Did I pull rank when both of us were denied entry? I should have done but as Emily’s face crumpled, the fantasy of being inHello!going up in a puff of smoke, I uttered the fateful words, ‘You go, Emily.’
She didn’t even say ‘Are you sure?’ Admittedly, she did gasp a tearful, ‘Thanks so much, Olivia. I won’t forget this.’
As if I had a choice. I had to let her go. Everyone knew she was the magazine addict and a walking-talking mine of celebrity gossip. Not only would she have been devastated, but what kind of jumped-up cow would I have looked if I’d insisted on going?
It looked like I was going to be joining all the star-spotters and well-wishers filling Leicester Square, hoping for a glimpse of 007. Which reminded me, somewhere beyond the crash barriersforming a wide corridor leading up to the front of the cinema, Kate was looking out for me.
I glanced around. At regular intervals, black-clad security personnel manned the metal railings, like trees lining the avenue of a stately home. Each wore sunglasses like a badge of office along with CIA earpieces.
When there’s a premiere on the news, it all looks so calm and serene, smiling, white-toothed stars sauntering along, waving and nodding. The reality was chaos, which the cameras don’t show, with entourages of bodyguards and minders edgily keeping their charges moving, their dark eyes constantly roving. They reminded me of sharks circling, beadily watching their prey.
‘You’re going to have to move. No ticket, no entry,’ said one of the organisers, earnestly clutching a clipboard, the walkie-talkie at her hip issuing staccato gunfire voices, muffled and unintelligible.
‘Just making sure my client got off OK,’ I said, bristling at her officiousness.
‘Sorry, thought you were a...’ She thought better of finishing the sentence.
I glanced back up towards the cinema. Sebastian and Miranda were still in view, their red-carpet moment captured by a thousand flash bulbs. They made a stunning couple, his bow tie matching the big red kiss on her bottom perfectly. Miranda was happily signing autographs to the lucky few, smiling adoringly at Sebastian and he was playing his part to perfection, rakish and handsome, smiling in return at her.
You could almost believe they were a pair. I should have been relieved — mission accomplished. The press had got their pictures; we’d primed them about the dress. Job done. The rest of the evening was celebrity-sitting. I winced. I prayed to God Emily wouldn’t muck it up.
Wistfully, I took one last look down the red carpet. I could see the film another day. It was my own fault, all that cynicism about celebrities coming home to roost — hey, so what if I didn’t meet Daniel Craig? He was probably dead boring in the flesh.
* * *
Cinderellais my favourite fairy tale, the ultimate romance. Of course, she has to scrub a few hearths on the way but it turns out all right in the end. Watching Emily sashay down the red carpet while I went back to the car drop-off point, hoping Frank the Mercedes driver might still be there, was a real hearth moment. The problem was, I didn’t believe in fairy godmothers. I pulled a face, watching her disappear without a backward glance. Luckily Frank was still jammed into the traffic and at my frantic waving, opened the door for me, ignoring an officious chap who was jumping up and down, waving a clipboard at us, screaming, ‘This is a no-waiting area, we’re backing up, you need to move now.’
‘Come on, Cinders. I’ll take you back to your hotel.’ He ushered me into the car, shutting the door crisply, before stepping back deliberately squashing Mr Clipboard’s toes.
The journey back was quieter than the one there; the rustle of Miranda’s dress was missing, along with the electric current of palpable excitement that had run around the car. I sniffed forlornly, gazing round at the leather seats. A cloud of perfume still lingered, the heady overpowering notes of Miranda’s Samsara and underneath the gentler lemon fragrance of Daniel’s aftershave. He’d snagged a lift with us, in search of some sports bar just off Leicester Square. The car was a luxury really, as it was only a five-minute walk. Nobody had minded the squeeze, as legs and feet were tangled like computer cables on the floor. Miranda had even said, ‘Isn’t this cosy?’ as she surreptitiously rubbed her leg up and down Daniel’s.
‘Yes,’ gushed Emily, oblivious to what she was up to.
‘Would you like a bit more room?’ asked Daniel, shuffling closer to me, away from Miranda. The heat of his thigh against the thin silk of my dress made me even more conscious of him.
Nobody had noticed that we were doing our utmost not to look at each other. My bravado had done a runner after my little floor show. The timely phone call had been Emily saying that Miranda was all set to go.
Now in the empty car, the waves of giddy anticipation long gone, I felt bereft. What was I going to do now? I had a whole evening to myself. My feet tapped irritably as we trailed along through the clogged roads. It would have been quicker on foot, and inside the car I felt as if I was trapped in slow motion.
When Frank deposited me back at the front of The Grayville, I slunk out, keeping my head down. Less than half an hour ago we’d departed in a triumphant procession of colour and verve. As I got out, Frank slipped me a bottle of Cristal — perhaps I would down the whole lot.
I was suffering a post-euphoric hangover. The evening’s miasma of emotion, the excitement of seeing everything come together, the pleasure of getting ready for the party, not to mention the stimulation of something else — had eddied into a black cloud of depression. Stealing through the foyer to the lifts, I prayed that no one who’d seen the three-ringed circus depart would still be around.
As I balefully eyed the key slot for the magic penthouse floor, a delightful thought came to me, as my fingers closed over the key card in my bag. I smiled wickedly to myself. The imp was back. This morning Miranda had asked for a car back to Surrey tonight. I’d been livid. I’d hired the most expensive bloody changing room in London — The Grayville was not the sort of place that let you have suites by the hour.
Who could object? The suite had been paid for and I knew just the person who would get a kick out of it.
She answered my call immediately.
‘Hi Olivia, where are you? I’ve seen Emily... and you’ll never believe this, I’ve just had the strangest conversation with someone.’
‘Long story. I’m back at the hotel—’
‘When Emily came past, this guy next to me nudged me and said, “That’s my girlfriend.” I wouldn’t mind but he was quite good-looking, not as if he needed to make that sort of stuff up.’
‘Probably just some idiot thought she was a celebrity. There are all sorts of weirdos out there. Now...’ I explained the situation to her.
‘Be there in ten,’ was Kate’s delighted response.
