How (Not) to Date a Prince Read online

  ‘What about the cull they had here in the Eighties,’ Becky comments, 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 comment, 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!’ she enthuses.

  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.

  Chapter Six

  First up on my royal wedding itinerary: cake tasting. Yes, that’s right. It’s now my job to visit a fancy cake maker in Kensington to sample a slice of the wedding cake due to be served on Holly and Isaac’s big day. Of course, when I told Collette where I was heading this morning, she begged to come and now we’re walking down a wide affluent west London street, heading to a cake shop so exclusive that it doesn’t even have a public entrance. If you want to buy something, you have to ring a doorbell and be personally let in by the owner, who wows you with champagne while you make your selection.

  ‘Do I really have to pose as work experience?’ Collette groans as we head down the street. Tall slender elm trees line the pavement, making the sunlight flash as we pass under their shadows. ‘I feel like a fifteen-year-old girl.’

  ‘It’s the only way, Collette! I’m not meant to be bringing my flat-mate along on stories. Anyway, just tell them you’re career changing or something!’

  ‘Fine!’ Collette sighs. ‘The things I do for cake. And anyway, maybe I will change careers. If I’m being totally honest, I always thought your job was kind of boring, but being paid to eat cake, I mean, wow!’

  I laugh. ‘I can’t believe the girl who spends her days inspecting amoeba thought my job was boring!’

  Collette grins. ‘Well you know, you’re always hanging around Westminster, talking to boring old fat men in suits. It’s not exactly the coolest thing ever!’

  ‘Yeah, they may be fat,’ I laugh, thinking back to a particularly obese politician I interviewed a few weeks back, ‘but some of them are kind of interesting.’

  ‘But so’s cake,’ Collette notes as we arrive outside the cake shop. It’s based inside a tall Edwardian building and the frontage is fairly discreet, apart from a white sign above a golden door that reads ‘Esmeralda’s’.

  ‘Are you ready, intern?’ I tease, as I reach for the doorbell.

  ‘Oh, I’m ready! I’m ready all right!’ Collette rubs her hands together, licking her lips.

  I crack up as I ding the bell. Even though it’s not exactly the House of Commons, I have to admit, there is something pretty special about visiting a world-renowned exclusive French bakery on a beautiful Kensington street. I may still feel a little bit guilty for neglecting the key political issues of the day, but even I can’t deny that this is pretty fun, and I can’t wait to discover what fancy cake paradise awaits us on the other side of this door.

  ‘Hello!’ A woman dressed entirely in white with tendrils of dark hair framing her pretty face pulls the door open and gives us a smile even brighter than the crisp spring sunshine.

  ‘I’m Esmerelda and welcome to my bakery!’ She beams.

  ‘Hi, I’m Sam, from the Daily Post. And this is Collette, she’s on work experience.’

  ‘Yep!’ Collette grins, a little overenthusiastically. ‘I’m just shadowing Sam. Considering a career change, you know!’ she adds, a little nervously, but Esmerelda doesn’t seem in the least bit put out that I’ve brought someone, her smile plastered over her face.

  ‘Welcome!’ Esmerelda repeats with a flourish, stepping back and ushering us into a wide hallway lined with shining mirrors in gilded frames. Lilies spill from vases on display tables.

  Collette and I exchange impressed looks as she leads us towards two frosted glass doors, through which I can only make out shades of pink, blue and white. She pushes down on a gold handle and opens one of the doors to reveal the prettiest room I think I’ve ever seen in my life. Until now, bakeries to me have been the kind of place you nip into at lunchtime to grab a sausage roll, or, if you’re feeling naughty, a French Fancy, before heading back out into the hustle and bustle of the high street. They’ve been nothing – nothing! – like the absolutely magnificent splendour before my eyes now. Not only does the room have a domed ceiling like the Sistine Chapel, with intricately painted winged cherubs, and a chandelier that must be taller than me dangling from the centre, but everywhere I look there are cakes. And not just your standard apple turnovers or Battenberg, these are dream cakes, the kind of cakes that have been created so artfully that you can barely even bring yourself to eat them. The cupcakes aren’t just cupcakes, they’re adorned with petals intricately crafted from icing. There are fruit tarts with glazed fruit so bright that it glistens like jewels and frosted sponges with seven or eight wafer-thin layers. Everything looks delectable. More than just delectable – beautiful. They’re works of art. In the centre of the room is a ginormous sculpted plinth upon which sits a dome-shaped object draped in a shimmering throw.

  ‘Ah! I see you’ve spotted the pièce de résistance!’ Esmerelda says, catching my eye. A waiter, also dressed head-to-toe in white apart from a gold bow tie, offers me and Collette glasses of champagne from an ornate tray. I take a glass, thanking him, before returning my attention to the mysterious draped structure.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ I ask, before taking a sip of the champagne, which fizzes over my tongue.

