Zoe May - How (Not) to Date a Prince

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.

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