Zoe May - How (Not) to Date a Prince

‘The problem is I don’t think I am up to it,’ I admit in a small voice, dragging my eyes up to meet Phil’s.

His brow is furrowed. ‘You are, Sam. I have every faith in you. It’s a big story but you’re more than capable. You’ve been working for me for years, I know you can do this.’

‘It’s not the work side of it,’ I sigh. ‘It’s the...'

Phil leans a little closer, resting his forearms on the table. ‘It’s the…?’ He nods encouragingly.

‘It’s the wedding aspect of it all,’ I admit, shuddering at the thought of writing wedding stories day in day out.

It’s been three years since my car crash of a wedding day, and even now, I’ll still cross the road to avoid walking past bridal boutiques. Every time a wedding show comes on TV, you can guarantee I’ll be changing the channel quicker than you can say ‘divorce’. I have no time for weddings. Not only was my wedding day the worst day of my life, but I no longer see the point of weddings in general. You see, my fiancé Ajay was my dream guy. If I had to write down a list of all the qualities my perfect guy would have, Ajay had them all, and then some. He was clever, handsome, charming, funny, well dressed, cool and successful. He was kind and sweet too, or at least I thought so, before he ditched me overnight for Candy and left me questioning everything, from my own self-worth to my belief in love. After all, if Ajay had ever loved me, how could he have mercilessly stood me up like that, in front of all my friends and family? He could have at least had the decency to end things beforehand, not via a stream of cowardly text messages sent while I was on my way to the church decked out in my wedding regalia. If it wasn’t for my best friends picking up the pieces and supporting me back then, I don’t know where I’d be.

A few weeks after my wedding day, which we ended up referring to as ‘The Day That Shall Not Be Named’, we went to a pawnbroker in town, sold the ring (which fetched a surprisingly decent amount for a guy who didn’t really love me) and used the money to go on a girls’ holiday to Spain, where we lay in the sun, drank cocktails and spent an extremely therapeutic week bitching about men, whilst simultaneously checking out hot Spanish waiters. I came back to London, still a little bruised, but I got back on my feet. I cracked on with work and I moved in with my best friend Collette. Things picked up, but the experience did mark a turning point in my life. Until then, I’d always wanted to settle down, but after The Day That Shall Not Be Named, I decided that other things were more important, like careers, like having your own home and being independent. Men come and go, but your career and your achievements, they stick by you. For example, I was shortlisted for an Investigative Reporter of the Year award at the National Press Agency Awards last year and the year before. Being on that shortlist and knowing I’d worked really hard to get there was far more fulfilling than any date I’ve been on recently. Not that I’ve been on many.

‘Come on, Sam. Think of it as a scoop,’ Phil advises.

I sigh. ‘I already have plenty of scoops. If it’s just a scoop, then give it to someone else.’

‘I don’t want to give it to someone else,’ Phil insists. ‘I want to give it to you.’

‘But why me?’ I whine. ‘You know how I feel about this.’

Now it’s my turn to give Phil one of those pointed looks, reminding him what the fallout from my wedding was actually like. There was one afternoon shortly after The Day That Shall Not Be Named, when I burst into tears at work, and to lift my spirits, Phil invited me for dinner at his place with his lovely wife Jill, who cooked up a huge meal with three courses: home-made bean soup, spaghetti Bolognese and apple pie with ice cream, served with red wine and a heart-to-heart. Phil saw into my world that day and I got a glimpse into his: his home life was so far removed from what I’d expected based on his no-nonsense exterior. His house was a small but cosy book-lined terrace with Persian rugs spread over ratty old carpets, rooms shimmering with Indian wall-hangings and a musty clothes horse sagging with laundry in the hall. A shaggy dog called Bruce bounced around and Phil’s bookish daughters hugged him so tight when he got home from work that his eyes sparkled. It was that day I realised that, despite his bravado, Phil is a really good egg and essentially, he’s on my side. Sometimes, even in the midst of the tersest work conversation, I’ll catch a whiff of his musty-smelling shirt and I’ll be sent right back to that evening, and the clothes horse, and I’ll remember what a softy he is.

‘Yes, I do know how you feel about this, and that’s another reason you’re the right person for the job,’ Phil states.

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘How does that work?’

‘Remember when you first started working here and I made you step in as assistant news editor that time Jeremy went on holiday?’ Phil says, reminding me of the two-week holiday cover I took on only a couple months after I started working at the Daily Post . It was an opportunity I’d never imagined I’d get as a junior reporter still cutting my teeth and I was a bit out of my depth, but I did my best, and it was those few weeks that gave Phil the confidence to promote me to my current role of politics reporter.

‘Yeah…?’

‘You freaked out then too. You thought I was throwing you in at the deep end, and yet once you got into it, you excelled.’

‘Uh-huh, but how’s that the same? I’m not afraid of the professional challenge, I’m afraid of the wedding aspect!’

‘Exactly, which is why I’m throwing you in at the deep end. You can’t spend your whole life pretending relationships don’t exist, Sam. Turning a blind eye to men and marriage isn’t healthy,’ Phil explains.

I let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘Hang on a minute. You’re giving me this job so I can confront my fear of weddings?’

‘Yes,’ Phil admits a little sheepishly. ‘Basically.’

‘That’s not exactly professional,’ I point out.

Phil’s lips twist and I can tell he’s trying not to smile. He clears his throat and corrects his expression.

‘It’s a professional opportunity that I think would also benefit you in a personal capacity,’ he comments, sensing I might be backing him into a corner.

‘So, it’s professional advancement, you’d say?’ I query him.

‘Yes.’ Phil nods affirmatively.

‘More responsibility?’

‘Yes, exactly,’ Phil remarks.

‘Right, well in that case, if you want me to cover the royal wedding, then don’t you think I should get a raise?’ I ask, trying to act confident even though my stomach is quivering a little.

Ever since I decided to focus on my career since The Day That Shall Not Be Named, I've been saving up for a flat: a bricks and mortar home all of my own. I even know the perfect place – it’s in this cool converted warehouse by the river. I stumbled upon it on a riverside stroll one day after work. There’s a communal garden where you can sit on a bench and watch the boats go by on the Thames; it’s peaceful and idyllic yet modern and trendy, and it’s only a fifteen-minute walk to work. I cut out a picture of it from an estate agent’s brochure and stuck it to a motivational pin board in my bedroom to keep me focused.

‘Honestly!’ Phil tuts. ‘Most people in your shoes would be falling over themselves for this opportunity and you’re demanding a raise?’ He stares at me incredulously.

‘Umm…yes. Like you said, it’s more responsibility.’

‘If I hadn’t already worked with you for years, I’d tell you where to go.’

‘Same,’ I retort cheekily.

‘Fine,’ Phil sighs. ‘We can work something out, but this wedding coverage better be royal-tastic, Sam. No cutting corners! I want the works.’