How

by Zoe May

  ‘And the winner is…’

  Anders squeezes my hand, which is clammy with sweat. I look away, preparing myself for the fact that I probably won’t win. I don’t want to come across as a sore loser, so I brace myself for my name not to be read out and get ready to smile graciously. But it’s hard. The fact is, I really do want to win. I’ve been up for this award three times now and this year, despite dating Anders, I feel I’ve truly worked for it. I’ve done heart-wrenching interviews every week; I’ve tried really hard and I want this to be my turn. Anders is still squeezing my hand, holding it tightly, but I can’t bring myself to look up at him. I don’t want him to see the desperation in my eyes and I don’t want to see it in his either, because I know how much he wants this for me too.

  ‘The winner is . . . ’ The event host hesitates again for another excruciating pause.

  ‘The winner is Samantha Fischer,’ she says finally. I look up and there’s a second lag when I can’t quite take it in. Me! Me?

  Anders grins. ‘You did it!’

  I grin back, the reality setting in as he hugs me. I did it! I actually did it! I won!

  Phil stands by Anders’ side, arms outstretched, smiling proudly. I hug him, before turning to Angie, who’s helped me a lot with my investigation, putting me in touch with interviewees and inspiring the piece in the first place through her work with the Phoenix Centre.

  ‘Well done, love,’ she says, pulling me close. ‘You deserve it.’

  ‘Thanks, Angie!’

  My mum, who’s finally back from Dubai, pulls me close. ‘I’m so proud, Sam!’ she says. Her eyes are sparkling with pride as she gives me a tight hug.

  ‘Thanks, Mum!’ I smile.

  ‘Now, you’d better go and collect it!’ She looks towards the stage, where the host stands, beaming, holding my award, ready to present it to me.

  I walk towards the stage, still in shock. The presenter hands me the award with a big gracious smile and I hold it, relishing its weight in my hands, before blurting out a clumsy thank-you speech, thanking Phil and the Daily Post. I thank Angie. I thank my mum and Collette and the rest of my friends for being there for me and, of course, I thank Anders. Just when it’s on the verge of becoming a Gwyneth Paltrow-style Oscar speech, I round things up and head back to my seat, to the sound of applause, clutching my award. Everyone at my table is beaming, delighted for me.

  Collette rushes up. ‘I’m so proud of you, Sam!’ She pulls me into a tight hug.

  ‘Thanks, Collette.’

  Her eyes are glassy with happiness for me and I hold her close. Collette knows how much this award means. She lived with me for years while I was on the shortlist, working hard and dreaming of winning, and even though I may have moved out now, she still knows that it means the world to me.

  ‘Congratulations!’ Michael, who is now her boyfriend, gives me a friendly hug.

  Yes, that’s right. Collette finally took the plunge and asked him out. Of course, he said yes. They’d both been pining over each other for years but had managed to get themselves into an awkward friendly rut where neither was brave enough to admit they had feelings. Now, they’re inseparable. Michael moved into the flat when I moved out and they seem to spend every waking hour together, at work and at home. They’re deeply in love and I’ve never seen Collette happier. Finally, the romance she’s always been obsessed with in movies and books has become her reality.

  Becky and Simon are next to congratulate me.

  ‘Well done. You really deserve it, Sam!’ Becky gushes as she hugs me.

  ‘Nice one, Sam,’ Simon adds. ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘Thanks, guys,’ I reply, hugging them both.

  They’re still going strong. Becky finalised her divorce from Richard and she seems so much happier with Simon. They both kept their jobs at the Daily Post despite the takeover. In fact, Simon is now Assistant Royal Editor, working alongside Ella who came back from maternity leave. Simon and Becky can often be found in the office together, swooning over pictures of the royals.

  I sit back down at the table, next to Anders, who leans in to kiss me.

  ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he says.

  The host moves on to the next nominations, presenting the last few remaining awards to other nominees. By the end of the ceremony, the atmosphere in the room is jubilant and everyone is buzzing with excitement over the night’s proceedings. We order a few bottles of champagne and stick around to celebrate.

  Everyone’s chatting happily, sipping champagne and having a good time, when Anders suddenly stands up, tapping his fork against his champagne flute.

  Oh no! I shrink into my seat. He’s going to make a speech.

  ‘Everyone, I’d like to propose a toast to my amazing girlfriend, Sam.’ Anders looks at me tenderly.

