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  The moment he catches sight of me, his eyes widen, but not in a good way. More with a look of shock. In fact, he seems almost panicked. Esmerelda hasn’t seen me yet and hands him a cake box, tied with white ribbon.

  ‘Enjoy, darling.’ She leans in to kiss him on both cheeks, French style. ‘And see you soon.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Esmerelda,’ he mutters, kissing her politely on the cheek, before plastering a ridiculously strained smile on his face and turning to me. I can’t help shrinking a little inside. Clearly the champagne has made me overconfident. This guy isn’t happy to see me. He hasn’t been daydreaming about me during the empty moments of a day, the way I’ve been about him. Because yes, I have been thinking about him, even though I kind of hate myself for it. My mind may have entertained the odd girly fantasy or two, but clearly I am completely bloody deluded, because the look on his face says it all. I’m nothing more than an idiot he ran into in a lift who embarrassed herself with a stupid card. An idiot he clearly hoped he’d never have to see again. Ewe are a fool, I curse myself, a proper idiotic fool, but it’s too late now. I’ve walked up to him. I’m the one standing right in front of him. I have to chat to him now.

  ‘Hi! How are you?’ I ask, chirpily.

  ‘Good,’ he says, blankly, with a painfully awkward expression on his face.

  Right that’s it. I’m never, ever going to fancy anyone again.

  ‘Good!’ I glance down at the ground, wishing it would swallow me up. In fact, I wish it would swallow me and digest me and excrete me on the other side. I don’t want to be here at all.

  ‘Great!’ Anders adds.

  I glance over at Collette, who keeps making some weird pointing gesture at her cheek. She’s clearly had too much to drink.

  ‘So . . . ’ I look down at his cake box. ‘Did you get a slice of the royal wedding cake?’

  ‘Oh.’ He glances down at it. ‘Yes, I did,’ he replies, a little flustered.

  ‘Right, nice! So, what? Are you just going to go home and review it?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ Anders replies. ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Cool,’ I comment, impressed. The journalists at The Chronicle are known for their persuasive journalism skills. Not only do none of their articles feature bylines of the journalists who wrote them (because it’s not about the journalist, it’s about the story, of course), but every single exclusive they break or investigative report they undertake is shrouded in mystery. They don’t like to brag. They’re like the ninjas of journalism, operating in stealthy silence, while the rest of us are posting pictures of cake on Instagram.

  ‘So, you’ve already seen the cake then?’ I ask Anders.

  ‘Oh, yeah . . . ’ he replies.

  I turn to Esmerelda, who’s lingering nearby. ‘Can I see it?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh . . . ’ She looks a little flustered.

  ‘Go on, Es, just give her a sneak peak,’ Anders says.

  Es? Is he on nickname terms with Esmerelda?! He probably doesn’t even refer to her high-end bakery as Esmerelda’s, to him it’s probably just Es’s. What the hell?

  ‘Er, okay!’ Esmerelda steps forward and pulls the drape off to reveal the most spectacular cake I’ve ever seen. All seven tiers are adorned with intricately crafted roses made from icing in soft pale pink, gold and silver hues. They tumble over the tiers, creating the most decadent, magnificent display.

  ‘Wow,’ I utter. ‘It’s beautiful!’

  The other journalists immediately spot it and come over, swarming around, completely awed. They shower Esmerelda in compliments, and she smiles politely, thanking them, but she keeps looking towards Anders, as if it’s his opinion she’s most interested in.

  ‘It’s stunning, Es. Truly stunning.’

  Suddenly she beams, flooded with relief. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you like it! I’m so pleased!’

  ‘Yes, you’ve outdone yourself! Truly,’ Anders comments.

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ Esmerelda smiles.

  ‘I’m so sorry but I have to go,’ Anders says, glancing back at me and the swarm of reporters admiring the cake. ‘I’ll speak to you later, Es. I’m so sorry!’

  ‘Oh, okay . . . ’ Esmeralda murmurs as Anders turns to leave.

  ‘Sorry. Bye,’ he mumbles, absently waving over his shoulder he hurries away.

  ‘Oh well,’ Esmerelda sighs, watching him leave, before turning to the throng of journalists all wanting to ask her about the cake.

