How. Zoe May

soft-cushioned chair.

      ‘Oh my, Collette, this chair is like a cloud!’ I gush.

      ‘Oh yeah!’ Collette groans in a way that’s borderline sexual as she lets her body sink into the soft pillowy depths.

      ‘I swear, I am your intern now. Screw amoebas, I’m done. Journalism career, here I come. This is beyond a shadow of a doubt the best day of my life.’

      ‘We haven’t even had the cake yet!’ I point out, laughing. ‘But trust me, this is not journalism. I’ve had to endure seven years of Westminster to reach this point!’

      ‘Oh well, we’re here now!’ Collette leans forward and reaches for her glass of champagne. ‘To the royal wedding!’ She raises her glass in a toast.

      ‘To the royal wedding!’ I clink my glass against hers and we both giggle excitedly as we sip on the bubbles, unable to believe our luck.

      Esmerelda comes back, flanked by waiters carrying tiered trays of afternoon tea laden with finger sandwiches and cakes. They place them on the table alongside an ice bucket containing a bottle of Cristal champagne and a steaming glass teapot. I’m salivating as my eyes roam over the tiers, taking in the elegant fresh finger sandwiches, the fluffy scones and the bite-size beautiful cakes and tiny bowls of puddings.

      Esmerelda gestures at the bottom tier. ‘Here we have smoked salmon sandwiches with elderflower crème fraiche drizzle, poached tarragon chicken sandwiches, pastrami with walnut and honey cream cheese, all served on our organic granary bread.’ She moves her hand along. ‘And these ones are goat’s curd with chilli jam on tomato focaccia and red caviar presented with salted churned butter on crisp white bread.’

      She works her way to the next tier and describes the ‘buttery scones’ in the kind of rich detail I’ve never heard applied to a scone before. I almost wish she’d stop talking because I’m salivating, but she keeps going, talking us through the pink lemonade cupcakes, red berry and rose compote, French tarts with Normandy apples and orange-infused crème brûlée.

      ‘Oh...’ She stops, gesturing towards a foil-wrapped cake, which looks like a Tunnock’s teacake. ‘And this is a teacake,’ she says with barely unconcealed derision. ‘They’re Holly’s favourite. Apparently, they’re all the rage up north. Of course, we made our own version, created with a home-made spice-infused biscuit base, and Italian hand-whipped meringue coated in dark chocolate with one hundred per cent cocoa.’

      ‘Oh my God!’ Collette interjects. ‘We love Tunnock’s teacakes too! Don’t we, Sam?’

      ‘Yeah,’ I laugh, a little awkwardly.

      ‘We used to have them in our packed lunches at school? Remember?’

      ‘Yeah, I remember,’ I say.

      Esmerelda raises an eyebrow. She seems so sophisticated that I can’t imagine she was the type to have brought a plastic lunchbox containing Tunnock’s teacakes, squashed, slightly soggy ham sandwiches, a bag of crisps and one of those tiny packets of raisins to school when she was a kid.

      I interject in the hope that Collette will stop talking about our pedestrian childhood and start asking Esmerelda about the food, trying to act journalistic, when all I really want to do is tuck in. Esmerelda answers, but then the doorbell rings and she excuses herself. The waiters top up our glasses of champagne and leave us to it.

      The moment they’ve left the room, Collette whips out her phone and starts taking pictures. I do the same. To be honest, it’s impossible not to. Every sandwich, every cake and every scone is like a mini masterpiece and I doubt I’ll ever encounter food this amazing again.

      A couple of other journalists arrive and sit at a table nearby. I vaguely recognise one of them as a royal editor for another national paper. She’s a tall blonde woman with a pearl-embellished headband that looks almost bridal. She sits down primly in a tight pencil skirt and her eyes wander across the room, taking everything in. Clearly, despite all her years covering royalty, even she’s a little awestruck by this experience.

      Collette and I devour the sandwiches, which are all incredible. Packed with flavour. The most delicious punch with every bite. They make every other piece of food I’ve eaten before feel boring. The scones are the butteriest, lightest, fluffiest scones I’ve ever tasted and don’t even get me started on the cakes, which Collette and I photograph from every angle before eating. As we eat, the other journalists Esmerelda invited for the cake reveal filter in. They seem to share a similar look, an unofficial style code that involves blonde hair, and a white or cream frilly blouse teamed with a prim pencil skirt. All of the women are dotted with pearls and diamonds, either shimmering from their ring fingers or studded in their ears, strung around their necks or embellished on hairbands.

      ‘I can’t believe Holly likes Tunnock’s teacakes, she is just so cool!’ Collette enthuses, as she peels off the foil wrapping and takes a bite of the high-end home-made version.

      ‘When was the last time you actually ate one?’ I ask her, knowing full well that she hasn’t touched them since school.

      ‘I don’t know, a while ago.’ Collette shrugs as she pops the other half of the teacake into her mouth. ‘So delicious!’

      I have to admit, they are pretty good, even though I still don’t quite understand how meringue can be Italian, as Esmerelda described it. Were the eggs from Italian chickens, was it beaten by Italians? I want to ask her about it at some point.

      ‘Wow...’ Collette sighs as she sinks back into her chair.