It’s just finding that one influential person, which is the tricky bit.
The car pulls up outside the hotel and I give a little squeak of excitement. There aren’t crowds, like at the Golden Globes, but there are barricades, and banks of photographers, and a red carpet! An actual red carpet! There are big screens with EQUAL printed all over, which is the name of the charity. (It stands for something, but I have no idea what. I don’t think anyone does.) In front of them, an elegant blond woman in a nude dress is posing for the cameras, along with a bearded man in black tie.
“Who’s that?” I say, nudging Suze. “Is that Glenn Close?”
“No, it’s the one out of … you know. That show.” Suze wrinkles her nose. “Oh God, what’s her name …”
“Look!” I point ahead at a young guy with spiky hair and a dinner jacket, getting out of his limo. Photographers are clustered round the car, clicking away and calling out, but he’s ignoring them, in a totally cool way.
“Are you ladies ready?” The limo driver turns to face us.
“Right. Yes.” I take a deep breath, calming my nerves.
Suze and I practiced all afternoon in her hire car, getting out and taking pictures of each other, and we’ve totally nailed it. We won’t be flashing our underwear, nor tripping over our heels. Nor will we wave at the camera, which Suze always wants to do.
“Ready?” Suze is grinning tremulously.
“Ready!”
The limo driver has opened the door on my side. I give my hair a last-minute pat, then take my most elegant step out, waiting for the flash of bulbs, the shouts, the clamor.…
Oh. What?
Where did all the cameras go? They were here a minute ago. I turn round, discomfited, and see them all clustered around another limo, behind us. Some red-haired girl in blue is getting out of it and smiling prettily around. I don’t even recognize her. Is she a real celebrity?
Suze emerges from the limo beside me and looks around, bewildered. “Where are the photographers?”
“There.” I point. “With her.”
“Oh.” She looks as disconsolate as me. “What about us?”
“I suppose we’re not celebrities,” I say reluctantly.
“Well, never mind.” Suze brightens. “We’ve still got the red carpet. Come on!” Tarquin has got out of the limo, too, and she grabs him by the arm. “Red-carpet time!”
As we get close to the hotel, there are loads of people milling about in black tie, but we manage to push our way through to the entrance to the red carpet. I’m fizzing with anticipation. This is it!
“Hi!” I beam at the security guard. “We’re guests.” I proffer our invitations, and he scans them dispassionately.
“This way, ma’am.” He points away from the celebs to some kind of side route, which a crowd of people in evening dress are filing down.
“No, we’re going to the benefit,” I explain.
“That’s the way to the benefit.” He nods and opens a rope barrier. “Have a good evening.”
He doesn’t get it. Maybe he’s a bit slow.
“We need to go this way.” I gesture clearly to the bank of photographers.
“On the red carpet,” puts in Suze. She points at our invitation. “It says Red Carpet Entrance.”
“This is the red carpet, ma’am.” He points at the side route again, and Suze and I exchange looks of dismay.
OK, I suppose strictly speaking there is a carpet. And it is a kind of dull red. But don’t tell me that’s where we’re supposed to go.
“It’s not red,” objects Suze. “It’s maroon.”
“And there aren’t any photographers or anything. We want to walk on that red carpet.” I point behind him.
“Only Gold List guests will be walking that red carpet, ma’am.”
Gold List guests? Why aren’t we Gold List guests?
“Come on,” says Tarkie, clearly bored. “Shall we go in, have a titchy?”
“But the red carpet’s the whole point! Hey, look, there’s Sage Seymour!” Sage is talking earnestly to a TV camera. “She’s my friend,” I say to the security guard. “She wants to say hello.”
“There’ll be a chance to greet her inside the benefit,” says the security guard implacably. “Could you move along, ma’am? People are waiting behind you.”
We don’t have any choice. Morosely, we all move through the barrier and start down the Non-Gold List, totally inferior sub-red carpet. I don’t believe it. I thought we’d be on the red carpet with Sage and all the famous people. Not filing along like cattle down some dimly lit maroon carpet that has stains on it.
“Hey, Suze,” I whisper suddenly. “Let’s go round again. See if we can get on the proper red carpet.”
“Definitely,” says Suze. “Hey, Tarkie,” she says more loudly. “I need to adjust my bra. I’ll see you in there, OK? Get us a titchy.”
She hands him his invitation, then we swing round and begin to hurry back up the non-red carpet. There are so many people piling down by now, in evening dress and jewels and clouds of scent, it feels as if we’re fish swimming against a very sparkly, glamorous tide.
“Sorry,” I keep saying. “Just forgot something … Excuse me …”
At last we reach the top of the carpet and pause for a breather. The security guard is still standing at his post, directing people down the maroon carpet. He hasn’t spotted us yet, but that’s because we’re hidden behind a screen.