by Zoe May
I laugh as I make shorthand notes on my pad. My hand is shaking a little. Cameras are pointing at us and I’m feeling the pressure. I can’t afford to miss a word.
‘I know this is hard to believe,’ she comments in a hushed girl-to-girl voice as she takes a step closer, ‘but Isaac could be anyone and I’d still have fallen for him. It’s his heart that I love. His spirit. His smile. Prince or pauper, I love him. The essence of him.’
As I make the notes, I can feel that she means it. Her eyes are glassy with sincerity and emotion. I’ve interviewed enough people to know when someone’s spinning me a line, but she’s not, she’s being honest.
‘Thank you, Holly,’ I say as I make the final shorthand jotting.
‘Is that okay?’ she asks.
‘That’s brilliant,’ I insist. We both know how much this means. Even though she’s humble, she knows that letting me ask her questions is a big deal.
‘What made you stop by?’ I blurt out, without thinking.
‘I just wanted to say hi, you looked a bit down,’ Holly says, radiating kindness. And, in that moment, I feel like I’ve fallen just as much in love with her as every other person in the country.
‘Well, thanks! I appreciate it!’
‘Will you be coming to the wedding?’ she asks, as if I’m an old friend.
‘Yes, I will.’
‘Great. Well, see you there, Sam. My fellow Otley girl!’ She winks, before Isaac swoops by and whisks her away to greet all the other adoring fans. Holly waves over her shoulder and I wave back.
The next thing I know, Simon is by my side.
‘Oh my God, you just chatted to Holly! YOU just chatted to Holly!’
‘I know!’ I reply, feeling dazed.
‘Now do you believe they’re in love?’
I think of the look in Holly’s eyes when she spoke about Isaac. It’s definitely not a showmance.
‘Yeah, yeah I do.’
‘I told you!’ Simon says triumphantly.
‘Yeah, you were right,’ I laugh.
Chapter Twelve
‘I cannot actually believe you got to meet Holly!’ Collette enthuses, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. She squeezes my knee, so hard that it hurts.
‘Yeah! I met her!’ I pull her hand away.
‘What was she like? Tell me everything.’
‘I already have,’ I point out. I got back from work at least an hour ago and Collette and I have already made and eaten a stir-fry, during which I described the incident scene by scene.
‘No, but I mean, everything. Like, is her hair as good as it looks on TV? Or is it, like, obviously fake or something?’ Collette asks, wide eyed.
I think back to Holly’s hair. With the intensity of chatting to her and making sure I got her quotes down, I wasn’t actually focusing much on her hair, but it definitely didn’t strike me as obviously fake.
‘It’s just normal I think,’ I tell Collette. ‘But she does have pretty eyes, really pretty, and her skin is flawless.’
‘Just like it is on TV?’ Collette asks.
‘Yeah! The same. I guess she’s one of those girls that doesn’t really need touch-ups,’ I muse.
Collette smiles wistfully. ‘I can’t believe she came up and spoke to you. She’s just so sweet!’
‘I know! She actually was,’ I admit.
Phil couldn’t believe it when he found out I’d spoken to Holly. I wrote up the story, adding in her quotes and it went to print, to be published on the front page of tomorrow’s paper. Holly obviously realised she was doing me a huge favour when she opened up, especially since she knew I was a journalist who hadn’t already been vetted by the palace press officers. And hopefully her good turn might save my skin, especially since my job’s in crisis.
‘She just seemed kind,’ I tell Collette, reaching for one of the patchwork throws we keep in a basket by the sofa. I spread it over our legs.
Collette wrinkles her nose as she pulls the blanket across. ‘You seem surprised?’
She’s right, I am surprised. Maybe I’ve grown so jaded by the political game-playing of Westminster that I’m not used to encountering a person who’s just open and guileless. Someone without an agenda.
‘She was…different,’ I tell Collette.
Her eyes light up, wanting more. ‘Go on.’
‘She just seemed really in love.’
‘Why do you seem surprised?’ Collette asks.
I shrug. ‘I don’t know… I guess I’d just been feeling a bit cynical,’ I admit.