  I find my gaze lingering on the door of the bakery through which Anders just disappeared. He seemed so uninterested in talking to me, so keen to get away as soon as possible. Did I completely misread the vibe between us in the lift? Was the flirtation all in my head? Urgh. This is why I don’t do romance.

  ‘Sam?’

  I turn to find Collette has appeared by my side, except unlike everyone else, who’s swooning over the cake, Collette is just eyeing me strangely, as if she’s trying hard to look serious even though her lips are twitching.

  ‘Ummm, Sam? You’ve got ice cream on your face,’ she says.

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, a massive splodge on your cheek.’

  She points to my left cheek and I reach up to touch it. As I pull my fingers away, they’re smeared with what looks like strawberry sorbet.

  ‘Oh God,’ I groan, cringing as I replay myself chatting away to Anders, looking like I’ve just face planted a sundae. Nope. I am definitely not cut out for romance!

  Chapter Seven

  My phone buzzes with the diary alert while I’m having my morning coffee at the kitchen table and tucking into a piece of wedding cake Esmerelda gave me to take home yesterday.

  Phoenix Centre charity protest. 11 a.m. Bromley.

  As I swallow a mouthful of the delicious sponge, I can’t help feeling a twinge of guilt. With all this wedding stuff to think about, somehow the Phoenix Centre completely slipped my mind, even though I’ve been writing about it on my blog for months. The charity provides support to struggling people in one of London’s poorest areas, offering free meals and advice on issues like housing, drugs and alcohol dependency, mental health and welfare benefits. It was founded by this woman called Angie, who left her job at the council twenty-five years ago to start her own initiative to help people she felt were being neglected by the system. She’s so inspiring – a kind, tough woman determined to do the right thing. She managed to secure government funding for the centre for years, but now, because of cuts, it’s facing closure, which would be a tragedy for some of the people who depend on it. I take a sip of coffee and reread the alert. I’d been hoping to cover the protest for the paper, but I’m pretty sure Phil won’t allow it now that I’m writing about the royal wedding, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still go. On a personal level, I want to join in and I can always gather quotes and pass the story on to one of my colleagues in the politics team, as well as writing about it on my blog. I finish my cake and get ready to go.

  A little while later, I’m standing in the drizzling rain outside the Phoenix Centre. It’s a drab-looking place, with a peeling, faded sign with missing letters. Technically, it reads ‘Phonix Cnt’. People drift in and out, clutching polystyrene cups of steaming coffee. Everyone looks tired. Some are red-faced from alcoholism, others are unwashed and scruffy as though living on the streets, and a lot just seem weary, like the stressed-out mothers with kids trailing at their legs. Around fifty people have gathered to protest against the closure, holding placards with slogans like: ‘Cuts kill’, ‘No more austerity’, ‘Our future matters’. A couple of journalists are mingling in the crowd, scribbling on their reporters’ notepads, while a few photographers snap the scene.

  Angie comes over to say hello.

  ‘Got some press here, that’s good!’ I comment, nodding towards the reporters in the crowd.

  She smiles. ‘Yeah, a few guys from the local papers came out. Do you think the Daily Post will be able to feature us?’ she asks, with a friendly smile that doesn’t quite distract fro
m the desperation in her eyes.

  ‘I hope so, Angie. I’ll do my best,’ I tell her. I don’t want to admit that I’m no longer covering politics and that while she’s fighting for local residents to have decent meals, cups of tea and a safe place to sleep at night, I’ve been quaffing champagne in Kensington while munching cake after cake after cake and playing ‘here comes the aeroplane’ with the world’s biggest ice cream sundae.

  ‘Thanks, love. We don’t have long left, really. We’re on our last legs now. Our funding’s going to run out in a couple of months and then this place will go under. After twenty-five years.’ Angie glances down at the ground and I can tell she’s trying hard to keep it together. She takes a deep breath and looks back up, but her eyes are glassy.

  ‘I know it doesn’t look like much,’ she says, gesturing towards the dilapidated sign, ‘but people need us. They really do. And I mean children. Some of the kids that come here are dragging their feet when they walk through the door because they haven’t had a proper meal for days. They’re not like children. They’re pale and weak, too hungry to play and then they get fed and they perk up. If it wasn’t for us, I don’t know where they’d be getting their dinner.’

