by Zoe May
Sly old minx?! Okay, now I really have no idea what she’s talking about.
‘What?’
‘Oh, come on!’ Angie tuts. ‘I’ve the seen the papers! Getting your boyfriend to donate to us! And you never said a word!’
‘My boyfriend?’
‘Yeah, a prince! I mean, wow!’ Angie raises her eyebrows, impressed.
‘Wait, Anders donated to you?’
Angie looks perplexed. ‘Yeah! He was the donor who saved us—The one who gave us a hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Oh my God . . . ’ I mutter. It was Anders! Anders saved the Phoenix Centre! After I told him all about it that day when I crashed into his car, he gave them £100,000, saving the centre from closure. My story must have really moved him.
‘You didn’t know?’ Angie realises.
‘No, I had no idea! Are you sure it was him? Anders?’
‘Of course, I’m sure! It’s not often I get six figure donations from princes!’
‘No, I guess not!’
‘He told me he wanted to stay anonymous, but I just assumed you knew since you two were together,’ Angie comments.
‘I can see why you thought that, but we’re not really together,’ I admit.
‘Really?’ Angie looks taken aback. She clearly hasn’t heard the latest update from Ingrid. I fill her in as we head into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
‘Oh, yeah I saw her on telly.’ Angie hands me a steaming up of tea. ‘But didn’t you see his reaction?’
‘Huh?’ I take the mug.
‘He was on the news denying everything. He said she’s nothing more than a family friend and that there’s nothing between them at all. He says it’s all made up.’
‘No way.’ I gawp. Ander’s must have hit back at Ingrid’s claims already, while I was on the train. ‘Did he comment on me?’
‘No,’ Angie comments. ‘But he didn’t deny it either, so I just assumed you two were dating but trying to keep it quiet.’
I sit down and try to get my head around this. So not only did Anders save the Phoenix Centre from closure but it’s possible he isn’t even with Ingrid and that she made it all up. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a socialite makes up a story to get into the news. And, if I’m totally honest, the Ingrid thing never felt quite right. I may not be the most optimistic person when it comes to love, but I struggled to believe that Anders would have led me on like that.
‘Are you okay, Sam?’ Angie settles down opposite me at the kitchen table and sips her tea.
‘Yeah, I just wish I could talk to him. I need to just have it out and clear the air, but I don’t even have his number or anything.’
‘You don’t?’ Angie looks surprised.
‘Nope.’ I explain the situation and how I thought Anders was a reporter, describing how we kept running into each other at events but that I never got his contact details.
A thought hits me. ‘Wait, do you have his number? From when he gave you the donation.’
Angie shakes her head. ‘No, it was all done through the palace. Private numbers. It was very discreet.’
‘Damn,’ I sigh.
‘Sorry, love,’ Angie murmurs, taking a sip of her tea.
‘It’s okay.’
‘You really need to speak to him and just tell him how you feel,’ Angie insists. ‘Life’s too short and you clearly care about him.’
‘I know,’ I sigh. ‘You’re right. There’s only one place I know I’m definitely going to see him.’
‘Where’s that?’ Angie asks, her eyes lighting up.
‘The royal wedding.’
Chapter Nineteen
The next couple of weeks are mercifully drama free. Simon was right, the story about me and Anders did rapidly become old news in the run-up to the royal wedding. Photographers stopped showing up outside work to take my picture and I kept my head down, working hard and trying to keep on top of all the wedding coverage with the kind of focus and diligence that all my colleagues were still exercising in a bid to impress Lionel. With Anders in Norway, I knew I wouldn’t run into him at events and although they may have become a little less exciting as a result, I went along, wrote up my stories and even got to know a few of the other bridal press girls, who are actually quite sweet.
Time flew by and now I’m here, in Norway, sitting on the bed in my hotel room, putting the finishing touches to the letter I wrote Anders. Yes, that’s right. I wrote him a letter. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and wrote a handwritten letter but that’s what I decided to do. I wanted to explain how I didn’t set him up and that the whole time I knew him, I genuinely had no idea who he really was. I wanted to tell him how his willingness to mislead me about his identity hurt, but that I’m willing to move past it, because he’s the only guy I’ve felt a spark for in years.
