by Zoe May
‘Oh my gosh, doesn’t Victoria look amazing?’ Becky says, referring to a famous pop star known to be a close friend of Holly’s who’s wearing a decadent wedding hat. Becky writes some notes on her phone. ‘Hat by Givenchy,’ she types, clearly preparing notes for a summary later.
A black car approaches and everyone cheers, with people in the crowd claiming Prince Isaac and Anders are inside. My heart skips a beat. Oh my God! He’s here! The car pulls up in front of the chapel and Prince Isaac steps out to a rapturous cheer. He waves at the crowd and everyone goes wild. He’s wearing a red sash over his groomsman suit, which is embellished with insignia, and he looks every inch the handsome royal prince. Anders gets out of the car after his brother, ready to usher him down the aisle. My heart feels fluttery as I take him in. He looks shy and a little stiffer than Isaac as he waves at the crowd, clearly not as comfortable under the media glare. The crowd cheers. I’m only metres away from him and I cheer too, but he doesn’t see me. His eyes swoop across the crowd, but they skip right past me and my heart sinks a little. There are hundreds, thousands of people here. How can I get him to notice me? He walks with Isaac into the chapel. I gaze up at the screens, watching the cameras follow him and Isaac as they begin walking down the aisle towards the pulpit where Isaac will wait for his bride. It’s strange to think, as I watch Anders pacing alongside his world-famous brother, that only a few weeks ago, I was kissing him and now here he is, being broadcast to the world.
Next, the parents of the bride and groom arrive. Of course, the king and queen appear at ease with the attention of the world’s media but Holly’s mum seems a little nervous. She keeps touching her dress, flattening out imaginary creases and glancing around – at the crowd, the palace, the cameras – as though she can’t quite take everything in. They head into the chapel and assume their positions at the front of the congregation. The crowd is now buzzing with anticipation for the next arrival: Holly. And after a little wait, another shiny black car makes its way towards the chapel and everyone cheers rapturously, waving British and Norwegian flags as it passes. Here she comes. Holly Greene – a once regular girl from Otley in Leeds, who is now marrying a prince. I squeeze Becky’s hand; I’m genuinely excited. I think back to when I met her; she really was lovely and now she’s marrying the brother of the man I adore. Becky squeezes my hand back and Simon cheers loudly as the car approaches. We’ve all been building up to this for weeks and the big moment is finally here.
The car approaches the front of the chapel and everyone whoops – the loudest and most enthusiastic cheer of the day as the vehicle draws to a halt and Holly steps delicately out. She looks stunning. Her dress is exquisite and the beading glitters in the sunshine. A veil covers her face and she holds her bouquet, which is even more beautiful than the one Tamara showed us.
‘Oh my God! She looks incredible,’ Becky sighs dreamily.
She waves at the crowd, smiling warmly, and everyone goes wild. She turns to head into the chapel, her long lace trail held by her bridesmaids, who have flooded out of a few more cars following her own. Her father holds her hand, guiding her into the chapel, ready to give her away. Everyone in the crowd looks up at the screens, watching Holly as she walks down the aisle towards Isaac. She looks emotional and it’s hard to believe that this pair have the world’s media watching them right now, because it really does seem like they’re in their own little bubble, only having eyes for each other. They gaze lovingly at one another and immediately hold hands the second Holly reaches the front of the church. Prince Isaac whispers something in her ear and she smiles.
The priest begins the ceremony. Holly and Isaac suddenly seem incredibly earnest, cowed by the seriousness of the commitment they’re about to make. Isaac delivers his vows with true tenderness and affection and gazes lovingly at his bride as she slides a wedding ring onto his ring finger. Holly chokes up as she gives her vows, pausing for a second before she says, ‘I do.’ As she utters the words, a tear of joy to falls down her cheek, causing a long sigh of ‘ahhhh’ to ripple across the crowd. Die-hard royal fans are weeping with joy. I glance over at Simon and Becky, who are huddled close, completely smitten. Simon kisses the top of Becky’s head as she flicks a tear from her eye. Love is all around us and even I feel close to tears. Holly and Isaac may be the most famous couple in the world right now, but there’s love between them. Real palpable powerful love.