  I meet her sad gaze and picture the children, so weak they can barely walk.

  ‘That’s awful,’ I croak.

  ‘I know, love.’ Angie gives my arm a squeeze. ‘We need all the help we can get. But no one’s giving it to us.’

  I nod. ‘I’ll do everything I can. I promise.’

  ‘Thanks, Sam. That means a lot.’ Angie smiles, but it’s a defeated smile and I get the feeling that even though she’s desperate to save the centre, she’s already giving up.

  An older guy approaches with a long scraggly beard and dirty clothes. ‘Angie, love. One of the lads is having a bit of a wobbly, you can’t help us out, can you?’

  He glances towards a younger skinny bloke in a T-shirt with the gaunt face of an addict, who’s sitting on the side of the pavement, shaking.

  ‘Yeah, one second. Sorry, love.’ Angie excuses herself from me and guides the younger guy into the centre, sitting him down on one of the chairs inside.

  This place really doesn’t look like much. It’s just a big room with a kitchen and a play area for kids, and yet thanks to Angie, it does so much good. There are a couple of huge filing cabinets in the corner where she keeps all the latest benefits application forms to help people with their claims. And then there’s the storage room at the back, where all the food donations, first aid kits and gifted toys, clothes and blankets are kept. Staffed mostly by volunteers, the centre is open every day from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. and even though a lot of people just come here for a cup of tea and something to eat, it’s helping the most vulnerable, giving them somewhere warm and safe to sit and be, and feeding them when they’re starving. I look out into the crowd of protesters, some of whom look too tired to be fighting for this. Life’s already done them down enough.

  I get my reporter pad out of my handbag and step into the crowd, chatting to the protesters. I talk to a single mother who fled her abusive husband and is now struggling to put dinner on the table for her children, even though she stacks shelves at a supermarket while the kids are at school. I interview a woman who fled war in Syria who’s now living in a homeless shelter, having lost most of her family in the conflict. I talk to a recovering addict now living on the streets, a disabled woman whose benefits have been slashed to the point that she can barely get by, an elderly man who’s lost all his family and friends and whose only interaction with others takes place in the centre. I chat to a dozen or so people, all of whom have heart-wrenching stories of difficult lives and challenging circumstances, and by the time I get back into the centre, I feel so drained that I need to sit down for a minute. I’m exhausted from all the tragic stories but also determined to help in whatever way I can.

  I get up and head around the corner to where I parked my car. I brought something for Angie and the kids. I open my boot and heave the box out, before lugging it back to the centre. A little girl comes running up to me, spotting a piece of trailing lace.

  ‘Mummy, look!’ she cries and within minutes, I’m surrounded by half a dozen kids and a few curious adults as I place the box on a table inside. I spot Angie passing.

  ‘Angie, I brought this. Just a few PR freebies we got sent for the royal wedding!’

  She takes a look at the box, which is overflowing with royal wedding keyrings, bags of macaroons, veils for the kids to dress up in, frosted almonds in wedding favour pouches, tiaras and novelty chocolates.

  Angie’s eyes widen. ‘Wow!’ She reaches into the box and pulls out a glittering rhinestone-studded tiara. ‘Are you sure you want to give this to us?’ She eyes the tiara warily.

  ‘Yeah!’ I shrug. ‘We got it all for free. There’s loads of it! We were drowning in it back at the office.’

  One of the girls starts tugging the tiara out of Angie’s hand. Angie lets her have it and the girl grins, squealing with excitement, before placing it on her head and parading like a showy catwalk model through the centre. Angie and I both crack up.

  ‘That’s the happiest I’ve seen her in weeks!’ Angie says, as another girl grabs a veil and joins in the catwalk show. A couple of other kids start swarming to the box, grabbing bags of macaroons, keyrings and sweets.

  ‘Good! It was all just sitting around at work. I’m glad the kids can enjoy it,’ I comment, feeling not only warm and fuzzy as I watch the kids running off delighted with their wedding treats, but also relieved that I’ll finally be able to see my desk again.

  ‘Well, thanks, Sam! The girls will be talking about this for weeks!’ she remarks as we watch them prancing around delightedly in their royal finery.

