Free The Wedding Countdown by Ruth Saberton Page A

for all your help today.’
    Right on cue my tummy rumbles, reminding me that it hasn’t been fed since yesterday. Nish ate my dinner and I was far too nervous to face breakfast this morning.
    ‘OK. You buy me lunch and I’ll think about forgiving you.’
    ‘Fabbie,’ says Raj. ‘Ooh! Here comes the Boss, I’d better fly! I’ll meet you at one,’ and he tears across the office and dives for his desk, his timing perfect because Nina Singh is emerging from her lair and scanning the room like The Terminator.
    ‘The new intern. My office,’ she barks.
    I gather up my bag and, hoping that my make-up hasn’t slid right off, I charge into the office in a panic, cannoning into Wish on his way out.
    ‘Easy, tiger,’ he grins, steadying me.
    I blush right to the roots of my hair. I can’t believe I’ve accidentally touched him twice today.
    ‘Deep breath,’ advises Wish. ‘Nina doesn’t bite. Not hard anyway.’
    Then he’s gone and I’m left dithering in the doorway.
    ‘Enter!’ she barks and my legs obey instantly, carrying me in to the dragon’s den.
    And what a den it is. The wall facing me is a sheet of glass, which frames perfectly the stunning view of London. Tower Bridge, Big Ben, the London Eye and the plump dome of St Paul’s twinkle in the sunlight while the sluggish Thames winds through like a pewter ribbon. But what really takes my breath away are the acres and acres of sky, all scudding clouds and silent planes stacked neatly above Heathrow, and the sharp clear light which pours into the room. I feel like I’m perched on the top of the world.
    ‘Wow!’ I gasp. ‘What an amazing view!’
    My new boss is seated in a big white leather chair behind the mother of all desks. She draws deeply on a cigarette nestled in a diamante holder and then blows two plumes of smoke through her nostrils. She’s so Cruella de Vil I’m almost surprised she’s wearing a black suit rather than a black and white spotty fur coat. I’m certainly as terrified as any Dalmatian puppy. 
    ‘It is rather marvellous,’ she agrees, in a voice rendered husky by years of tobacco. ‘One does tend to take it for granted.’
    I open my mouth to say if this was my view I’d be looking out that window all day long, but shut it quickly. Daydreaming out of windows doesn’t sound like the behaviour of a keen new journalist and I really want Nina to see how dedicated I am to this job.
    Nina flips through some documents on her desk, ‘Amelia Ali?’
    ‘Everyone calls me Mills.’
    ‘I’m not everyone.’ The red slash of a mouth sets in a grim line. ‘What’s wrong with Nisha?’
    ‘Nish has got food poisoning.’
    ‘Not hung-over or oversleeping then?’
    ‘No, no! She was really poorly.’
    ‘Hmm.’ Nina doesn’t look convinced. ‘Take a seat.’
    ‘Thank you.’ I perch onto a teeny weeny chair. I just about manage to squeeze one buttock on, and arrange my features in what is hopefully an intelligent and not too sucky-uppy expression. I feel like a specimen in a lab.
    ‘You don’t need me to tell you how well you’ve done to get this internship,’ says Nina. ‘We had over five hundred applicants, all of whom came highly recommended. Some,’ she pauses dramatically, ‘even came from Oxford.’
    ‘Wow,’ I say, because this is clearly expected.
    ‘Indeed,’ she agrees. ‘However, I like to evaluate each applicant on their own merits, not just by looking at what university they attended. I was especially impressed with how passionate you were about the magazine in your letter of application. You really share our vision.’
    This wasn’t hard. I’ve been a devoted reader for years.
    ‘But what really made your application stand out,’ continues Nina, ‘was the superb project you and Nisha did on Muslim–Hindu friendships. It was fresh, original and very funny. I was also most impressed that it was published in the Bradford Echo .’
    ‘Thanks.’ I feel all warm and fuzzy. Nina Singh is impressed