Читать книгу How (Not) to Date a Prince - Zoe May - Страница 12

Chapter Five

‘Oh my God!’ Becky cries as she rushes up to my desk, her eyes lighting up. ‘Have I died and gone to heaven?’

‘Nope, you’ve just arrived in wedding mania,’ I laugh, as her eyes roam over the flowers, tiaras, lace, veils, cupcakes and macaroons that are still swamping my desk, until finally they land on the shimmering glass slippers. Becky picks one of them up reverently, taking in every detail as she turns it under the light.

‘Wow, this is beautiful,’ she says, in awe. Even though Becky, being a total girly girl, is my complete opposite, we started working at the Daily Post on exactly the same day seven years ago, and she’s my best friend here. She’s always been the glamorous one, with her long lustrous brown hair and impeccable dress sense, while I’m nerdy Sam, chasing the latest story at Westminster in my trouser suits. Becky’s always perfectly turned out, she even wears false lashes every day, while on a good day, I might bother with BB cream and a slick of mascara. I used to wear proper make-up, but one day I overslept and didn’t have time for it, and after realizing that the quality of my day was in no way diminished by not slathering on the slap, I just stopped bothering. It’s not exactly necessary for Westminster anyway – it’s hardly the most glamourous of places – whereas being glamourous is part and parcel of Becky’s job. She lives and breathes fashion, to the point that even her nail varnish is limited edition by Dior.

‘They’re the same as the pair Holly’s going to be wearing on the big day,’ I tell her, thanks to Simon’s research.

‘No way!’ Becky enthuses. ‘Oh my God, they’re amazing.’ She turns the shoe over to glance at the size embossed on the sole. ‘Urgh, too small for me!’

‘I don’t think we’re meant to wear them,’ I comment, although Becky just shrugs.

‘But what they’ll never know isn’t going to hurt them, right?’ She grins and it’s only then that she notices Simon, who’s looking over at her curiously.

‘Have you two met?’

‘No, not yet,’ Simon replies.

‘Simon, this is Becky, fashion editor; Becky, this is Simon, he’s helping with the royal wedding coverage.’

‘Nice to meet you!’ Becky extends her hand with a big welcoming smile that’s far friendlier than my botched welcome.

‘You too!’ Simon smiles back.

‘Lucky you getting all this wedding stuff! Although maybe it’s not quite your thing...’ Becky says.

Simon shrugs. ‘Cake is everyone’s thing,’ he says, offering her a cupcake.

The pair of them munch their way through cupcakes, macaroons and frosted almonds as I research the shoe designer, adding details into the article about her professional accolades working with luxury brands and the host of celebrity clients she’s designed bespoke footwear for. I’m writing a line about how the designer created shoes inspired by butterflies for a famous actress’s wedding when I overhear one of the news reporters on the phone interviewing a politician about the government’s latest welfare cuts. Even though it is quite fun to be surrounded by all this royal wedding stuff, I can’t help feeling a little bit envious of my colleague, chasing the pressing political stories of the day. Suddenly, my thoughts are pierced by a shrill scream. I turn around to see Becky, swamped in a veil, contorting her arms around the back of her neck.

‘Ouch! It’s caught in my zip!’ Becky cries, from underneath the flowing white gauze as she tries to tug the veil free from the zip at the back of her shift dress. ‘My zip’s caught on my skin!’

Simon watches her, flummoxed. I jump up from my chair and try to help. She’s swamped in a veil down to her knees and it’s hard not to laugh as she wriggles around in the middle of the office, trying to pull the veil free while shrieking in pain.

‘Careful!’ I check out the damage. The veil has somehow got twisted into the track of the zip on Becky’s dress, along with her skin.

‘It hurts!’ Becky cries

‘Were you trying to take your dress off?’ I ask, bemused, casting a glance at Simon, who has gone slightly red-faced and is clearly trying hard not to laugh.

‘No! I was just adjusting it!’ Becky insists.

I try to pull the veil free, but Becky shrieks. ‘Ouch!’

A couple of our other colleagues are now looking over, giggling from behind their monitors.

‘Let’s go to the loos, Becks!’ I tug her arm.

‘I can’t see properly!’ she moans as I take her arm and guide her across the newsroom towards the toilets. Fortunately, the veil is swamping her head so much that she also can’t see our colleagues pissing themselves laughing.

We get to the loos and, after making her stand still for a full five minutes, I finally manage to gently tease the zip free, loosening the veil, without tearing her skin. Becky pulls it off her head.

‘Oh my God I can see again!’ she says, blinking. ‘That was SO embarrassing!’

I snort. ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ I lie.

Becky eyes me sceptically.

‘Okay, it was pretty bad,’ I admit. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve already had a pretty humiliating moment this morning, too.’

‘Oh, really?’ Becky’s face lights up. ‘Pray tell!’

I fill her in on meeting Anders in the lift and the cringe-worthy moment that card landed on the floor.

‘I think ewe are sexy! That’s brilliant!’ Becky giggles. ‘I think ewe are hilarious!’