  I say goodbye, promising Angie once more that I’ll do my best to spread the word about the centre’s plight, before heading back to my car. It’s started to rain, and I feel bad for the protesters as I drive down the wet slicked streets back home. I think of the little girl prancing around delightedly in the tiara and veil and I can’t help feeling glum. Yes, there are girls like Holly, who went from rags to riches, but there are so many others who just seem to have no prospects at all. I need to write an article now; I’ll post it on my blog tonight. I don’t care that it’s the weekend, I need to do something. I speed up, determined to get home as quickly as possible so I can make a start. I approach a roundabout and give a quick glance over my shoulder before pressing my foot down on the accelerator. Except the moment my car darts forward, a loud horn makes me jump out of my skin. I turn to look and spot a huge four-by-four coming straight towards me. I don’t know how I managed to miss it. I slam my foot on the brakes, but it’s too late, it’s coming right at me.

  Chapter Eight

  I wince as the bonnet of my car crashes into the four-by-four. Luckily, the driver seems to have managed to brake in time and our cars didn’t collide at speed, but I can still hear the sound of scrunching metal and feel a heavy thud. Damn it. I was miles away, thinking of the Phoenic Centre and the royal wedding, and I must have somehow failed to spot the vehicle. Kicking myself, I turn off my engine and get out of the car, bracing myself for what I’m pretty sure isn’t going to be a fun interaction.

  The windows of the jeep are blacked out and, from the angle we’ve collided, I can’t quite make out the face of the driver. I shut my car door and take a few tentative steps towards the bonnet, steeling myself for the worst. The last thing I need right now is the hassle of sorting out an insurance claim. Although surprisingly, despite the heavy thud and the scrunching noise, there’s barely any damage at all, just a few scratches, which, to be perfectly honest, isn’t a big deal compared to the rest of the damage I’ve inflicted on my car. I’ve had it ever since I learnt to drive six years ago and it’s not exactly blemish-free. I inspect the bonnet of the four-by-four and, much to my relief, it appears unscathed.

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ I exclaim, turning around to look at the driver, who has just sl
ammed their car door shut.

  ‘It’s you!’ I utter in shock as my eyes land on none other than Anders. Just like yesterday, he’s got an odd uneasy expression on his face, but I suppose I can’t blame him. I did just crash into his car.

  ‘Hi!’ he says, looking perplexed as he steps forward and examines our vehicles. Like yesterday, he’s wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt, rocking that sexy dishevelled look. It’s certainly worlds away from the lavish three-piece suits he wears to work. It’s like the guy has two extremes.

  ‘Fancy seeing you again!’ I smile, although I’m cringing inside. Only yesterday, I was jabbering away to him while rocking a smear of ice cream all over my cheek and now here I am, having just crashed into him. The guy must think I’m a grade-A idiot.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that! Your car looks okay, but, of course, I can give you my insurance details,’ I tell him.

  He frowns at the scratches on my bonnet. ‘It seems your car got the brunt of it,’ he says, almost guiltily. He’s right, his whopping great jeep has come out of the incident in perfect nick, while my old banger seems to have sustained the grazes.

  I take another look at his vehicle. It is massive. A huge sturdy four-by-four with a Mercedes plaque across the bonnet. It’s not often you see a journalist driving a car like that! I remember when Phil bought a first-hand Volkswagen and everyone was talking about it in the office for weeks, teasing him for being a ‘baller’. That’s about as fancy as us journalists get and Phil’s the Daily Post’s news editor. He’s senior. This guy is just a royal reporter like me. How can he afford such an impressive car? Unless journalists in Norway get paid a whole lot more than journalists over here. Yes, that must be it. Everything’s meant to be expensive over there. He must have made a ton of money before coming over to the UK.

  ‘A lick of paint and yours should be okay, I’d imagine,’ he says, with a smile.

  ‘Hopefully! Although, my car’s a bit of a mess already, what’s another scratch!?’ I gesture expansively over the vehicle and it’s not like I’m being modest. My car is covered in rust. There’s a six-inch dent at the back from when I reversed into a bollard once. The windscreen is mottled with splodges of bird poo and I really need to go to the car wash.