I fold the letter, put it in an envelope and slip it into my clutch, before getting ready for the wedding. I know I’m not technically invited but Becky, Simon and I decided to dress up anyway. After all, it’s not often we get to report on weddings like this. Plus, I have an ulterior motive for looking my best since I’m hoping to see Anders. I treated myself to a new dress – a midnight blue silk A-line number – and I borrowed the crystal-embellished Cinderella shoes from the office. They were just sitting there and since they were in my size, I figured, why not? I even bought myself some new make-up, inspired by my makeover with Rachel and I paint my face with painstaking precision, before putting on the dress and adding a necklace.
My phone starts ringing. It’s Simon.
‘Hey, we’re ready. We’re waiting in reception.’
‘Okay, coming!’
I hang up and put on my Cinderella shoes. They’re the perfect finishing touch to my outfit. In fact, they steal the show. They’re the daintiest, prettiest shoes and it’s kind of cool to know that I’m wearing the same shoes Holly will be wearing. After all this time reporting on the royal wedding, it makes me feel like I have a small connection to the bride. I grab my clutch and take one last look in the mirror. I look nice and, even though I’m nervous, I remind myself that I can do this. I have to do this, because Anders is special and even if he doesn’t want anything to do with me, even if he’s madly in love with Ingrid, I still don’t want him thinking that I played him.
I lock my hotel room and head down to reception, where Becky and Simon are sitting by a water feature in the foyer, chatting. Simon scrubs up surprisingly well. He’s tamed his messy hair and he’s wearing a sharp navy suit with a cream shirt. He’s even pinned a floral corsage into his chest pocket. Becky looks gorgeous in a pretty pink dress with beading around the neck and perfectly styled hair, but then I’d expect nothing less from her.
‘So, excited, guys?’ I ask as I approach.
They look up.
‘Totally!’ Becky enthuses. Her eyes roam over my outfit. ‘Oh, my gosh, I love your dress and the shoes! Those are the Holly ones, aren’t they?’
‘They are indeed!’ I reply, grinning.
‘Oh wow, Sam! They look amazing!’ Becky enthuses.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, sitting down. ‘You two look sharp!’
‘Excuse me,’ the receptionist says, summoning our attention. ‘Your taxi has arrived.’
We thank her and head outside. It’s a crisp sunny day – the perfect weather for the royal wedding. A taxi waits for us, its engine purring. We get inside and begin making the journey to Kongelig Palace. I gaze out of the window at the shops, restaurants, office blocks and hotels that make up the city, which gradually peter out as we drive towards the countryside. We drive down roads cutting through lush green hillside covered in scrub and fir trees, passing vast still fjords and horses grazing in fields. In the distance, I can just about make out the tips of snow-capped mountains, their peaks grazing the clouds. It’s stunning. It’s worlds away from London, the office and the Phoenix Centre, and it’s like a balm to my soul, making me feel calmer on a spiritual level, despite the daunting prospect of what I�
��m about to do.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ I look over my shoulder at Becky and Simon, who are sitting on the back seat. Simon’s hand is resting on Becky’s thigh. I raise an eyebrow. He quickly pulls his hand away but it’s too late.
‘Er, what’s going on guys?’
They exchange a pained look, as if neither of them wants to answer my question. Eventually, Becky breaks the silence.
‘We got together last night,’ she admits, looking awkwardly down at her hands, folded in her lap.
‘You got together?’ I gawp.
Becky nods.
‘But you’re married!’ I point out, unimpressed.
‘Only technically,’ Becky says.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, although I’m suddenly thinking back to that weird comment she made when she tried on the wedding dress from Alicia, when she insisted that Richard wouldn’t be impressed by seeing her in it.