Eventually they come back out of the chapel – man and wife – and wave at the crowd. Everyone cheers. Cameras flash. Holly’s bridesmaids hold her trail as they make their way towards the ballroom of the palace. The ceremony is over and the crowd is jubilant. Everyone is talking, buzzing, in awe of what they’ve just witnessed, but I keep my eyes fixed on the chapel doors, waiting for Anders to come out. I pray that he’ll come out. After all, he might just slip through a side door and then he’ll be forever out of my reach. But finally, after a tense wait, he emerges. He comes out of the chapel and there he is, just metres away from me.
‘Anders!’ I shout, but my voice gets lost amid the loud rowdy crowd and he doesn’t notice me. He’s smiling politely at the cameras, but he still looks a little self-conscious and tense, and it’s clear he’s keen to get past the cameramen and cheering throng of people as quickly as possible. I should have known he was hardly likely to hang about.
‘Anders!’ I shout even louder.
‘Sam, what on earth are you doing?’ Becky hisses at me.
I shoot her a desperate look. Yes, I might look a little deranged, leaning over the rail, screaming out Anders’ name, but it’s not exactly like I can explain right now. Soon he’ll be inside another part of the palace, completely unreachable.
‘Give me a leg up,’ I tell Becky, as I desperately try to lean over the rail to get closer to him.
‘Anders! Anders!’ I cry, but it’s as if there’s a blind spot in his vision to where I’m standing. Every time his eyes swoop over the crowd, he doesn’t seem to register me.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ I sigh, after the ninth or tenth time I’ve called out his name. Becky’s looking at me like I’ve lost the plot.
‘Give me a leg up, Simon!’ I turn to Simon, who’s been busy chatting to a group of hardcore royal wedding enthusiasts.
‘A leg up?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘Yes! A leg up! Quick!’
I attempt to scramble over the barrier but it’s tall and ridiculously sturdy. I know what I’m doing is a little out there, but this could be my only opportunity to tell Anders how I feel and it’s really not an opportunity I want to miss.
‘Sam, what the hell are you doing?’ Simon exchanges a look with Becky and watches me like I’m a madwoman as I attempt to heave myself over the barrier.
‘Just please help me,’ I implore him, giving him a desperate look.
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes!’ I insist. ‘Give me a leg up, for crying out loud!’
‘Okay, fine,’ he relents, lacing his fingers together to form a foothold.
I lower my foot into Simon’s grip and hold on to the top of the barrier, and, within seconds, I’ve managed to scramble over. It’s not often I jump barriers, but with Simon’s help I manage it, even though it wasn’t exactly ladylike and I’m fairly sure I managed to flash my knickers in the process. Nevertheless, Anders is now only about twenty feet away from me and there are no barriers between us – literal or metaphorical!
‘Anders! Anders!’ I shout and finally – finally! – he turns to look at me, but his expression isn’t quite what I’d hoped for. Not that I’m sure I knew what I’d been hoping for. I mean, he was hardly going to greet me with tenderness and warmth after everything that’s happened, but I didn’t quite expect the expression of shock and horror plastered over his face.
‘Anders!’ I cry out, running towards him in my ridiculous crystal stiletto shoes.
His eyes widen in alarm, and I can’t deny it, I’m disappointed. I know he thinks I misled him and used my journalistic wiles to s
tage a kiss, but has he not considered the possibility that perhaps that wasn’t the case? Has he not mellowed at all over the past few weeks? Instead, his face is plastered with alarm. I mean, is that all I get? Especially on a day like today when love is literally all around us.
‘Anders!’ I hobble a little closer, but now he’s not even looking at me, he’s looking over my shoulder. Is he for real? I jump a barrier, I make amends to talk to him and now he’s not even looking at me at all!
Suddenly, I feel a tight grip on my arm and I turn around to see a policeman dressed in full protective gear with an enormous gun at his hip. His eyes are blazing with anger and his grip on my arm is so tight that it hurts.
‘Ouch!’ I attempt to pull my arm free, but he tightens his grip.
‘Can you get off me, please?’
