by Zoe May
‘I have to get to work!’ I repeat.
‘How long have you and Anders been dating?’ the annoying reporter asks, stepping in front of me again. I ignore her this time.
‘Can you please let me past?’ I huff at the photographers, who are still snapping away, but they don’t don’t budge.
‘Surely you have enough pictures by now?’ I sigh, but they won’t quit. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’
I turn to walk away, sighing exasperatedly as I head back down the steps of the entrance in an effort to slip around the side of the building and enter through one of the side doors, but the horde of photographers follows me. They’re like bees to honey, swarming around me as I move. I feel helpless. Fortunately, I look back towards the entrance and catch Al, peering curiously through the glass. I wave over at him and the moment he spots me, he comes out of the building and marches over, looking incensed on my behalf.
‘Leave her alone,’ he barks, glaring at the photographers. He takes my arm and pulls me away from the throng.
‘Thank you!’ I gasp as we hurry away.
‘Are you okay?’ Al asks as we head inside reception. He locks the doors.
‘I’m okay, I think,’ I comment, moving out of sight of the glass doors, where one of the photographers has now appeared.
‘Sit down.’ Al guides me to a chair. ‘Take a few deep breaths.’
I do what he says, forcing myself to breathe deeply even though my breath is shaky. I try to gather my thoughts, but I feel completely shaken. It was bad enough to learn that I’m front page news yesterday and have a whole day of social media commentary from thousands of people weighing in on everything from my looks to my job to my blog, before commenting on whether or not they find me eligible to date Prince Anders. Of course, nice people are generally the less active keyboard warriors and the majority of commentators found me a woefully inadequate match for Anders. It was horrible reading some of the things they posted and I don’t think I’ve ever felt as criticised or bullied in my life. It wasn’t all negative though. My mum called me from Dubai, jumping with joy that her daughter is dating a prince and asking whether she should buy a hat and all of my friends and everyone I’ve ever known suddenly seem to want the inside story. It’s been too much and I’d been looking forward to getting back to work and escaping to the relative normality of the office. The last thing I needed or expected was to be hounded by paparazzi.
‘What you need is a good cup of tea,’ Al says, giving my knee a friendly squeeze before heading off to the drinks machine.
I stand up and sneak a look at the glass doors. The photographer is still there and I quickly shrink out of sight. I can’t believe this. Two days ago, I was just a journalist wanting to ask a guy out and now I’m being hounded by the media because people think I’m dating a prince. I slump back down and force myself to take deep breaths. This isn’t me. I’m Sam. A fly-under-the-radar cute but geeky politics reporter. I haven’t even had sex for three years and now people think I’m some sexually charged, raunchy girl who snogs the face off princes in public. It’s too much.
Al comes back and presents me with a steaming plastic cup of tea. ‘Thanks, Al.’ I smile gratefully as I take it from him.
‘Couldn’t believe it when I opened the paper to see you in there,’ he comments, but he’s not joking around or prying. His eyes show concern and I can tell he’s not just interested in the juicy details. Al is one of the few people who didn’t contact me yesterday wanting gossip.
I explain what happened. ‘Now everyone, including Simon and Phil, thinks I dated Anders just for the story! Can you believe it?’
Al shakes his head. ‘You wouldn’t do a thing like that,’ he says.
‘Exactly! And Anders probably thinks I used him too,’ I sigh.
‘You need to talk to him,’ Al advises.
‘I can’t! We weren’t actually dating! I don’t have his number. I was going to go to his house yesterday but apparently he’s back in Norway,’ I tell Al, recalling articles about Anders landing in Oslo that were published online last night. ‘I can’t just call him and ask for a coffee. He’s a prince!’
‘Ask the royal family. You’re covering the royal wedding after all,’ Al comments.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I sigh. ‘I just figure that if they think I’m some kind of interloper, setting Anders up and fishing around for stories, then they might not be particularly willing to help me out.’
‘Maybe,’ Al muses. ‘How about The Chronicle? Even if he doesn’t work there, he has some connection to the paper. You could still ask them for his details?’