‘And I think ewe are just as bad!’ I laugh.

‘Oh God! I’m not sure which of us is worse to be honest. Ewe or me,’ Becky says as she pats some wet tissue against her reddened skin.

I sigh, shaking my head. Although the moment with Anders was unbelievably embarrassing, my thoughts are still lingering on his gorgeous blue eyes, his playful smile, and that incredible feeling of magnetism. Even though I’m perfectly happy being single, I can’t deny the effect he had on me. Everything about him was just on another level, it was as though my mind, body and soul gave him one big fat tick.

‘Simon seems nice.’ Becky interrupts my girlish thoughts.

‘Oh yeah, he’s not bad,’ I admit, still feeling slightly reserved towards him after Phil’s revelation that he’s trying to set us up.

‘He’s sweet. He’s a hell of a lot better than Neil,’ Becky insists. ‘You know, I’m doing a feature on kitten heels and he’s been making all these lame jokes about how he didn’t know cats wore shoes.’

I can’t help snickering. ‘Comically witty.’

‘Please don’t tell me you find that funny?’ Becky grumbles.

‘No, the joke isn’t funny, but the way you tell it is. I mean, who does he think he is? Technology editor meets stand-up comedian? He seems to think there’s a stipulation in his job description to entertain.’

‘Urgh.’ Becky sighs. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck sitting next to him until after the royal wedding. I want my desk back!’

‘Neil’s jokes aren’t that bad, Becks. Chill out,’ I tell her.

‘Hmph...’ Becky twists her body to inspect the back of her neck in the mirror. It’s still quite red. ‘Don’t you think this whole thing is a bit weird though? Moving us around and hiring new people. All these changes...’

Although Becky has one of the most seemingly frivolous jobs in the newsroom, when she’s not messing around with press samples, she’s often found fretting about stuff. She loves her job, but there tends to be an undercurrent of neurosis to everything she does, from worrying about whether a rival paper is going to publish an exclusive interview with a top designer before she does, to getting anxious that the pollution in the London air is causing skin dullness and premature ageing. To combat some of her fears, she takes half a dozen vitamin supplements a day, wears SPF 50 moisturiser even in winter and has a Filofax bursting with notes so she doesn’t forget anything. But even though Becky’s in a state of near-total anxiety, she’s actually incredibly sorted. She’s twenty-eight, like me, and yet she’s married to her childhood sweetheart and they already have their own home in Balham.

‘What do you mean? How is this whole thing weird?’ I press her.

‘All this reshuffling. I’ve got a bad feeling about it,’ Becky groans, straightening out and adjusting her dress in the mirror.

‘All this reshuffling?’ I scoff as I tweak my hair in the mirror. ‘I’m covering the royal wedding and you’ve moved desks. It’s hardly mass redundancies.’

‘And Simon’s been brought in. And Neil mentioned something about an industry shake-up. It might not be redundancies yet, but I’ve got a bad feeling,’ Becky says, giving me a concerned look.

‘Well, I reckon you’re worrying over nothing, Becks. You’ve moved desks. That’s literally all you need to worry about.’

‘What about the cull they had here in the Eighties,’ Becky says, referring to a massive tranche of overnight redundancies the paper inflicted on staff more than thirty years ago. Although it was ages ago, its cut-throat heartlessness has made it somewhat legendary.

‘What about it?’

‘That probably started like this too, little reshuffles here and there, moving people around and then bam, we come into work and our passes don’t work. We’re getting on a bit, Sam. I wouldn’t put it past them to bring in some fresh blood.’

‘We’re twenty-eight!’ I remind her. ‘We’re hardly past it.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Becky sighs, as she leans against the sink counter. ‘Because this 21-year-old sent me her CV last week. She has 157,000 followers on Instagram. I’ve only got two thousand! Two thousand!’

‘She might have a ton of followers, but when was the last time she got an exclusive interview with a top designer or managed to get a sneak peak of the hottest collection at London Fashion Week? We’ve worked to get to where we are,’ I remind her. ‘And despite how grumpy Phil is, he does value us. Take Simon, for example – if the paper was falling on hard times, why would they be hiring new people?’

‘Well, look at The Chronicle. They’ve hired a Norwegian reporter! We don’t have that,’ Becky points out and suddenly, I’m thinking about Anders all over again.

‘I guess, but I really wouldn’t worry. Anyway, we should head back to the office. Did I tell you they sent us bridal underwear?’ I say, recalling the lace suspenders, basques and garters I found hidden under a sample of bridal lace.

‘Oh really?’ Becky’s face lights up. ‘Let’s go!’

Sometimes I think fashion is the only thing that takes away Becky’s anxiety. Maybe that’s why she’s so good at her job, even if she does only have two thousand Instagram followers.

We head back to the office, but as we’re passing the lifts, I find myself glancing towards them, as if they’ll suddenly open to reveal Anders. Ridiculous! I mentally berate myself as we head into the newsroom. One day of royal wedding coverage and I’ve already started swooning schoolgirl-style over a dashing Norwegian hunk.