‘Things haven’t been going so well with Richard,’ she admits. ‘We’re still living together but there’s nothing there. We’re over. I was going to tell you, but you know what I’m like. Sometimes I just fret over stuff. I kept turning it over and over in my mind, hoping things would get better between us. I felt like if I admitted to other people how bad things were, it would make it real, so I just kept it all to myself. But that didn’t help. Then Simon came along and we totally clicked. I just knew I didn’t have feelings for Richard any more.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Becks.’ I reach over and give her knee a squeeze.
‘I’m okay,’ she insists. ‘Honestly. It’s for the best. It’s been hard, but I feel a lot better about things now.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really.’ Becky reaches over and takes Simon’s hand, lacing her fingers through his. They smile sweetly at each other. She does seem content and relaxed. It feels as though a few things are beginning to make sense. Perhaps Becky’s marriage going wrong is the reason she gets anxious and neurotic at work so much. Another thought hits me.
‘Oh my God . . . ’ I murmur.
‘What?’
I turn to Simon. ‘That email wasn’t about me, was it?’
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, Sam! ’Fraid not!’
‘Oh my God, why didn’t you say?’
Becky looks confused. ‘What email?’
I explain to her.
‘If I told you it wasn’t about you, I’d have to tell you who it was about and me and Becky were only just getting to know each other so I didn’t want to do that,’ Simon comments.
‘That makes sense,’ I reason. ‘Although I feel pretty embarrassed now. All this time, I’ve been assuming you fancied me and you never put me straight!’
‘Well, it was kind of funny,’ Simon laughs.
‘Honestly!’ I tut, shaking my head. ‘So, this isn’t just a “what happens in Norway, stays in Norway” kind of thing then?’
They exchange a look and both of them shake their heads.
‘No, it’s not,’ Simon insists.
Becky gives his hand a squeeze. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Wow, well congratulations! Love is truly in the air then!’
‘Yeah, I guess so!’ Becky says.
My phone buzzes with a text from Phil.
Have a good day. Enjoy yourselves. You’ve worked hard.
‘Phil has really changed his tune,’ I comment, before reading out the text. When I was a junior reporter out on a story, the kind of texts Phil sent me would read ‘Tick tock, tick tock’, in his bid to get me to file my copy on time, and now it’s, ‘Enjoy yourselves’.
‘Well yeah, there’s half a dozen reporters covering the wedding from the office. We just have to add a few observations from the ground,’ Simon reminds me.
‘You make it sound like a war zone,’ I quip.
Becky’s face suddenly flushes with concern. ‘Oh Sam, I forgot! I’ve been so wrapped up in Simon that I totally forgot!’
‘What?’ I frown at her.
‘I forgot how difficult this must be for you. I mean, I know it’s work but are you okay? Weddings are war zones to you! Isn’t this the first one you’ve been to since Ajay?’
‘Yeah.’ I nod. It’s true, I have been avoiding weddings ever since The Day That Shall Not Be Named, but Ajay could not be further from my thoughts right now. My disaster of a wedding day feels like it was a million years ago and I’m not even remotely upset by the prospect of a wedding.
‘Honestly, Becks, I feel absolutely fine.’
‘Really?’ Becky looks perplexed.
‘Yeah, really.’
‘Okay! It’s just you seem a little tense, that’s all.’
‘I’m fine, really.’
I’m sure Becky’s probably mistaken my nervousness over confronting Anders at the wedding for anxiety about weddings in general, but I’ll explain everything to her later when Simon’s not around. With the takeover at work and the royal wedding to focus on, Becky and I have barely had a chance to catch up. She found it hilarious that I snogged Anders, but I think she’s assumed the whole thing has just blown over; she has no idea I’m planning to confront him.
The taxi slows down, joining a queue of traffic.
‘Are we far?’ I ask.
The driver points ahead. ‘It’s about half a mile away,’ he says.
We sit in the traffic for a while, and just at the point that we’re getting restless, the car turns around a bend in the road and the palace comes into view, emerging from the hillside like a mirage. It’s beautiful, just like the pictures. A medieval castle with spires soaring towards the sky and, in the distance, a shimmering fjord of the deepest blue. The land around it is swarming with people – royal wedding enthusiasts eager to get a sighting of the couple. As we get closer, we pass groups of people heading towards the palace, waving Norwegian and British flags and celebrating the union.
