some bags.’ Oh my God. Thoughts of Zara instantly vanish from my head and my heart actually misses a beat. Designing handbags, I’d love to do that. Instinctively, I smooth down my top and check my hair before swigging a mouthful of champagne. ‘Here she is. Now, five minutes only darling. Georgie’s in demand,’ Kelly says to an attractive blonde woman, who looks vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen her in magazines. And then I realise … it’s Anya Hindmarch, designer and manufacturer of exquisite handbags and purses. I’ve read her Wiki page. Oh my God. I love her bags. Annie and I always squeal with delight when a new range arrives for us to sell.
I resist the urge to do a little courtesy in reverence, and shake Anya’s hand instead. We chat about bags for the allocated timeslot and she gives me her business card before Kelly ushers me away. I’m introduced to journalists, brand managers and magazine editors. Someone from Closer magazine thanks me for my column, congratulating me on the in-depth detail and star rating I gave to each product, and promises to send me more goody bags, if I’m interested in doing a few more features – she suggests a special celebrity ‘what’s in your handbag’ piece, where I get to scrutinise the contents of A-list women’s handbags? Err, what do you think? Who wouldn’t want to get a glimpse inside someone like Victoria Beckham’s handbag? I bet it’s crammed full of luxury items and that special tea she likes.
I’m having such an amazing time that when I glance at the crystal clock on the wall at the far end of the room, I’m surprised to see that it’s almost ten p.m. – I haven’t thought about Tom for at least four hours. But then, as if reading my mind, my mobile vibrates in my clutch. I pull it out. Unknown number. I hesitate. What if it’s Tom calling to explain? I’m not sure if I even want to speak to him now. I swallow hard and decide to go for it. I can always hang up if he starts on about having always loved Zara and how he wanted me to hear about the engagement from him first, bla bla bla …
‘Hello?’ I say, finding a quietish corner of the room.
‘Is that Georgie Hart?’ It’s a woman’s voice, but I can barely hear her. I put a finger in my free ear and duck behind a heavy velvet curtain.
‘Yes it is.’
‘Great. Georgie, I’m calling from CAN Associates. Claire would very much like to meet with you.’ Oh my actual God. It’s Claire. Peter Andre’s manager. My jaw drops. I fling the curtain back. Eddie waves over. He is going to S-C-R-E-A-M when he hears about this.
Four shopping weeks until Christmas
There’s an actual courtesy car waiting for me! KCTV have sent a limousine to take me all the way to London, and it’s just arrived outside my flat. I’m off to the red-carpet opening of the cocktail bar in Soho, and Dan Kilby is meeting me there. Kelly suggested I invite him, and when the wealthy Chinese owners of the cocktail bar heard about my properly famous plus one, they trebled the fee, just like that. I check my hair in the hall mirror one last time. Perfect. KCTV also arranged for me to be styled – super big hair, tan, nails, make-up, lashes, and even arranged for me to borrow this exquisite crimson playsuit by Alexander McQueen. It clings in all the right places. A generous spray of the new Dior perfume (there was a 100 ml bottle in the latest goody bag) and I’m ready to go.
We’re in the cocktail bar, which isn’t like any cocktail bar I’ve ever been in before, it’s more how I imagine a gentlemen’s club to be. There is a selection of podiums dotted around, with women in bikinis gyrating around poles. Black flock paper hangs on the walls, with strategically placed mirrors ensuring the audience gets to view everything on offer. And there must be at least four fountains pumping a creamy piña colada concoction up in the air that slides down into goldfish-bowl-sized glasses for people to help themselves to, before popping in straws to sample. At one end of the club is a stage set up on a flight of stairs, each with twinkling blue sparkly speck lights pulsing away in a light show extravaganza. Chinese businessmen in suits are milling around, and everyone else is trying not to stare at Dan, who is leaning casually against the bar next to me with two of his security people hovering nearby.
‘Have you tried one of these?’ he says, pointing to a caramel-coloured mixture in a tall frosted glass.
‘I don’t think so. Is it good?’
‘Sure is. It’s a Baileys Biscotti milkshake. It’s their signature cocktail especially for Christmas,’ Dan explains, over the loud music. He offers me the straw and it tastes divine. Mm-mmm. ‘Shall I get you one?’
‘Sure,’ I say, nodding and smiling.
‘Or we could get out of here?’ he grins, glancing around the club and surreptitiously pulling a face. ‘Not really my thing … ’
‘Or mine.’ I grin too. ‘But aren’t we supposed to have pictures taken with the owners and talk to the press?’ I say, remembering the enormous fee I’m being paid. I can’t really just leave.
‘Probably. But I reckon they have enough publicity shots, don’t you? That guy over there hasn’t stopped taking pictures of us.’ Dan indicates over my right shoulder. I turn around to see a man in jeans and a T-shirt with a zoom camera pointing directly at us.
‘Is he allowed to do that?’
‘The owners are most likely paying him; we’ve been directed to the perfect spot for him to capture us underneath the bar’s logo on the wall behind us,’ Dan explains. ‘Come on. Let’s go. I know the perfect place and I’ll get my manager to square it with the owners, give them a glowing review from us both. This cocktail is awesome, so we’ll make sure we mention that.’ He laughs and takes my hand, nodding at his security men as we leave.
We’re sitting on a squishy double seat in the back row of an old-fashioned cinema, sharing a box of Maltesers. Organ music is playing as we wait for the film to start. It’s a Wonderful Life. A special late-night showing and part of the cinema’s Christmas-themed programme running right up until 24 December. And we’re the only people in here, apart from Dan’s security guys down in the front row, which isn’t surprising as this cinema is tiny and old-fashioned compared to the multiscreen complex over on the industrial estate. In one corner of the stage is a glorious 1950s drinks cabinet complete with chrome cocktail shakers behind sliding glass doors; in the other corner is an old Chesterfield sofa, and the screen is swathed in shimmery gold satin curtains. There’s a lovely, halcyon atmosphere of days gone by. I can just imagine the men in Trilby hats and pinstripe suits with sweethearts in floaty tea dresses, hair set in starlet curls framing rouged cheeks and crimson rosebud lips. The nostalgic images make me feel calm and relaxed.
‘So, what do you think?’ Dan says, turning his head sideways to face me. ‘Better than a sleazy cocktail bar, isn’t it?’
‘It sure is. I love it, and I can’t believe I haven’t been here before,’ I say, taking in his physique – tall and slender. A total contrast to Tom’s muscular athletic build. Stop it! I shove the comparison out of my head. There’s no point. Tom has made his choice, and I just have to accept it. Move on. And Dan is lovely. He chatted all the way back here to Mulberry-On-Sea – about how it’s still his home; he has a beach house in the private development. And how living here keeps him sane. He’s tried the whole fame game, even moving to LA for a bit, but he said that he just felt shallow and miserable most of the time.
The lights dim and the curtains swish back to reveal the screen. I sink into the seat, grateful for the opportunity to switch off and relax for a while, and quieten the analytical voice from going over and over