‘Hmmm… I guess so. It’s worth a try, I suppose. I don’t expect him to want to date me or anything, I just want to explain that I wasn’t using him.’
I think back to Anders making painstaking notes in his leather-bound notebook. It was a bit ridiculous how he pretended to be a reporter, but I can see why he did it. Collette and Anna were right, he got carried away. He enjoyed being someone else. I can forgive him for that, but he probably won’t forgive me if he thinks I used him, dragging him to a wedding fair and snogging his face off in front a photographer whose photos then appeared on the front page of my paper. No, he must really hate me right now.
‘Give it a shot, Sam. What have you got to lose?’ Al comments.
‘Yeah, you’re right. I will. Thanks, Al.’ I take a final sip of the tea and chuck the empty cup in the bin. ‘I’d better head up to the office. Thanks for rescuing me.’
‘Any time!’ Al jokes and I wave over my shoulder as I head over to the lifts.
I brace myself as I push open the door of the newsroom. I’m expecting to be hounded by my nosy colleagues, but, as I step inside, it’s eerily quiet. Everyone’s sitting at their desks silently working in seemingly intense concentration. The entire office has a hushed, serious feel, far removed from the usual hum of chit-chat, punctuated by loud phone calls and the occasional shouts that tend to fly across the newsroom. It takes me a minute to figure out what’s going on but then I look over towards Phil’s desk and spot him sitting next to Lionel from Regency News Group, the pair of them working in silence.
Simon looks over at me, a little nervously, as I approach my desk. ‘You’re still not happy with me, are you?’
‘No!’
‘Sorry, Sam,’ he grumbles. ‘But hey! Your job’s probably in the bag. Silver linings!’
‘Yeah and Anders probably hates me,’ I point out.
Simon shrugs. ‘Doesn’t really matter though, does it? I mean, you weren’t really dating.’
I sigh as I turn on my computer. ‘No, I guess we weren’t.’
‘Wait.’ Simon narrows his eyes at me. ‘Were you actually into him?’
‘Well, yeah, maybe I was,’ I admit.
‘Oh wow!’ Simon looks flummoxed. ‘You fell for a prince!’
‘I fell for him, I didn’t know he was a prince. Look, I’m sorry, Simon. I know you had feelings for me, but I just don’t feel the—’
‘Excuse me, Samantha?’ A man’s voice interrupts. I turn around to see Lionel standing by my desk.
I stand up to greet him. He’s tall, at least six-foot-five and incredibly imposing. His face is lined and tough, probably from years of heading up one of the world’s most powerful media companies. ‘Nice to meet you.’
We shake hands. Phil approaches behind.
‘Nice to meet you, too. Excellent work on the Prince Anders story,’ he says.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Very clever. Very crafty,’ he comments, with a conspiratorial smile.
‘Actually, it wasn’t quite like that. I er . . . ’ I look over Lionel’s shoulder to see Phil making a slashing motion across his neck.
‘It was excellent work. I can’t wait to see what happens next between you and the prince!’ Lionel adds, before turning to head back to his desk.
I watch him walk away. I’m a trained, experienced journalist, yet Lionel seems to think it’s my job to date my subject
matter and do what? Sell kiss-and-tell stories back to my own paper?
Phil steps forward, a tight smile on his face.
‘Phil, I didn’t snog Anders for the story. You know I’m not like that,’ I blurt out.
‘I know,’ he murmurs, looking a little guilty. ‘We’re under a lot of pressure, Sam. It was a great story.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You have to take me off it. I can’t write about this any more. I got papped outside for goodness’ sake!’
‘No can do,’ Phil grumbles. ‘Lionel’s calling the shots now, not me, and he loves that you’ve got the inside scoop.’
‘Oh God,’ I groan.
‘Don’t worry,’ Phil comments. ‘The wedding’s coming up in a couple of weeks, your cheeky snog with Prince Anders will be old news very soon.’
‘But Lionel wants updates?’
‘Well, don’t give them to him.’ Phil shrugs. ‘Your job’s already in the bag.’ He taps his nose and gives me a wink.
‘Okay,’ I sigh.