The taxi grounds to a halt, the traffic unmoving.
‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to take you much further,’ the driver says in perfect English, although everyone seems to have perfect English here.
‘That’s okay, we’ll walk,’ Simon comments, reaching into his wallet for cash.
We thank the driver and get out of the cab, joining the throng of people heading towards the palace. The atmosphere is charged with excitement, the kind of enthusiastic buzz you get ahead of a festival, when festival-goers make their way to the venue, drinking and celebrating and high on anticipation. Most people are wearing normal clothes, but some, like us, have got dressed up as though they’ve been personally invited to the wedding. We wade through the bustling streets, getting closer and closer to the palace. The closer we get, the more magnificent it looks. The photos that were sent with the press release hadn’t been photoshopped to make it look good, it simply is stunning. The palace really is made from shimmering gold stone that glitters in the sun. The fir trees really are an exquisite shade of emerald green and blackbirds happen to be flying between the spires, just like they were in the photo. It’s otherworldly and we’re all a little awed as we approach.
Simon checks his phone and follows the directions he downloaded earlier about the location of a press room. We find it tucked away behind some trees – a boring marquee manned by a security guard who we flash our press passes at. It’s dead inside and appears to have nothing more to offer than a fast Wi-Fi connection and free tea and coffee, judging by the spattering of journalists sitting in front of their laptops sipping from plastic cups. There’s a quiet competitive hush that’s completely different to the buzzing fun atmosphere outside.
‘Eughh,’ Simon grumbles, glancing around. ‘Can someone please open a bottle of champagne? What the hell?’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Becky suggests.
‘Agreed,’ I reply, and we head back out onto the street, where the party atmosphere is in full swing.
An older lady wearing a jumper emblazoned with the Norwegian flag thrusts a plastic flute of champagne into my hand and someo
ne drapes some bunting around Simon and Becky’s necks. I take the glass, thanking her. As we head down the street, I can’t help noticing the adorable way Simon and Becky keep glancing at each other, clearly swept up in the romantic, happy vibes of the day. It’s hard not to be. Everyone’s smiling. The scenery is incredible. It’s going to be the wedding to end all weddings and we’re right here, in the thick of it.
As we get closer to the palace, Simon begins waving his press pass around in an effort to part the crowds.
‘Simon Chamberlaine, press,’ he says in a deep authoritative voice, which causes me and Becky to smirk, but also has the desired effect of making people step aside for us, and within minutes, we’re right at the front of the barrier, just metres from the palace.
‘Holy shit!’ I utter, glancing down the barrier at all the people waving flags and bristling with excitement. I look behind us at the hundreds – thousands – of people who’ve shown up for today. The crowd is huge and the atmosphere’s electric. Dozens of cameramen are crowded next to the entrance, poised to shoot the action.
‘When’s Holly arriving?’ I ask a woman nearby.
‘She shouldn’t be long,’ she answers in a thick Norwegian accent. ‘Most of the guests are already inside.’
‘Oh, right,’ I reply, my heart sinking a little. If most of the guests are already inside that could mean that Anders is too, in which case I’ll have to wait until after the ceremony to see him.
I chat to the woman a bit longer while a few more guests arrive. There’s no one I recognise and I figure they must be distant Norwegian royals or national celebrities. The flow of guests eventually dwindles. Huge screens overlooking the crowd show live footage from the inside of the chapel. My heart skips a beat as I gaze up at one of them, eager to catch sight of Anders. The chapel is stunning, with tall stone pillars, a soaring ceiling and arched stained-glass windows. Guests sit waiting for the royal couple to arrive. The camera pans across the chapel. The pulpit is flanked by huge white candles surrounded by stunning flower arrangements, organised by Tamara of course. Then, suddenly, the camera zooms in on the Norwegian royals and famous guests, catching them chatting in an anticipatory hum. They’re wearing their finest clothes, the women in pretty dresses, dazzling jewellery and wide-brimmed wedding hats, the men in their smartest suits.