  ‘Sam’s worked incredibly hard for the award she’s won tonight. In fact, I’ve never seen anyone quite so focused on improving the lives of others through their work. Journalism isn’t just a job for Sam, it’s a vocation. It’s what she does. She’s determined to show people what’s happening in the society and give voices to the most vulnerable and unheard individuals,’ Anders says. ‘She’s committed to helping others through her stories. They’ve opened the eyes of so many people, including myself. It’s inspirational. Cheers to Sam!’ Anders raises his glass and everyone clinks their glasses together in a toast.

  I smile, touched by his words. I can feel myself blushing and I expect Anders to sit down next to me now that he’s wrapped up his speech, but he stays standing up. I look up at him questioningly.

  ‘Sam’s passion for journalism and helping others is just one of the many reasons I love her. I love her kindness, her humility, her humour,’ Anders continues. He gazes at me with affection. His eyes are wet with emotion. ‘I love you, Sam.’

  ‘I love you too,’ I reply, feeling the sincerity of his words. I can feel myself getting a little teary too.

  ‘You’ve opened up my heart in a way no one has ever done before. Ever since I first met you in the lift at the Daily Post and thought ewe were sexy,’ Anders says with a wink, ‘I’ve been captivated by you. From kissing you in front of a body language expert at a bridal fair to watching you jump over a barrier in front of thousands of people at my brother’s wedding, you’ve always kept me on my toes. I love you and I can’t imagine ever being without you.’

  I gulp as Anders moves his chair and gets down on one knee. He takes a ring box from the inside of his jacket pocket.

  ‘Samantha Fischer,’ he says, opening the box to reveal a delicate sparkling diamond ring. He holds it between his fingers and takes my hand, looking up at me, his eyes full of love.

  ‘Samantha Fischer, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course! Of course, I will!’ I blub as tears of joy fall down my cheeks.

  Acknowledgements

  A huge thanks to my editor Charlotte Mursell for her incredibly insightful editorial suggestions and ideas, I could not have written this book without Charlotte’s genius input. I feel so lucky to work with such a fantastic editor.

  And a big thanks to my amazing mum, Janet Smart, for always being so supportive, patient and kind.

  Turn the page for an exclusive extract from Perfect Match, the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from Zoe May!

  Chapter One

  It might be date number 71, and perhaps I ought to have cut my losses by this point, but for some reason, I had a good feeling about tonight. Chris (or ‘Thundrill84’ as he was called on his Match.com profile) seemed like a genuinely great catch, so how did things end up going so horribly wrong?

  It’s not like I didn’t do my homework. I’m not a fool. I stopped going on dates without googling in advance a loooong time ago. I typed random combinations of words gleaned from our text conversations into the search bar (Chris, Senior Sales Manager, Durham University, Cloud Computing) until I hit the jackpot: his LinkedIn profile. He was legit! In fact, he was better than legit. I dis
covered a few extra details he hadn’t divulged that made me like him even more. Not only did he have a good job, but he’d been promoted every year and he was head of his company’s charity fundraising committee. And not only did he have a degree in Classical Civilisation from Durham University, but he’d got a first! And he looked exactly the same in his LinkedIn photo as he did on his dating profile – tall, slim and with lovely blue eyes! I really did believe my luck might finally be changing. 71st time lucky! But no, hah! As if. Chris, the seemingly great catch, is now sitting across from me in a dingy Chinatown restaurant droning on about the precise differences between ho fun, udon and ramen noodles, while slurping said noodles and splashing soy sauce all over his shirt.

  ‘You see, ho fun noodles are interesting, because while you may think that noodles, like pasta, are made from wheat, ho fun are actually made from rice flour!’ Chris enthuses.

  ‘Mm-hmm…’ I murmur, downing the dregs of my white wine. I place the empty glass back down with despair.

  ‘Udon and ramen, on the other hand, are wheat noodles – a bit more commonplace, but while they may both be wheat-based, the differences in the way they’re prepared affects their taste to a surprising degree. You see, udon are made using a technique of…’

  I peer over Chris’ shoulder while he drones on, hoping to catch the waitress’ eye to order another glass of wine, but she’s running around the restaurant tending to other customers. It occurs to me that perhaps I ought to start bringing a hip flask on dates for this kind of emergency: when a man is so boring that only alcohol-induced merriment can make him remotely tolerable. I wonder how much hip flasks cost. It might be quite cool and edgy to carry one around in my handbag. Maybe I’ll start a trend. It’ll become the next ironic fashion, like the wheeled shopping trolleys hipsters pull around in Hackney.