‘Just do your write-up of the wedding menu. Focus on that,’ Phil suggests.
‘Will do.’
‘Good,’ Phil comments before returning to his desk. I can tell he’s stressed out; I can see it in his knotted brow. He’s desperate to pull out all the stops to impress Lionel, but I’m still a bit pissed off that he decided to turn me into a story to do so.
I write up my wedding menu piece with quiet focus, like everyone else in the newsroom, and even though I’m still a bit frustrated, it feels good to be typing away at my desk. It almost feels like normality. Except lingering at the back of my mind is Al’s suggestion that I go and talk to The Chronicle to get Anders’ number and, at my break, I dash to the lifts and press the button for the eighth floor.
In all my time working at the Daily Post, I’ve never actually visited The Chronicle’s offices. As rival papers, we tend to keep our distance, not wanting to step on each other’s toes. But today, I get out of the lift at the eighth floor and cross the hallway to their newsroom, feeling a little nervous as I attempt to pull the door open, but, of course, it’s locked; I should have known. They’re a notoriously private newspaper after all. I knock a few times and a skinny guy in a green jumper opens it.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks, holding the door only half open as if he doesn’t quite want to let me in.
‘Um, I’m Samantha Fischer, I work at the Daily Post, I, er—’
‘Oh yes,’ the man nods. ‘I recognise you. You were in the paper yesterday,’ he says, sounding bored. I glance over his shoulder. If I’d thought our newsroom was quiet this morning, this one is even more hushed.
‘Right, well, contrary to reports, I’m actually not in a relationship with Anders. I don’t even have his contact details and I’d really like to talk to him. I know he has a connection to your paper and I was wondering if you could help.’
‘Do you give out the personal details of your contacts to strangers?’ the man asks me with a sneer.
‘No, but I’m not a stranger,’ I point out.
‘You just told me you weren’t in a relationship with Anders. You might not be a stranger, but I don’t know what your relationship with him is and I’m certainly not going to hand out his number!’
‘But, I really need to—’
‘Sorry.’ He shuts the door in my face. Rude bastard.
I get back in the lift and head up to the office. Great. So my one option for getting in touch with Anders appears to be a dead end. The only option I have left is to contact the royal family press office and I can’t see them offering up his digits in a hurry. Sighing, I head back into the newsroom. I expect the atmosphere to be as dead as it was before, but something appears to have happened. A few of the TVs have been turned up and reporters are gathered around. An attractive blonde is being interviewed by a presenter.
‘Yes, he and I have a history. We’re very close,’ the blonde woman is telling the presenter.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask Simon as I approach.
‘Oh . . . ’ He and half a dozen others suddenly turn to look at me, with awkward expressions on their faces.
‘She’s a Swedish socialite, Ingrid Karlsson, she’s claiming to erm . . . ’ Simon hesitates ‘ . . . be in a relationship with Anders.’
My heart sinks. ‘A relationship?’ I take in the woman’s artificially plumped lips and low-cut plunging dress. She looks showy and fake; she doesn’t look like the kind of person I’d imagine Anders to go for.
Simon nods. ‘She says they’re together and that they were going through a rough patch when he came to London but they’re very much in love.’
Very much in love. The words are like daggers to my soul. Very much in love! He didn’t seem like someone who was very much in love when he snogged my face off at the bridal fair, or when he gazed into my eyes for all those long, lingering looks. He didn’t seem very much in love when he flirted with me in the lift the first time we met or when he held me so close after I poured my heart out to him about the Phoenix Centre. He did seem in love at all. I look up at the screen.
‘Anders is a quiet man,’ Ingrid explains to the presenter. ‘He was obviously out of his depth in London and got swept up in whatever publicity stunt this journalist was pulling off. He can be like that. He sees the best in people. He probably trusted someone he shouldn’t have.’
I gawp. She’s not only making Anders out to be an idiot, which he definitely isn’t, but she’s making me out to be a sneaky bitch.
‘So, do you think you and Anders will be able to move past this, if the kiss was, as you say, a mistake?’ The presenter asks.
‘Oh yes.’ Ingrid nods. ‘Like I said, we’re deeply in love. Of course, I’m not happy about the kiss, but we’ll find a way to move past it.’
