Zoe May - How (Not) to Date a Prince

‘But I don’t cover weddings,’ I whine. ‘This is just—’

‘Look, Sam,’ Phil interrupts, fixing me with a pointed look. ‘I know you like your nitty-gritty Westminster stories but why not lighten up for once? Do you realise how many reporters would kill for the chance to cover the royal wedding for a national newspaper? This is the biggest story of the year. You’re one in a million right now. You should be thanking me.’

‘But...’

Phil rolls his eyes, when the assistant news editor, Jeremy, who’s sitting next to him, butts in.

‘Earthquake in Mexico. Seven point two on the Richter scale. Five dead,’ he says, quoting a Reuters report open on his computer screen.

‘Get the TV on,’ Phil barks and, before I know it, they’re turning up the volume on the enormous TV screens that dangle from the ceiling of the newsroom and tuning in to the coverage.

‘Get on that, Matt,’ Phil orders one of the news reporters who begins scrolling through coverage on Twitter, one eye on the news broadcast.

I stand there for a moment, lingering by Phil’s desk, half watching the crumbling wreckage on TV.

‘Still here?’ Phil asks, raising an eyebrow in my direction. ‘Go and do a feature on the happy couple. Where they met. How they fell in love. A real heart-warmer.’

‘A real heart-warmer ?!’

Phil shoots me a look, before glancing up at the live footage of a town being reduced to rubble.

‘How close are you to getting that online, Matt?’ he says over his shoulder. ‘We don’t need much. Just a couple of pars.’

Matt’s sweating at his desk as he bashes out a few sentences in a mad rush to get the story onto our website before our rivals publish it.

‘Five minutes,’ he mutters, over a flurry of typing.

Reluctantly, Phil turns his attention back to me. I’m well aware that I’ve outstayed my welcome. I’m old news, but I don’t care. Yes, journalism is fast-paced, but that doesn’t mean my boss can just change my role to royal reporter overnight and inform me on a sheet of paper the next day.

‘Sam, just go and do it, okay?’ Phil groans.

‘I’m not happy about this. You know how I feel about weddings,’ I add in a lower voice, hoping none of our other colleagues catch my words.

Even saying them out loud gives me that shiver-down-the-spine sinking feeling of dread and it’s been years since my fiancé amd boyfriend of five whole years ditched me on our wedding day to run off with a bouncy American girl with the name – I kid you not – Candy Moore. That’s her actual name, even though it sounds like the kind of thing a stupid spoilt baby would cry out to its parents. Candy! More! If Ajay had gone for someone slightly less annoying, I might have been able to forgive him, but Candy Moore? I mean, seriously? Who am I trying to kid – there isn’t a woman in the world he could have wrecked our wedding day for that would have made me not hate his guts or, for that matter, anything and everything associated with weddings .

‘Sam?’ Phil interrupts my thoughts and I realise my eyes have gone glassy with sadness and frustration at the mere memory. See? The slightest mention of the word ‘wedding’ and I’m a wreck.

‘If I wanted a desk ornament, I’d have gone to IKEA,’ Phil quips. ‘Now are you going to write up that feature or not?’

‘No, actually, I’m not,’ I reply, raising an eyebrow. ‘I think you’ll find that I’m a news reporter, not a royal one! You can’t just change my job description overnight simply because Ella had to take time off.’

Phil rolls his eyes. ‘Are you really doing this? Anyone in your shoes would be over the moon to be asked,’ he tells me.

I shrug. ‘Well, I’m not.’

Phil sighs loudly. ‘Wait a minute.’

He swivels his chair over to Matt’s desk so he can read the article on his monitor, editing it line by line at super-fast speed and barking corrections at him, which Matt rapidly fixes, his fingers darting over the keyboard. Matt’s cheeks are flushed, his mind working at razor-sharp speed as the adrenalin of breaking the story surges through him. I know that feeling. It’s the feeling I chased when I went into journalism; the rush of breaking a story is one of best natural highs. The eagerness to be first, to beat the competition, and deliver your story straight to the public. It’s thrilling. It happened to me a few weeks ago when I published a piece on a gritty political investigation I’d spent weeks working on.

‘Right, that’ll do,’ Phil says, scanning Matt’s article one last time. ‘Now put it on the site. Just one image. No links. You can add them later.’

Matt nods, his brow glistening with sweat, as he starts pasting the article into the content management system.

‘Right.’ Phil turns his attention back to me, frowning with irritation. ‘Come on, let’s discuss this situation in the boardroom,’ he sighs, before getting up and striding across the office, not even bothering to look over his shoulder to see if I’m following.

But of course, I am. I hurry after him, struggling to keep up in my pointy heels. I try not to stumble as we cross the newsroom.

Finally, Phil pushes open the door to the boardroom and I manage to grasp it, just before it slams shut in my face.

I push it open and take a seat at the huge mahogany table. Phil is already sitting in one of the plush high-backed seats, leaning back and watching me gather myself. Unlike the newsroom, which is a clutter of Mac computers, stacks of old papers, abandoned press releases and gimmicky products sent in by companies desperate for coverage – from novelty baseball caps to pizza boxes left over from when a high street chain sent us samples of their latest vegan range – the boardroom is slick and minimalistic. It’s where the editors meet advertisers, lawyers and senior executives, it’s where the mechanics of the paper are determined and its vibe is way more serious than the chaos outside. It’s flooded with crisp natural light, unlike the artificial glare of the strip lights in the newsroom, and has tall windows overlooking city office blocks reflecting the crisp morning sunlight off their shining glass exteriors.

‘So, what’s this all about then?’ Phil asks, looking unimpressed.

‘You tell me,’ I retort, crossing my legs.

‘I need someone to cover the royal wedding and you know your stuff, so I chose you. Simple.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘But why me, Phil? Why didn’t you line someone else up? There are plenty of other people you could have chosen who also know their stuff. What about Jessica? She’d kill for this gig. Give it to her.’

Aside from Ella, Jessica is the office’s resident Royal Family fanatic. She’s obsessed, to the point that she drinks her tea from a Royal Coronation mug and her boyfriend proposed with a replica of Princess Diana’s engagement ring. Technically, she’s an editorial assistant, which means she spends most of her time fact checking, dealing with PRs and handling day-to-day office admin, but I’m sure she could step up to the plate if she were given the chance.

‘Jessica?!’ Phil frowns. ‘We both know she’s not ready for this. You, on the other hand, are.’

Phil fixes me with one of his intense looks – a serious, penetrating gaze that cuts right to my core as though he’s recognizing my talent. It’s one of the looks he used to give me sometimes when I’d done a particularly good piece of work that would drown out the chaos of the newsroom and make me feel like I was important, smart and going places. It’s a look I cherished. But now, that look feels all wrong.

I uncross and recross my legs, looking down at the table.

‘The problem is...' I gulp, hating everything about this moment. I’m meant to be a tough go-getting journalist. Vulnerability is not something that comes naturally.