It’s all so simple for these girls as it never occurs to them that a world without regular facials might exist. My mum doesn’t wear make-up. ‘Soap and water’ she always says is more than fine. I can hear her now, ‘Your gran always swore by splashing her face with cold water, it closes the pores you know, and she always had beautiful skin.’ As a matter of fact, my mum also has great skin for her age, so perhaps there is something in it after all.
There are times in life, however, when a girl really needs to impress and the GQ Awards is definitely this occasion, especially if the delectable Darcy Drummond is going to be there. He must be used to beautifully groomed and manicured women throwing themselves at him the whole time, so I need to look amazing.
I check out the website for Bliss which is in Oxford Street, but the prices are out of my reach. After much angst, I book myself into the quite well-reviewed Allure on Lower Richmond Road. The prices, though high, are at least possible. The awards ceremony is this evening and I’m really nervous, but figure that all it takes to boost my confidence is a complete makeover. That’s the idea anyway.
Allure turns out to be a little less exciting than the lounge back at our flat and the girl who does my nails is rather worryingly goth-like, dressed in dreary clothes with black fingernails and purple make-up.
A couple of hours later, however, I walk out with freshly waxed legs and a face full of make-up, which looks pretty good I think.
My hair has been professionally washed and styled on big curlers without mishap, and when revealed at the end, is majorly BIG hair. I kind of like it as it gives me a sort of pampered well-groomed look and I don’t look anything like my usual self, which is definitely a good thing.
Upon arriving back at the flat, Mel is impressed, ‘Wow! Someone’s swapped my roomie for a supermodel.’
‘Shut up!’ I return. I know she’s exaggerating but inside I’m secretly quite flattered. I’m ready… move over, Lizzie… Darcy Drummond, here I come…
Chapter 5
‘Can I have your ticket please?’ asks an intimidating burly security guy on the door of the Royal Opera House.
‘Oh yes, of course.’ I scrabble about in my tiny bag, scattering tissues, a concealer stick, and lippy around me while I desperately try to find the elusive card Mark had rather ill-advisedly given me for safekeeping.
‘Here it is.’ I pass the ticket to the doorman with relief. ‘But my friend Mark’s vanished.’
‘He’ll have to catch you up, won’t he, or you’ll have to meet him back here in a while. Look, will you move aside, lady, we’ve got the press team coming through any minute.’
I am unceremoniously squashed against the wall as half a coach load of motley television crew bundle past through the entrance doors. It always amazes me how much room television cameras take up, this is meant to be the digital age where everything seems to have got smaller and more compact. Phones, computers, everything that is except TV cameras, and as for those great big furry mikes, they’re like something left over from the seventies.
A stunningly beautiful woman swathed in a simple sheath dress, which I know must have cost thousands in the way simplicity always does, sweeps in behind the crew. She is surrounded by make-up artists still dabbing at her already perfect, flawlessly made-up face.
‘That’s enough, Harper,’ she snaps, swatting at her assistants as though they are a couple of irritating and particularly persistent flies.
‘Christie?’ calls a large thickset man with a beard who I figure might be the producer. ‘Ready for intro, darling?’
‘I suppose so.’ Christie frowns. Or she would have frowned but her forehead appears suspiciously immobile. ‘This is a pain in the arse. It says in my contract I was to have a day’s prep and you’ve given me two bloody hours, Zach. I won’t do it again, next time you can get Davina to present the awards.’
‘It’ll all be fine. You look incredible as always, darling, you know you do,’ Zach placates expertly.
‘Yoohoo, Christie!’ someone calls from the doorway. It sounds familiar but I can’t quite place the voice.
‘Jessica, darling, how lovely to see you.’ Christie is air kissed by a tall raven-haired, elegant in a skeletal way, woman dressed in a heavenly Louis Vuitton beaded dress.
I can’t believe it, it’s Jessica Palmer-Wright. I shrink back into the shadows, thinking please don’t let her see me. Fortunately, Jessica is too busy hobnobbing with Christie, whoever she is.
‘Darling,’ she breathes, ‘another divine little piece of couture you’re wearing, you lucky thing.’
Christie visibly preens herself, attempting to return the compliment. ‘Look at you. Louis Vuitton, I presume?’
‘This old thing?’ Jessica Palmer-Wright dismisses her frighteningly expensive dress with a nonchalant sweep of her arms.
I’m still hiding, half transfixed by their ridiculous charade and half terrified they will spy me standing alone in the shadow of the door frame. Thank goodness the two of them sweep off into the Opera House together and I finally spot Mark wandering about inside the foyer looking relaxed and on fleek as usual.
‘Mark!’ I shout across the doorway as he comes into view again the other side of a pillar. ‘Thanks for waiting.’
‘Sophie! Looking fabulous, darling. You scrub up well after all.’ Mark saunters over and air kisses me four times on either side of my face in true Modiste fashion. I’ve never got used to this habit although it finally dawns on me that the reason for such a seemingly pointless practice is so make-up is left intact. I guess it’s never occurred to me before as I don’t normally wear it. ‘Sorry, darling, amazing coincidence, I just bumped into Will, my old chum from the good old days of working at Men’s Fitness magazine. And pretty fit he is too I can tell you, such a shame he’s straight. Would have done for you though, darling, if you hadn’t set your heart on Mr Darcy! Speaking of which, have you spotted him yet?’
‘No.’ I shush him, flushing bright red as we’re surrounded by crowds of people thronging into the building. ‘You’re so embarrassing, Mark.’
‘Why? Might as well let him know you like him from the start. No point faffing around.’
I begin to have second thoughts about this whole idea as Mark is about as subtle as a blow to the head with a sledgehammer. Not that I haven’t been fantasising about how I will meet Darcy. First it might be a discreet glance across a crowded room. He would suddenly notice me and be irresistibly drawn to my side, making his way across the floor, a bit like Matthew Macfadyen with Keira Knightley in the 2005 Pride and Prejudice, except they were outside in a field and it was misty. I want him to gaze at me, although maybe not in a creepy stalker way, and not controlling either. Just romantic – you know what I mean.
‘Miss Johnson,’ he would say in a really deep sexy voice, taking my hand in his and drawing it to his lips, ‘would you do me the very great honour of dancing with me?’
‘Sophie? Hello?’ Oops, awkward, Mark is trying to attract my attention… ‘Shall we go in or are you intending to hide in the doorway all evening?’