of photographers are positioned either side of the entrance steps, where they are being monitored by security guards in dark suits. Not that the press are likely to get out of hand today. On an event like this, which is supposedly not about the stars, there probably won’t be any outrageous outfits on display for the paps to get in a frenzy over, which is a shame. I like female celebrities to always go the whole hog – I want to see them sucked in by Spanx, splattered in Swarovski crystals, feet scrunched into podiatrist-baiting high heels and heading for the ‘What Was She Thinking?’ pages of a trashy magazine. Otherwise, what’s the point of them?
I wait in a holding area for ten minutes before the people carrier draws up with Payton at the wheel. Nicholas sticks his head out the front passenger window.
‘You’ve scrubbed up more than adequately, darling,’ he says, eyeballing me.
I eyeball him back, knowing that I have scrubbed up way more than ‘adequately’ in a clingy, short, charcoal-grey dress (a decent – if you don’t come too close – Alexander McQueen rip-off from ASOS for £39) worn with no hosiery (my legs are smothered in that chip-fat style body grease the models in the Versace adverts are always varnished with), smoky eyes, nude lips and just-got-out-of-bed-hair (which took an hour and a half to perfect two hours after I initially got out of bed). On my feet I am wearing truffle-coloured Marni shoe boots (Adele’s) and in my hand I am holding a flat leather clutch (ditto), which is more of a yellowy beige. Nothing is more damaging than ‘matchy-matchy’ accessorising – it can make an outfit look very cheap. Especially when it is.
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ I tell Nicholas. ‘I’m not here because of your lecture on being some sort of desperate old husk.’
‘No?’ He smirks at me as the window whirs up. ‘Of course, you aren’t.’
The back door of the people carrier slides open and Barb lowers herself onto the tarmac. She is wearing a metallic dress that coils down into a twisted fish tail, with stilettos and a feathered head-dress. That’s more like it.
She whistles at me. ‘Check you out. Cinder-freakin’-ella is certainly going to the ball.’
‘Cheers.’ I smile. ‘Although, I can’t afford to lose one of these shoes. They’re not mine.’
‘Lose? Ha!’ Barb cackles. ‘Cinderella didn’t lose that goddamn slipper. Girlfriend clearly had an agenda. Can’t blame her though … did what she could to get out of a bad situation. You have to admire that.’
Maximilian gets out of the people carrier next. He jumps down next to Barb.
‘And here’s Prince Charmless,’ I mutter. ‘Hi, Maximilian, you look …’ I glance casually at him, ‘… nice.’
Make that dazzling. His complexion is ultra matte and unblemished, except for the jagged scar, which I have a feeling could have been accentuated with cosmetics. His hair is artfully tousled and gelled to give the appearance of being ever so slightly wet, as if he could either have just leapt out of the shower or out of some dangerous rapids after rescuing a baby deer from drowning. His pectoral and stomach muscles are conspicuously nudging the fabric of a precisely washed-out grey T-shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up so that the full curve of each bicep is on display. The indigo-blue jeans he is wearing are also exquisitely distressed and tucked half in/half out of his scuffed hiking boots. Barb must employ a crack team of men with a similar physique to Maximilian to wear his brand-new clothes until they are sufficiently worn-looking for him to pop on.
‘Hi, Vivian. You look nice too.’ He gives me a pointed look and pauses as Barb goes over to the wing mirror to redo her lipstick. Then he lowers his voice. ‘About what happened at my house … I should have said something when Nicholas spoke to you like that, but I’m …’
‘An arsehole. As well as a pretentious wanker.’
‘No, well …’ He gives me one of his very slight smiles. ‘Sometimes. But not on that occasion. Look, this is going to make me sound like a tool, but before you arrived I was in a shitty mood about the stuff Parks printed … and then I got some bad news about the sequel for The Simple Truth. The producers are looking to cast someone else as Jack Chase.’
‘Yeah, I overheard. Your publicist doesn’t have the quietest voice.’
‘I was gutted. I still am … and before you have a pop at me, I am fully aware that there are worse things going on in the world than my inability to re-secure the lead role in an action franchise.’
‘Yeah? Name one …’
He ignores me and continues. ‘The thing is, I don’t want to lose the part. I can’t. That character means so much to me. I made him. I am him. I believe in him.’
I laugh. ‘I bet you had an imaginary friend as a child.’
‘Forget it,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You clearly can’t give the back chat a rest for five minutes, can you? I was only trying to be honest with you.’
I allow myself to stare at him again. The sincerity written over his face makes me uncomfortable. It’s not just Jack Chase he believes in … he believes in himself. I don’t let myself consider if that look has ever been written on my face.
‘Okay, okay … so, who might nick your role, then?’ I ask.
‘We’re hearing rumours that JP Goldstein wants Orlando Bloom.’
‘Ha! It’s not 2006 … since then it has been proven that Bloom only works well as part of an ensemble cast in a fantastical location with some form of historical weaponry at hand; bow and arrow, sword, sickle – delete as applicable. If he ever plays the lead in a modern setting the film flops.’
Maximilian thinks for a second. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in one.’
‘Exactly, neither has the rest of the developed world. If you wanted to feel really confident, though, I suggest you take a look at Elizabethtown, which Orly stars in with Kirsten Dunst. There’s a scene in it where they speak to each other on the phone till dawn. It’s excruciating. They should have used it on a loop as one of the torture devices in a Saw movie.’
Amusement flickers across Maximilian’s face. ‘Thanks for coming, Vivian, I appreciate it.’
‘That’s okay, but I haven’t come here because of you.’
And that wasn’t more back chatting. I genuinely have not. Nor have I come – as Nicholas has assumed – because he goaded me into it. Nor have I come – as Barb has assumed – hoping that the event will serve as the defibrillator for my flat-lining career. Nor have I come because I’m not exactly thrilled with Luke’s plans for this evening. The reason I came is because it’s my birthday and therefore essential I distract myself as much as possible, to stop me thinking about my other birthday, that one, when it … the darkness … descended …
Barb totters over and slaps Maximilian on the back. ‘Shake out the tension, Maxy. Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out …’
‘Calm down, Barb,’ he replies, as he hunches his shoulders up then releases them, in quick succession. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t done this sort of thing before. I’ll be fine.’
‘I know, but it’s been a while. You’re bound to be feeling the pressure. After the torture and isolation you suffered last year …’ She drifts off – a pained expression on her face, as if it wasn’t that long ago her client was unzipping an orange boiler suit after a stretch in Guantanamo Bay, not packing his jim-jams after a two-thousand-euro-per-night stay at a leading Swiss clinic.
Nicholas opens the passenger door and nods at Maximilian. ‘Remember what I said, Fry. I want you looking suitably moved during the awards – some mild welling-up will suffice – and keep yourself in check if you bump into Parks. Oh, and get some decent shots with the kids. Go for the ones who have obviously been through the mill.