‘Come on,’ he barks, attempting to tug me towards the side of the barrier.
‘What are you doing?’ I gasp. ‘I just need to talk to Anders.’
I wrestle free and run up to Anders. ‘Please,’ I pant, ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Sam, no. What are you doing?’ Anders eyes me like I’m crazy.
‘I couldn’t get through to you! I never set you up. I’d never do that. I didn’t know who you were. I promise.’
‘Sure.’ Anders rolls his eyes.
‘I didn’t!’ I insist. ‘I’m a politics reporter. I don’t know all the royals; I’d never even heard of you. I just really liked you.’ I eye him imploringly.
‘That’s unlikely, Sam. We kiss and the very next day, it’s on the front page. If you’d wanted to kiss me, why didn’t you do it away from cameras?’
‘It just happened! I didn’t plan any of it. I promise.’
‘This way!’ The policeman grabs my arm and tries to pull me aside.
‘Wait!’ I snap at him, reaching into my clutch to retrieve the letter I wrote Anders earlier. ‘Please, just read this okay?’ I press it into his hand.
Anders takes the letter and eyes it warily.
‘Come on now,’ the policeman says, tightening his steel grip on my arm.
‘Ouch!’ I wince.
The officer shoots me a raging look, before yanking at my arm and pulling me to the side of the barrier, away from Anders. I consider protesting more but his gun has put me off. I look over at Anders as the policeman pulls me away. He’s standing, stuck to the spot, holding my letter, his handsome face twisting in shock. He’s not even trying to help or intervene, even though this horrible policeman is still yanking me away by the arm.
As if the situation couldn’t get any worse, Ingrid Karlsson approaches him. She’s wearing an absolutely stunning floor-length emerald gown with a huge diamond necklace. She slips her arm under Anders’s and plants a kiss on his cheek. She looks over at me and laughs, then whispers something to him. I gawp at them. I thought he told the press she was just an attention-seeker and that there was nothing between them?
The policeman pulls me away as I balk at Anders. How could he have gone for someone like her? And so soon after me? Was he lying to me all along? Was he ever interested in me at all, or was I just a joke to him? A flight of fancy. A way of humbly mixing with the real people of London.
The policeman tugs at my arm so hard that it feels as though the skin might actually tear.
‘Get off me!’ I bark. ‘I’m journalist for God’s sake.’
He looks at me blankly.
‘I’m Samantha Fischer. Don’t you know who I am?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘No, I don’t know who you are. And if you don’t cooperate with me for one more second, I’m going to arrest you.’
‘Arrest me?’ I scoff. ‘What are you talking about?’ I look over towards Anders, but he’s leaning in to say something to Ingrid.
‘Anders!’ I shout one more time.
‘Right, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ the policeman huffs, and the next thing I know, he’s whipping a pair of handcuffs from the side of his belt and twisting my arms behind my back.
‘Get off me! I’m a journalist! You can’t arrest me!’ I cry out, as the cold metal presses against my wrists.
‘Actually, I can,’ he says, leading me towards an exit at the side of the barrier. As he pulls me, one of my stilettos falls off.
‘Wait! My shoe!’ I cry out, but the policeman ignores me.
I try to wriggle my arms free in an attempt to turn and grab it but I can’t. I can’t move my arms. I’m cuffed. I’m well and truly cuffed.
‘You arrested me. You bastard! How could you!’ I hiss at the policeman, who ignores me.
Cameras suddenly start flashing as he tugs me through the barrier exit towards a police car. I look over my shoulder to see which celebrity’s being photographed now, but there’s no one, just Anders and Ingrid, who’ve already been snapped, and then I realise. The photographers aren’t photographing a celebrity, they’re photographing me.
Chapter Twenty
This is a joke.
I’m sitting on a cold metal bench in a windowless police cell next to a bearded guy with staring eyes and a nervous twitch and a sullen goth in a Marylin Manson T-shirt. The bearded guy keeps looking over at me but whenever I catch him, his arm twitches and he looks away. And the goth keeps glaring into space as though neither of us are here and this isn’t happening at all, which is probably a fairly good strategy.