‘Yeah, well everyone else can tell they’re in love, Sam. That’s kind of why the nation’s gone crazy for them,’ Collette points out.
‘Suppose,’ I grumble. ‘I guess I had to see it for myself.’
‘God, you’re hard to please,’ Collette tuts. ‘You had to hear it from the dog’s mouth.’
‘Yep, straight from the source!’
‘Honestly!’ Collette tuts. ‘You journalists!’
‘Due diligence,’ I joke, before spotting a box of greetings cards by the radiator. I can’t quite make out the design from where I’m sitting but it appears to be a new one.
‘New card?’ I ask, glancing over.
‘Oh yeah.’ Collette reaches over and pulls one from the pack.
She hands me one. It has a drawing of a pizza slice with the caption, ‘You stole a pizza my heart’.
I laugh. ‘That’s cute,’ I comment. It reminds me of Anders, because even though it’s hard to admit it, he’s kind of stolen a pizza my heart too.
Collette eyes me warily. ‘What’s up?’ she asks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Normally you just laugh at my cards, which is fine, they are meant to be funny, but you just went all misty-eyed and weird.’
‘Oh, did I?’
‘Yeah!’ Collette looks me up and down. ‘I know what it is…You’re thinking about that guy, aren’t you? The one from the bakery.’
‘Ha! No!’ I insist, looking down.
‘You can’t lie to me! I know you! You’re thinking about him!’ She pokes me. ‘You’re into him.’
‘I’m not!’ I tell her, although that moment we shared when I was in his arms in the wedding dress, gazing up at him, our lips only inches apart, may have been replaying in my head one or two times. Okay, fine, like every spare minute.
‘You like him,’ Collette observes. ‘Oh my God, Samantha Fisher, amoeba extraordinaire has a crush on another lifeform!’
‘Shut up!’ I laugh, giving her a little shove.
‘But you do,’ she points out.
‘Okay fine,’ I sigh, throwing my hands up in surrender. ‘I might be slightly curious about him.’
‘Curious? Is that what you’re calling it?’ Collette scoffs. ‘You’re really into him. I can see it in the way you’re blushing and getting all awkward.’
‘I’m not!’ I insist, although I do feel a bit self-conscious all of a sudden. ‘I don’t even know him really.’
Except I feel like I do, in some ways. I know he reads politicians’ autobiographies for fun, like I do. And of course, we have the same job, but in other ways, I don’t really know him at all.
‘He’s super hot. You should definitely ask him out.’
‘No! He’s a journalist and we’re working on the same story. It would be unprofessional.’
‘Oh, really?’ Collette gives me a pointed look. ‘That’s not what you told me all those times you said I should ask Michael out.’
I shift in my seat. ‘Yeah, but that’s different. He’s in physics, you’re in biology. You’re not competitors. Anders and I are working on the same story, it would be so inappropriate for me to ask him out.’
Collette rolls her eyes. ‘This is what you do, Sam,’ she tuts. ‘You always find an excuse. The timing’s never quite right. The guy’s never quite right. Your work situation’s never quite right. There’s always a reason why you can’t date someone, but life’s short! And you haven’t gotten this smitten over
anyone for ages, do you really want to let him go? This story will be over eventually, but what if Anders has found someone else by then, do you really want to lose him?’
‘Urghh . . . ’ I groan. ‘No, I don’t want to lose him, but I can’t afford to get distracted right now. The Daily Post could be going under.’
‘Yeah, but one date’s not really going to change that. The Daily Post could go under, you could lose your job, but you could also get a boyfriend. Silver linings!’ Collette winks.
I roll my eyes. ‘You’re ridiculous! And anyway, you could also have a boyfriend, but you’ve avoided asking Michael out all this time too so maybe we’re both as bad as each other,’ I sigh, thinking of all the times Collette has come home from work telling me about Michael’s latest hilariously sarcastic quip (which always seem to be the kind of jokes you had to be there for). She’s adored the guy for months, yet she won’t take her own advice.
‘Okay, fine! I’ll ask Michael out if you ask Anders out,’ Collette suggests, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
I do really want to see Collette finally ask him out. It’s been years and, from the sounds of it, he’d be great for her, but a bargain? I hadn’t quite expected that.
