He takes my hand and we walk into the Opera House.
There are handsome men in black tie everywhere, beautiful women in long glittering dresses and flashing lights dazzling us as press photographers snap important people as they enter. We’re efficiently ushered by elegantly attired waiters to the Paul Hamlyn Hall and once inside, I have to remind myself to remember to breathe.
The room is like a giant conservatory with large round tables swathed in elegant white cloths, the chairs covered also. The lighting is subtle and, I desperately hope, flattering. I’m still not really comfortable with wearing this much make-up. I’d like to stop and just drink it all in but am propelled instead towards a table as everyone is sitting themselves down. I find my name and go to take my seat before noticing with dismay that Mark’s name is not next to mine.
‘Are you sitting the other side of the table?’ I ask hopefully, but he shakes his head.
‘I did think I might be over with the guys from GQ,’ he says, ‘but you’re a big girl now, Sophie, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.’ He leans in towards me and adds in a loud stage whisper, ‘Make sure you network. That’s what these things are all about. I’ve got you in here, don’t waste the opportunity.’
I plonk myself down with a sinking heart, that horrible feeling washing over me, the one I used to get when I was the new girl at school in the canteen at lunchtime with nowhere to sit. I thought I’d forgotten what it felt like but the sense of abandonment flooded over me as though it were yesterday. If only I knew someone from somewhere, but glancing around there aren’t any familiar friendly faces. Then I take a deep breath, tell myself firmly to get a grip, and hold my head up. I have a degree from Oxford, for goodness sake, I can handle one little awards dinner.
‘Hello,’ I squeak to the rather gruff-looking old man next to me. ‘I’m Sophie, nice to meet you, er…?’
‘Henry.’
Oh sigh of relief, it’s worked, he’s talking to me. ‘Sir Henry Greaves, Corporate Banking. And you are?’
‘Sophie, Sophie Johnson.’
‘And what do you do, Sophie Johnston?’
‘It’s Johnson actually. Erm, I work for Modiste, it’s a fashion magazine.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he returns abruptly. ‘Haven’t been living in a hole my entire life, y’know. What position do you hold there?’
I sweep away a childish desire to reply, ‘None of your business,’ but I don’t. Instead, I force myself to smile pleasantly, ‘I work in Classified Sales.’
‘Oh,’ he says with an air of finality and turns back to continue his discussion with the lady on his other side about shares and mergers. And that’s it, the conversation is at an end.
And I’m not joking, that’s the last time he talks to me all evening, which is kind of awkward as he’s sitting on my right, leaving me with only the man on my left to talk to, if he’s vaguely normal. I peek casually at him. He’s younger and, oh hello, quite nice looking actually. And he smiles at me when I catch his eye.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘We’d better introduce ourselves if we are sitting together this evening. I’m Rupert.’
This is more like it. I relax a little. ‘Hi, Rupert, I’m Sophie, pleased to meet you.’
‘You too. These things can be a bit of a bore but the food’s top notch and there’s always plenty of Bolly.’
‘That’s something, I guess, and hopefully you don’t need to ask me what I do.’ I laugh. Oh dear, perhaps I’ve had rather too much wine already.
‘Why would I do that? Though I guess it is something to start a conversation.’
‘And end it.’ I eyeball in a totally non-subtle manner towards the old chap the other side of me. ‘I hate it when people make irrational judgements on what I do. What does he know anyway, the old duffer?’
‘He’s the MD of Zenton Banking in the City, and also my uncle actually.’
‘Oh.’
And that’s the end of that conversation. This just gets worse.
I don’t know how I get through dinner. It seems to go on forever as there are several courses and interminable choices to make, such as which cutlery to use next. My coping strategy is to try everything put in front of me and down each different drink offered, probably not a good idea as I have a habit of slurping wine more frequently when nervous, and the attentive waiter keeps topping it up so I’ve lost track of how much I’ve had.
Having blown all chances of reasonable conversation in my immediate vicinity, I smile at the elegant and stylish lady opposite, hoping to find an ally, but she’s far too busy trying to impress Rupert, nephew of rich old duffer. I look across at Mark, trying to catch his eye, but he’s having a whale of a time as usual, laughing and joking – the life and soul of the party.
While I am gazing wistfully, one of the paps come up and snap some pics of him and his smiling comrades. I make a mental note to look for these in the next edition of Hello. I have been craning my neck, in a subtle way of course, to try to spot Darcy Drummond, but can’t really see much except the people talking and laughing on the tables around me.
Just as I’m thinking I could maybe escape to the ladies at least for a respite from looking like Norma no mates, and also for something to do as I’m pretty bored, there’s a chinking of a glass and the chatter dulls to a quiet murmur.
‘Pray silence for your hostess, Christie Salvatore!’
The sickeningly beautiful Christie, whose arrival and diva tendencies I’m well acquainted with from earlier, sashays onto the platform, smiling dazzlingly at the room. She looks totally different from before as she’s now on a charm offensive. Effortlessly taking the stage, she flirts, teases and woos her audience. I have to admire it in spite of my dislike for her. She’s not only made presenting a fine craft, she’s truly captivating, having just the right amount of intro to each product, building the suspense to the big reveal of each category winner who is rewarded with multiple air kisses.
I try to view the proceedings by edging slightly higher in my seat, ignoring the disapproving glares of Sir Henry Greaves on my right. There’s a table near the front where a glamorous older woman catches my eye. She must be about sixty, with long diamond earrings and huge jewels sparkling on her fingers, enormous like knuckledusters. She’s very attractive in a carefully made-up way, her hair is smartly coiffured and she looks rather like a 1940s film star with impossibly raven hair, impeccably defined brows, bright red lipstick and long black gloves.
I glance at the man sitting next to her, then start in my seat. It’s Darcy Drummond and, oh my, he’s absolutely gorgeous. Even better looking than his pics, if that’s possible. He has dark, casually arranged, windswept hair and slight stubble. He’s fit too, especially in black tie. As I gaze at him transfixed, I notice his lips are firmly closed together and he appears thoroughly bored by the proceedings, although I can understand that. He’s fiddling with his napkin like a little kid.
The expensively dressed woman on his left touches his arm and tries to engage him in conversation. On closer inspection, I realise it’s Jessica Palmer-Wright, the cow; she would be there right next to him. She always seems to be everywhere I don’t want her to be. In fact, she always seems to be everywhere full stop. I gaze at her, trying not to notice the flirty long eyelashes, her hard, insincere smile, the tiny gap in her front teeth, the somehow intimate gestures as she pats Darcy’s hand, laughing coquettishly at the tiniest thing he says. God, I’ve got to stop obsessing like this, he’s not mine after all, he doesn’t even know I exist.