Charge up all hair removal devices
Buy shape-enhancing body suit
Complete daily ‘Core Crusher’ workouts on Asana Rebel. NO EXCUSES.
COLLAGEN!
DIY living room panelling
Find out where kids are hiding socks
Fix mortgage rate
Descale kettle
The Television Critics Association Awards aren’t as well known as the Baftas but they have some things in common. First, they take the form of a glittering ceremony, in this case in London’s Park Lane, with stars of the small screen flying in from as far afield as LA, Paris and Milton Keynes. Second, everyone in the room desperately wants to win, whatever they say about being honoured just to be nominated. Third, the most eventful parts of the evening tend to happenafterthe main event.
I’ve been to many an awards do in my time and haveallthe backstage gossip. I’ve seen famously married showbiz couples suggest threesomes with waiters, newsreaders line up coke on toilet cisterns and – most excitingly – once chased Jupiter fromGladiatorsdown a corridor to tell her she had some loo roll stuck on her high heel. She was suitably grateful.
They are, above all, a lot of fun and certainly the glitzier side of my job. It’s also reassuring to know that, of the plethora of paparazzi in attendance, most rarely have the urge to photograph me. They want Emilia Clarke and Felicity Jones; they want Helen Mirren and whoever it was that took part in the most recentI’m A Celebrity.
Nevertheless, you still want to look good, not least because anonymity is by no means guaranteed. Once, when I was running late for the Baftas, I forgot to shave my underarms, so had to walk round with my hands pinned to my sides like an emperor penguin. Unfortunately, I ended up in theDaily Maillike that after inadvertently standing behind the Duchess of York for a red carpet shot. It only made page 34, but still.
I tell myself thatthisis the reason I am putting so much preparation into my appearance for this forthcoming date in the calendar. That it has nothing to do with the – as yet unconfirmed – possibility Zach will also be there.
Since our email exchange the week before last, I have gone to great lengths to make it clear that I have not given him a second thought. When we see each other at work, we exchange a curt hello. We’ve had a single meeting together in which I refused to meet his eye. I have managed to avoid any one-to-one contact, unless you count once bumping into him in the coffee shop opposite the office. He offered me a sachet of sugar and I mumbled a ‘no thanks’, before shuffling out as quickly as possible.
If ever my thoughts drift to his muscles and the dimple in his chin while I’m lying in bed at night, I simply whip out the Philippa Perry book and turn my attention to being a better parent instead. My dreams are another matter. I have recently experienced a cornucopia of erotic fantasies involving isolated rockpools on white sandy beaches, the velvet, womblike corners of theatre cloakrooms, the main lift at work and – always, always, always – Zach Russo.