‘Come on, you’re always telling me he’s perfect for me. And Anders seems pretty perfect for you too. What are we waiting for? I mean, what would Holly do?’
I think of Holly coming up to me, so friendly and unmasked. Collette’s right, a person like her would just follow her heart. She wouldn’t be a neurotic overthinking mess like me. Maybe I should be more like Holly.
‘Okay, fine,’ I relent.
‘When are you going to do it?’
‘There’s a bridal flower workshop tomorrow. I’ll ask him there.’
Collette claps her hands together. ‘Fantastic! Really?’
‘Yes, really! I’ll ask him out, but just for a coffee though.’
‘Perfect! A coffee date is fine. Very modern!’
‘Very modern,’ I scoff, shaking my head at her.
‘Can I come with you to the flower workshop? As work experience, and moral support obviously.’
‘Okay, but only if you promise not to smear anything on my face,’ I joke, thinking back to the mortifying ice cream sundae incident.
‘I won’t. I promise!’ Collette grins. ‘I can’t wait!’
‘Oh God!’ I grumble. I can’t quite believe I’m actually going to do this.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Collette, what is that?’ I raise an eyebrow as Collette pulls a pink ring-binder notebook and matching pen from her handbag as we arrive at the florist.
‘I’m work experience, remember?’ Collette tuts. ‘I thought I should look the part.’
‘With pink stationery?’
‘Yeah.’ Collette shrugs.
‘Right . . . ’ I trail off. Not only has Collette worn her smartest black coat, but she’s also donned a pair of fake nerdy glasses she bought cheap on eBay and wears occasionally to take cute snaps for social media.
‘Oh, and I brought this,’ she adds, pulling a cassette player from her bag. ‘It has a recording option. Found it the other day when I was doing a spring clean. We can use it for interviews.’
I eye the cassette player warily. I haven’t seen one like it for at least a decade, and I dread to think how embarrassing it would be if I attempted to do an interview with one of them now. People would think I’d lost the plot.
‘Collette, put that thing away. We’ll look like we just time-travelled from the Nineties!’
‘Or that we’re just cool and vintage?’ Collette suggests.
I laugh. ‘Cute tea dresses are cool and vintage, old Chanel handbags are cool and vintage, archaic brick-like cassette players are definitely not!’
‘Fine,’ Collette sighs, dropping it back into her bag.
‘Honestly,’ I tut, although I’m quite grateful that Collette’s cringeworthy work experience get-up is distracting me from the fluttery nervous feeling going on inside. My hands feel a little shaky at the prospect of seeing Anders and suggesting a date. I spent the whole of last night psyching myself up and I know that with Collette here as my work experience/wing woman, there’ll be no getting out of it; today is the day. The first day I’ll have asked someone out for years.
‘Oh God, I don’t know if I can do this!’ I admit as we linger outside.
‘Don’t be silly, he’s just a guy. And you’re just asking him out for a coffee. You’ve got this.’ Collette gives my arm a squeeze. ‘You’re a gorgeous, intelligent woman, if he doesn’t want to date you, he’s a fool.’
‘I guess . . . ’ I grumble.
‘Look, it’s win-win, okay?’ Collette peers at me over the top of her glasses. ‘If he does want to go on a date, great! Enjoy it. Have fun. If he doesn’t, then he has bad judgement and who wants to be into a guy with bad judgement? So really, it’s better that you find out either way, so you can either date him, or stop being into an idiot.’
‘True. I think those glasses have made you smarter,’ I joke.
‘See?’ Collette grins. ‘I knew they’d have the desired effect. Now if you’d only let me use the tape player . . . ’
‘No!’ I shriek as I push open the door and head inside.
The florist is based under an old converted bridge with exposed brick walls and a curved ceiling, crawling with ivy. The moment we step inside, we’re hit by the rich sweet scent of freshly cut flowers displayed in tall steel buckets: roses, tulips, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums, sweet peas, hyacinths and dozens of exotic blooms I don’t even know the names of. Journalists crowd around a huge wooden table in the centre of the room chatting away so excitedly that no one even notices us as we approach. I look around for Anders but every single person in the room is female. In fact, most of them are blonde and glamourous, the bridal press girls out in full force. I feel my heart sink a little, all of that build-up and he’s not even here!