Move past it? So that’s it. I’m just a regrettable kiss, a mistake, a stunt Anders got swept up in. Great. Just great. I didn’t exactly expect to end up with him, but I could have sworn the spark between us was genuine. There was definitely chemistry, on both sides, and not just a little bit of chemistry, a lot of chemistry. That kiss was explosive. It was the best kiss. And we shared other moments too. Moments of intimacy and tenderness. I thought he felt something, but this Ingrid woman’s making out that it was nothing, as though he’s been in love with her the whole time.
I sink into my desk chair as the TV presenter thanks Ingrid for the interview and the news switches to a commercial break.
‘One of you has to write that up,’ Phil says, stopping by mine and Simon’s desks.
‘Are you kidding me?’ I huff.
‘I’ll do it,’ Simon insists.
‘Sure you don’t want to do a first person piece, Sam?’ Phil presses me. ‘A retaliation? Hit back at her?’
‘No!’ I snap. ‘I do not want to be the news any more, okay?’
‘Fine,’ Phil grumbles, shrinking back to his desk. I can feel my colleagues looking over, tittering and gossiping at their desks. It’s only because Lionel’s here and they’re tying to come across as diligent and work-focused that they’re not hounding me for gossip. I finish writing up my story about the wedding menu and try to tune out the melancholic sinking feeling of disappointment. I thought I’d fallen for someone. I thought my heart was softening to love. I was finally beginning to think that maybe romance wasn’t a myth after all. Could it really be that all the while my supposed love interest had a snooty Swedish girlfriend?
I send my article to the sub-editors, and instead of heading straight home, I decide to go and visit Angie. My desk is still covered in wedding freebies that the kids at the centre would love, and anyway, I need to get away from work and this whole situation. I need to get back to the stuff that really matters to me. Politics. Social issues. That’s my real home. Not romance.
I get my stuff together and turn my computer off.
‘Look, this will all blow over,’ Simon says, giving me a sympathetic look. ‘The royal wedding’s in a couple of weeks, we’re going to be focu
sing on Holly and Isaac in the run-up. Everyone will have forgotten about you and Anders by tomorrow. Life will go completely back to normal.’
‘Hopefully,’ I sigh. After all, he’s probably right. The wedding is fast-approaching and the news agenda will quickly move on from Anders, but the problem is whether I will. I grab a cardboard box that I’ve been filling with wedding freebies and shove a few more things in.
‘I’ve got to go.’ I pick up the box. ‘See you later.’
‘See you later,’ Simon replies.
I can tell he feels a bit guilty about the feature, but I don’t bother to reassure him. After all, he should feel guilty. He’s meant to be my assistant and he went and splashed my face all over the front page. I head downstairs and walk tentatively across reception, nervously approaching the front doors. Luckily there are no photographers in sight and I slip out unnoticed and keep my head down as I walk to the station. I flick through a couple of papers as I sit on the train, catching up on the news on the way to Bromley.
I get off and walk past the cheap fast food outlets, the betting shops and the cut-price supermarkets, towards the Phoenix Centre. The street is bleak, but the Phoenix Centre immediately catches my eye as I approach. The sign’s been fixed! It’s no longer missing a letter, the paint isn’t peeling and Angie’s opted for a pastel blue colour that’s brighter and more hopeful than the dark navy shade the sign was in before.
‘All right, love!’ Angie spots me the moment I arrive. Opening the door is a bit of a struggle, since I’m holding the cardboard box but she comes over to pull it wide open for me. I place the box down on a nearby table and Angie surprises me by pulling me into a big hug.
‘Sam! I’m so happy to see you!’ she says, her eyes sparkling. She’s always nice, but I’m not used to this enthusiastic a reception.
‘Oh! Thanks.’
‘You’re a lifesaver, honestly!’
‘Er . . . ’ I glance at the box full of wedding favours and trinkets. A lifesaver? I get that this stuff is quite cool, but isn’t that taking it a bit too far?
‘Yeah! You sly old minx you!’ Angie comments, nudging me.
