How. Zoe May

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.’

      He meets my gaze.

      ‘Sure!’ I gulp.

      ‘Okay.’

      We talk numbers and Phil suggests a reasonably good pay increase that will definitely help me get one step closer to buying my dream home.

      ‘So, are you happy now?’ he asks.

      ‘Yes, thanks Phil.’

      ‘Good,’ he replies. ‘I’ll get a new contract drawn up. And, in the meantime, I want that slushy wedding feature. And I want you to make it extra romantic after all of this.’

      ‘No problem,’ I trill. ‘An extra slushy feature coming right up.’

      Phil smiles. ‘Finally.’

       Chapter Two

      ‘So, let me get this straight,’ my best friend and housemate Collette says, clearing her throat. ‘You’ve been assigned to cover the most adorable love story of the century and you’re complaining.’

      ‘Yeah, kind of.’ I shrug as I stir the mugs of tea I’m making.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because I write hard news, Collette,’ I remind her.

      ‘Yeah, but this is Holly and Isaac, they are hashtag goals!’ Collette enthuses.

      ‘You’re ridiculous.’ I laugh as I carry the steaming mugs over to the kitchen table.

      ‘So, what’s first? Do you get to meet them? I want to hear everything!’ Collette places her drawing pad down on the table and takes the mug I hand her. I glance at her drawing pad as I sit down. As well as studying for a PhD in biology, specialising in amoebas, Collette is also an illustrator and makes quirky greetings cards that she sells online. With their jaunty drawings and cheeky off-beat slogans, they sell so well that she barely needs a student loan. It’s actually really impressive and she makes it look so effortless. She has an idea and, with a few flicks of her pen, it’s down on paper, whereas whenever I’ve had a go, my attempts have looked like something a toddler brought home from nursery.

      I glance at her drawing pad. For the past couple of weeks, Collette’s been working on her upcoming Valentine’s Day collection and her latest design features a sketch of a fried egg with the slogan, ‘You’re a good egg, maybe I’ll keep you.’ I smile. It’s certainly less of a shocker than last night’s, which showed a drawing of a rhino, with the slogan ‘You make me horny.’ But Collette always insists that it’s the cheekiest cards that sell the best. She has a habit of leaving them around the flat for me with notes to pick up some milk or that it’s my turn to do the hoovering. If I recall correctly, the last one was a picture of a naughty Santa with the slogan ‘Jingle my bells’ left over from her Christmas collection, on which she’d scrawled, ‘Wanna get takeaway tonight?’ It’s far less effective than just texting, but her cards do make me smile. They add colour to the flat, just like all the patterned cushions, patchwork throws, scented candles, artsy prints and fairy lights she decorates the place with. Even though we’ve been best friends since school, Collette and I had never lived together before and, at first, she’d tease me about my ‘bachelor pad’ aesthetic, because of how minimalistic I was. But I’ve warmed to her style now. I like flicking through the magazines she leaves on the coffee table and snuggling up under her throws. Now, if our hallway doesn’t smell like molten scented wax when I get home from work, I have to light a candle straight away.

      ‘So, will you get to go to the wedding?’ Collette asks, wide-eyed.

      ‘Yeah, of course!’

      ‘Oh my God!’ she gasps, clutching her heart. ‘This is too much! You’re going to go to the wedding of the year. Actually, scratch that, the century!’

      ‘It’s just a wedding!’ I remind her. ‘Chill out!’

      ‘Just a wedding?’ Collette scoffs. ‘Just a wedding!’

      Despite spending her days in a lab carrying out sophisticated analysis on cells, Collette can become a giddy schoolgirl over a slushy wedding. Like me, she’s single, except, unlike me, she wishes she wasn’t. She’s a die-hard romantic. Collette adores romantic movies, she always has a pile of romance novels stacked on her bedside table and she’s hooked on celebrity love affairs. She even has a Pinterest board entitled ‘My Dream Wedding’. She left it open once on her computer and went bright red when I spotted it, claiming it was research for some bridal cards she wanted to design. But despite being obsessed with love, Collette somehow struggles to apply the romance of books and movies to her own life.