I decide to ignore the lingering stares of the bearded bloke and make a concerted effort not to focus on the rank smell of wee in the cell. I decide instead to adopt the blank grim attitude of the goth by fixing my attention at a cracked spot on the cell wall. Maybe if I concentrate on this crack for long enough, it’ll become almost meditative. Transcendental. Mind over matter. Maybe I can discover an inner strength and rise above this mind-bendingly awful situation.
I focus on the crack, but my thoughts start to wander. I cannot believe that Simon and Becky are still at Kongelig Palace having a good time, while I’m sitting here, barefoot in a dark cell, my one remaining shoe on my lap, with a creepy guy and a Marylin Manson wannabe. Is this some kind of sick joke? I mean really? Is there a God somewhere who is just having a laugh at my expense? I glance towards the ceiling of the cell, towards heaven.
‘So funny!’ I scoff at the forces above. The goth looks over and frowns, finally registering my presence. I look away, embarrassed.
It’s not often I’m driven to talking to myself, but I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I got arrested of all people. Me?! It’s ridiculous! I’m a journalist who’s been writing about the royal wedding for months and here I am, cooped up in a cell on the big day.
I sigh, focusing on the crack on the wall. This royal wedding assignment has been nothing but trouble. I was plodding along quite nicely before, but ever since Phil forced me to cover it, everything’s gone wrong. From crashing my car and falling for Anders to scaling a barrier and ending up here, arrested in a rotten old cell. This is the reason I’ve avoided romance for so long, because it complicates everything. Everything! And I clearly can’t handle it. I mean, what was I thinking when I jumped the barrier anyway?! The whole thing is a mess. Even my career, which I thought had been saved, is probably now in tatters since I doubt Lionel’s going to be particularly impressed by the fact that I got arrested on the job. Or, worse, if the photographs taken by the press photographers outside the palace end up getting published, then just when I thought I’d managed to get out of the papers, I’ll be back in print, except this time in an infinitely more embarrassing way than before. God knows why I decided to scream, ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ before announcing my full name.
‘Idiot. Absolute idiot,’ I mutter under my breath.
The goth doesn’t look round this time. He’s clearly written me off as a mumbling madwoman. I glance over at the bearded guy, who quickly looks away. His arm twitches.
Suddenly the sound of a police officer’s heavy footsteps thud down the corridor and an officer pushes the door of our cell open and shoves another person
in. Great. Our latest cellmate is a lanky bloke in shorts and a T-shirt with a print of the Queen’s face depicted as a skull in a crown and the slogan, ‘God Save the Queen’. He reeks of alcohol.
‘Oi, oi!’ He staggers into the room. ‘Pleased to meet ya!’ he says to no one in particular.
The officer slams the door behind us, locking it. The man collapses onto the bench and appraises his surroundings.
‘Could’ve done a bit more with the place, couldn’t they?’ he jokes. An English criminal, just like myself. Either the officer is shoving us Brits in together on purpose or we’re surprisingly troublesome.
The goth ignores him, the bearded guy twitches and I force a weak smile.
‘Cheer up, love,’ he says, eyeing me.
‘I’m fine,’ I mumble. Even though I’d rather be anywhere other than in this cell, which now reeks not only of urine but of alcohol and sweat.
‘Come on, it can’t be that bad?’ he says.
I look him straight on, taking in his bleary eyes and sunburnt skin. ‘Are you serious? If you hadn’t noticed, I’ve just been arrested? As have you.’
He cracks up. ‘You’re funny, babe. What did you get arrested for?’
I shrug. ‘Nothing much. Nothing that warranted getting arrested anyway.’ I sulk.
‘Tell me,’ he insists, his eyes glassy with drunkenness. I don’t really feel like chatting, but he’s waiting for my answer. ‘Go on, tell me.’
‘I jumped a barrier at the royal wedding,’ I admit.
‘Ha!’ He laughs uproariously and tries to high-five me. I slap his hand weakly. ‘That makes two of us then!’
‘What?’
‘That makes two of us! I had an anarchist banner. I was just gonna wave it, try to get on telly. Do a little dance around the royal couple.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You came all the way to Norway to wave a banner even though you don’t like the royals?’
