‘Yes! It really is just a wedding!’ I remind her. ‘You know, those things that have a fifty per cent divorce rate?! Those things we idolised in the Victorian era when women had nothing better to do than to sit around waiting for a man to pluck them out of obscurity and make them his wife? This is the twenty-first century, Collette! It’s literally just a wedding. Yes, it’ll be silly and pretty and fun! But it’s just a fricking wedding.’
‘Wow!’ Collette scoffs, eyeing me with an expression bordering on derision. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone quite so unromantic.’
‘I’m not unromantic,’ I insist. ‘I’m just practical. I just don’t get why women ought to focus on marriage, like it’s the be-all and end-all. Singleness isn’t a problem to be solved! You can have a happy, fulfilled, enjoyable life without a man by your side and a ring on your finger, I mean, come on!’
‘Urgh!’ Collette rolls her eyes. ‘Do you know what you remind me of?’
‘What?’ I mumble.
‘An amoeba,’ she announces proudly.
‘An amoeba?’
‘Yeah. An amoeba. They don’t need to find mates. They can reproduce alone through mitotic division. That’s what you are. An amoeba!’
‘Fine!’ I shrug. ‘I’ll take it! Amoeba and proud! I’ll get it on a T-shirt. Or you can make a card. An alternative Valentine’s Day card, for people who don’t need anyone, with a big fat amoeba on the front and the caption, “I love myself!”’
Collette laughs, rolling her eyes. ‘Somehow I doubt that would be a bestseller.’
I grin, picturing myself buying a Valentine’s Day card for myself. ‘No, possibly not.’
We lapse into silence for a moment, sipping our tea.
‘You haven’t always been an amoeba, though,’ Collette muses, looking at me over her steaming mug.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, remember when we were kids and you always wanted to sit around at lunch break on the grass playing that game with daisies when you pull out the petals and say, “He loves me, he loves me not”?’
I wince, shrinking into my seat. I’d totally forgotten how obsessed with that game I used to be, but it’s true. While other kids were swinging on the monkey bars or running around playing tag, I’d be sitting under a tree, plucking daisies from the grass and playing 'he loves me, he loves me not' while thinking about boys at school (most of whom I didn’t even interact with) or inventing imaginary heroes.
‘You used to drag me with you and make me sit there, just plucking the petals out of the daisies,’ Collette sniggers. Damn her and her annoyingly good memory.
‘Whatever,’ I grumble.
‘He loves me, he loves me not,’ Collette trills teasingly.
‘That was years ago,’ I remind her. ‘It was literally decades ago.’
Collette giggles. ‘And?’
‘I was seven. I’m twenty-eight now. I’ve grown up,’ I insist and it’s true, I have. Love has never really worked out for me, even before The Day That Shall Not Be Named. The problem with love is it’s just so distracting. My first proper taste of it (not just playing with daises) was when I was sixteen and I fell for this guy I met at sixth-form college called Luke. He was so gorgeous and funny and cool, and everyone fancied him, but for some reason, he chose me, and I was totally into him. Besotted. Smitten. And let’s face it, probably a little obsessed. So much so in fact, that when he dumped me a week before my A levels, I ended up falling apart and flunking all of them apart from politics. Politics was the only subject I managed not to fail, which is probably another reason I’ve stuck with it. All my other exams were a disaster and I had to retake them in the autumn, meaning that while my friends were having a good summer, I was bunkering down to revise. I lost the university place I had lined up and the whole thing was just a mess. You see, the problem with falling in love is that you end up off your game and I can’t afford to do that, literally and figuratively. I need to do well at work, I need to get on the property ladder. I have stuff to do that doesn’t involve romance and, anyway, I’m fine on my own. I really am.
Collette raises an eyebrow. ‘I think there’s still a romantic heart in there somewhere.’ She pokes my chest. ‘Deep down, there’s a little romantic heart beating away, just waiting to break out!’
‘No there isn’t!’ I bat her hand away. ‘I know you find this hard to believe, but it is possible to feel complete and happy without a man.’
Collette eyes me, unsure.
‘I know! Groundbreaking! But look at me, I’m living proof. I get by just fine. I don’t need anyone to give me some kind of fairy-tale happy ending. I’m already getting along just great. And take my mum for example! She’s single and she’s got a great life,’ I remind her.
My mum is one of the reasons I feel so confident in my single status. She never really knew my dad. I was conceived during a holiday romance and she brought me up alone. She’s had a few boyfriends, but she never married. She has loads of friends and an incredible career. Since I left home, she’s been travelling the world brokering deals in her role as an international event manager. At the moment, she’s living it up in Dubai.
Collette rolls her eyes. ‘Okay, fine, well you’re both amoebas then. Runs in the family.’ She places her empty mug down.
‘So anyway, have Holly and Isaac confirmed where the wedding will be yet? Can you take a plus one?’ Collette asks.
‘No, they haven’t. And err...’ I try to picture Collette at the wedding, snapping every second and crying with joy when Holly and Prince Isaac say ‘I do’. ‘I don’t really get a plus one! I’m not actually invited like a guest would be, I’m just there for work, aren’t I?’
Collette lets out a little sigh. ‘I wish I had your job.’
‘You didn’t get this excited when I got invited to Washington to cover the White House press conference!’ I point out, reminding her of the trip I took a few months ago which was definitely one of the coolest things I’ve ever got to do for work.
Collette wrinkles her nose. ‘Yeah but that’s just politics,’ she says, like it’s a dirty word. ‘This is the royal wedding!’ Her eyes sparkle once more.
I take a sip of tea. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things they’ve lined up for me to cover! Cake tasting with the royal wedding baker! A masterclass on flower arranging with the royal wedding florist!’
‘Wow!’ Collette’s eyes shimmer. ‘Oh my God, this is going to be amazing!’
‘One sec.’ I take my phone out of my handbag and open up my work inbox, scrolling through the press invites. ‘Oh yeah, a three course Michelin star meal at the Horsham Hotel by the royal wedding chef.’
‘Incredible!’ Collette beams.
I scroll down. ‘A bridal fair!’
‘Wow,’ Collette utters dreamily. ‘That sounds amazing! I don’t think I’ve ever been so jealous of anyone in my life. What else?’
I keep scrolling. ‘Oh!’ I land upon an email I received earlier from an enthusiastic PR woman for a company specialising in kitschy royal memorabilia. ‘I’m being sent a load of wedding