinger! He’s notoriously private and prickly with the press, yet here he is, standing next to Anders, in his chef tunic, looking completely relaxed.

  ‘Oh! Hi!’ I stand up, completely taken aback. ‘I’m Samantha Fischer, nice to meet you!’

  ‘Jerome Bassinger, pleasure.’ He shakes my hand.

  ‘It’s my pleasure!’ I enthuse, having become every inch the sycophantic bridalwear reporter.

  ‘I hear you’re interested in trying my wedding menu?’ he asks, with a jovial grin.

  ‘Yes! Absolutely, if that’s okay!’

  ‘That’s more than okay! It’s my pleasure. Anything for my good friend Anders!’ he says, slapping Anders heartily on the back.

  Anders smiles a little awkwardly as I eye him, in wonder. How is he so well connected? Jerome begins telling us about the inspiration behind the menu, which sounds incredible. I make notes in my notebook, asking a few questions, while Anders just sits back and orders a bottle of champagne from a waiter.

  ‘I’d better get back to the kitchen.’ Jerome glances nervously at his watch as our champagne arrives. ‘But enjoy!’

  ‘Thank you!’ I enthuse.

  ‘No problem!’ Jerome says. He’s so affable in person, completely different to the disgruntled moody caricature I’ve seen on TV. He smiles broadly, before heading back downstairs.

  ‘To say I’m impressed would be an understatement,’ I comment.

  ‘What can I say?’ Anders laughs. ‘Have you got enough for your article?’ He glances at my notepad.

  ‘Yeah, definitely. Exclusive quotes from Jerome Bassinger. My editor will be thrilled.’

  ‘Good.’

  A waiter lays intricate place settings for us, replicating the arrangement from downstairs with multiple plates and layers of cutlery. Anders pours us glasses of champagne.