Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 60
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“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.
“What now?” says Suze.
“We cause a diversion.” I think for a moment, then squeal, “Oh my God! My Harry Winston earring! Please, everyone! I lost my Harry Winston earring!”
Every woman in the vicinity stops dead in shock. I can see blood draining from faces. You don’t joke about Harry Winston in L.A.
“Oh my God.”
“Harry Winston?”
“How many carats?”
“Please!” I say, almost tearfully. “Help me look!”
About ten women bend down and start patting the carpet.
“What does it look like?”
“Frank, help! She lost her earring!”
“I lost my Harry Winston ring once, we had to empty the whole pool.…”
It’s complete mayhem. There are women on their hands and knees, and people trying to get onto the maroon carpet, and men trying to chivy their wives along, and the security guard keeps calling, “Move along, folks! Please move along!”
At last he drops his rope barrier and comes striding onto the carpet. “Folks, we need to keep moving along.”
“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.
“What now?” says Suze.
“We cause a diversion.” I think for a moment, then squeal, “Oh my God! My Harry Winston earring! Please, everyone! I lost my Harry Winston earring!”
Every woman in the vicinity stops dead in shock. I can see blood draining from faces. You don’t joke about Harry Winston in L.A.
“Oh my God.”
“Harry Winston?”
“How many carats?”
“Please!” I say, almost tearfully. “Help me look!”
About ten women bend down and start patting the carpet.
“What does it look like?”
“Frank, help! She lost her earring!”
“I lost my Harry Winston ring once, we had to empty the whole pool.…”
It’s complete mayhem. There are women on their hands and knees, and people trying to get onto the maroon carpet, and men trying to chivy their wives along, and the security guard keeps calling, “Move along, folks! Please move along!”
At last he drops his rope barrier and comes striding onto the carpet. “Folks, we need to keep moving along.”