‘Maybe he’s running late?’ Collette suggests.
‘Nah, he’s probably already been or something. He probably picked up a bridal bouquet this morning like he did at the cake shop.’
Collette pulls a face. ‘Well, we’re here now and how cool is this?’ she chirps and I have to admit, this place is pretty cool. It’s huge. It smells incredible and in every corner I look, there’s something beautiful to see.
We approach the table and a few of the girls look round, giving us a quick once-over. It’s pretty obvious we don’t quite fit in. Collette with her big nerdy glasses and fluffy stationery, and me in my trouser suit, definitely don’t quite fit the standard bridal journalist mold of blonde hair, frilly blouses and pencil skirts, worn with a spattering of pearls and diamonds. I realise that between Collette and myself, there’s not a single diamond or pearl in sight. We exchange awkward ‘hellos’ with the girls and join the throng around the table, which is covered with piles of flowers of all different varieties.
‘Hello, ladies.’ A woman bursts into the room, clutching a bunch of flowers. She’s even dressed like an exotic flower in flowing brightly-coloured linen clothes with a huge headband tied around her afro hair. She looks amazing.
‘I’m Tamara.’ She introduces herself. ‘Flowers are my life. I was born in South Africa, my dad was a gardener and my mum was a florist. I spent my childhood playing in the garden, connecting with the natural vegetation.’
Tamara talks us through her career trajectory, from being an apprentice to her mum, to moving to London with her husband and setting up her own small florist business, which has grown over the years to be one of the most respected florists in the country, sourcing the most unique and exotic blooms.
‘Now,’ Tamara says, ‘what do you think is the secret to the perfect bridal bouquet?’ Her eyes sparkle as she glances around the table at every one of us.
‘Roses,’ one of the girls suggest.
‘Well, yes,’ Tamara replies, ‘roses are wonderful, but it’s not roses.’
‘Lilies,’ a
nother girl with a shiny pearl necklace adds and a few of the others crack up.
‘Lilies are a symbol of death, Cecilia! Remind me not to come to your wedding!’ one of the girls jokes.
They all start snickering.
‘Chrysanthemums,’ another girl suggests.
‘Chrysanthemums?’ One of the girls, who’s rocking a huge diamond ring on her engagement finger, wrinkles her nose. ‘They’re more treat-yourself-at-Tesco-at-the-end-of-a-hard-day, they’re hardly wedding appropriate.’
‘Well, I don’t know!’ The girl rolls her eyes.
‘Hydrangeas?’ another girl suggests.
‘Hydrangeas are so gorgeous,’ one of the girls pipes up and everyone murmurs in agreement.
‘We placed them top of our “wedding flowers of the season” list,’ the girl with the massive diamond engagement ring adds.
‘So, did we!’ another girl says. ‘They are so hot right now. Everyone wants hydrangeas. I had them at my wedding. Imported from India. The best ones grow there.’
Everyone nods sagely.
‘Mexico does some amazing dahlia flowers though,’ one of the other girls pipes up.
‘Oh come on, dahlias are so last season. Can you imagine if Holly got married with a bouquet of dahlias?’ a girl with diamond studs sneers.
And everyone suddenly sniggers wickedly as if she’s just suggested the worst form of social suicide imaginable. I raise an eyebrow at Collette, who looks back wide-eyed and completely flummoxed.
‘I reckon it’s succulents,’ one of the girls suggests. ‘I read this feature in Your Best Wedding, the US edition, and they said that they’re going to be all the rage this year. I bet it’s those. They’re so rare. They only grow in deserts.’
‘I heard Elton John had some flown in from Morocco by private jet,’ another girl adds.
‘Yeah, they are, like, so exclusive!’ the girl with the headband says.
‘No, ladies, it’s none of the above,’ Tamara interjects. ‘In fact, it’s not even a flower.’
‘Not a flower?’ One of the girls balks.
‘Oh! I know!’ another shrieks. ‘It’s flower fuzz!’