  ‘Well, it’s the wedding cake of course!’ Esmerelda enthuses. ‘It’s absolutely identical to the one I’ll be making for Holly and Isaac’s big day. Seven tiers. Thirty-five layers of sponge. Five hundred hand-crafted frosted roses. One hundred hours of labour and three hundred pounds a slice!’ she adds with a wink.

  ‘Wow!’ Collette enthuses, gawping at me. I can’t help gawping back.

  ‘Can we see it?’ I ask.

  Esmerelda raises her eyebrows. ‘All in good time, my darlings! All in good time! But first, let me introduce you to the delicacies of Esmerelda’s!’

  She ushers us across the room and through another set of wide open glass doors towards a seating area. But, of course, it’s not just any ordinary seating area. The walls have been painted to resemble a country garden with a rippling rive
r, lustrous grass, leafy trees, blooming flowers, buzzing dragonflies and fluttering butterflies. The room contains half a dozen multifaceted glass tables, surrounded by pretty chairs adorned with thick white satin cushions. I’m distantly aware that the opulence is ridiculous and yet I find myself gazing in wonder and awe at the beauty of it all.

  ‘Pinch me,’ Collette whispers.

  I eye her strangely. ‘What?’

  ‘I swear I’m dreaming,’ she says.

  I laugh. ‘I think we both are.’

  ‘This way, my darlings,’ Esmerelda says, leading us towards a table in the centre of the room. ‘Take a seat. And let me take your coats.’

  Dazed, I shrug off my coat and hand it to her, with thanks. Collette does the same.

  ‘This is spectacular!’ I comment, still taking in the intricacies of the panoramic landscape painting. Details I’d missed before become apparent as I cast my eyes around the room once more, like the tiny fairies dotted across the garden scene. ‘Who painted this? It’s spectacular.’

  ‘A friend of mine from childhood,’ Esmerelda tells us. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But if you think that’s good, wait until you try our cakes. Then you will truly be in heaven!’

  ‘Thanks so much!’ I enthuse.

  ‘This is amazing! Thank you!’ Collette adds, wide-eyed.

  ‘The pleasure is all mine!’ Esmerelda insists before slipping out of the room, her billowing white dress wafting behind her.

  ‘This is insane!’ Collette comments, the moment Esmerelda is out of earshot. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so Instagrammable in my life!’

  ‘You’re ridiculous!’ I laugh, although she’s got a point. This has to be one of the most Instagrammable places I’ve ever been. Not that it would fit on my Instagram account, which I use to promote posts about social issues for my blog. I sit down on the 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 the 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, 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 comment.

  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, 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!’ she comments.

  I have to admit, they were 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 still want to ask her about it at some point.

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

  ‘Wow indeed.’ I sink back into mine.

  We sit there for a while in a practically post-coital daze, a cake coma if you like, until Esmerelda eventually reappears.

  ‘How was it?’ she asks.

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Incredible.’

  Collette and I gush, talking over each other. Esmerelda grins.

  ‘I’m so pleased you enjoyed it. But it’s not over yet!’ She snaps her fingers and the waiters reappear. One of them clears our trays, before the other places a giant ice cream sundae down on the table before us. The tall glass bowl is lined with slices of watermelon,
kiwi, orange and strawberries and perfectly round scoops of ice cream emerge from the top. The sundae is crowned with cream, glistening cherries and a drizzle of sauces.

  ‘Oh my gosh!’ I utter, dumbstruck.

  ‘No way!’ Collette gawps.

  Esmerelda smiles proudly as the waiter places long shiny silver spoons on serviettes before us.

  ‘Enjoy!’ she says with a flourish, before fluttering off to greet some of the other bridal and royalty journalists.

  ‘I love Esmerelda,’ Collette insists as she picks up her silver spoon.

  ‘Me too!’ I comment as I dig my spoon into the cream. ‘Who needs men?’

  ‘Not me!’ Collette digs her spoon in.

  By the time we get to the bottom layer of ice cream, we’re both buzzing with the sugar rush, not to mention tipsy from the Cristal.

  ‘Here comes the aeroplane!’ Collette trills as she weaves her spoon through the air towards me. I’m high as a kite on sugar too and I open my mouth wide as she plunges her heaped spoon towards my face, delivering a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. As I struggle to get my lips around it, a movement distracts me out of the corner of my eye and I turn around to see none other than Anders, the Norwegian reporter for The Chronicle, chatting to Esmerelda in the bakery. He glances over and I bat Collette’s hand away, swallowing my mouthful of ice cream and trying to regain composure. Unlike all the other journalists here, who are all not only female but have made an effort to look smart, he’s wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt! His looks completely messy, not even artfully messy, just messy as though he’s simply rolled out of bed. He still looks unbelievably hot though, like a model who’s just ‘rolled out of bed’ for a high-end photoshoot or an A-list actor starring in a rom-com who’s just popped out to get some milk after a night of passion with the leading lady. But even so, for a professional work event, he still looks completely underdressed, particularly for a visit to Esmerelda’s – the most exclusive bakery in London.

  I don’t know if it’s the champagne, the sugar or what, but I find myself getting up to go over and say hi.