  Chris loudly slurps another noodle, tearing me out of my reverie, while leaving yet another streak of soy sauce on his once-white shirt. He looks like he’s been standing behind a truck that’s been attempting to reverse out of a muddy ditch. He carries on talking. He appears to have changed the subject to hobbies. Or more precisely, to weird nerdy games I thought were meant for children. I smile awkwardly and shovel my sweet and sour stir-fry into my mouth, as if by eating quicker, I can speed up the passage of time.

  ‘We meet up every Saturday morning. We used to get together at the gaming shop, but the atmosphere there got a bit too competitive so we meet in a pub now. We all bring along our army figurines and we battle for hours! Right into the evening sometimes. It’s great, although there’s this one guy who keeps beating me. It’s so annoying, but I’ve got a new addition to my army now – Grand Lord Thor – one of the toughest figures in the game. So, he’s in for a treat!’ Chris says with a loud cackle.

  Other diners are looking over at us, but Chris is oblivious. I smile tightly, shrinking into my seat.

  ‘You know, some women are a bit put off when I tell them I play battle games, but I don’t really see what’s so bad about it. It’s just a game. It’s just guys hanging out, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sorry, what?’ I pipe up.

  ‘Battle games! We each have an army of figurines, hand painted,’ Chris adds with pride. ‘And then we play battle against each other’s armies.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Some men meet to play football, I play battle games!’ Chris says before slurping up his last noodle. It splatters triumphantly on his cheek, leaving a murky brown trail.

  ‘Whoops!’ he chuckles, reaching for a napkin to wipe it off.

  I laugh. My first laugh of the evening. Chris smiles as if we’re having a moment. I don’t think he realises that my laughter is really just joyous relief emanating from deep within over the fact that he’s finished his meal and the date is almost over. I beckon over the waitress.

  ‘Dessert menu? Bill?’ she asks. Chris looks at me questioningly.

  ‘Bill!’ I yelp, a little too shrilly.

  ‘Okay…’ The waitress gives me a funny look before scurrying off to get the bill.

  She brings it over and Chris plonks his wallet on the table, while I rummage in my bag for my wallet.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Chris says.

  ‘No! Let’s go halves,’ I insist. ‘One sec.’ The last thing I need after the world’s most boring date is to feel like I owe this guy something just because he bought me dinner. Finally, I land upon my wallet amid a debris of stray receipts, blunted eye-liners and errant hair pins.

  ‘I’ve got this.’ Chris passes the waitress his card with a charming smile, as I flip my wallet open, pull mine out and thrust it towards her.

  ‘No! We’ll go fifty-fifty, please.’

  ‘Oh…’ The waitress looks to Chris, as if for permission.

  ‘That’s okay with you, isn’t it, Chris?’ I ask, giving him the most beaming smile I’ve delivered all night.

  ‘Err, okay,’ he relents.

  ‘Okay,’ the waitress echoes, taking another look at the bill and punching half the total into the card machine for Chris and then again for me. I try not to let my eyes bulge when I clock the figure – since when did Chinatown get so expensive? – and punch in my pin. Even though I’m a bit pissed off that I’ve had to pay an arm and a leg for the pleasure of listening to a lecture on noodle variations and battle games, I can feel my spirits begin to lift. The date is practically over! We leave the restaurant and start walking towards Leicester Square.

  ‘You know, it’s interesting…’ Chris muses, nodding to himself at some thought he’s had.

  ‘What’s interesting?’ I ask, immediately regretting the question.

  ‘Tube stations,’ he says. ‘People tend to think that they’re all roughly the same distance apart but they’re actually not. It’ll only take us a couple of minutes to walk to Leicester Square, but that’s because the tube stations around here are unusually close together. You’d be surprised to know that the distance between Leicester Square and Covent Garden is actually only a third of the distance between Victoria and Green Park.’

  ‘Mm-hmm…’ I quicken my pace. Maybe if we walk faster, we can get to Leicester Square in one minute, rather than two. Chris carries on talking about tube station geography as I pound the street with my heels. It feels like an hour has passed by the time we finally get there.

  ‘Thanks for a lovely evening,’ I mumble half-heartedly. It’s just one of those things you say, isn’t it?

  ‘I’ll text you,’ I add, edging towards the escalator.

  Chris looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Surprise? Cynicism? Dread? Perhaps the date was as bad for him as it was for me.

  ‘Okay, take care,’ he replies.

  He smiles politely and I smile politely and we politely go our separate ways.

  If you enjoyed How Not to Date a Prince, then why not try another feel-good romance from HQ Digital?

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