‘Night night!’ I plant a kiss on her little cheek. ‘See you later!’

‘Mummy.’ Wilfrid stares at Suze in awe. ‘You look like a fish.’

‘Thank you, darling!’ Suze hugs him. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to look like.’

Tarquin has edged over and is fiddling with Wilfrid’s toy train.

‘Maybe I’ll stay here and help look after the children,’ he says. ‘I’d be very happy to—’

‘No!’ Suze and I shout in unison.

‘You’ll love it,’ says Suze, chivvying him out of the room.

‘You might meet Angelina Jolie,’ I chime in.

‘Or Renée Zellweger.’

‘Or Nick Park,’ I say craftily. ‘You know? The Wallace and Gromit man?’

‘Ah!’ says Tarkie, suddenly perking up. ‘The Wrong Trousers. Now, that was a jolly good film.’

The Beverly Hilton is where they hold the Golden Globes. We’re going to the same place they hold the Golden Globes! As our car edges along in early evening traffic, I can barely keep still.

‘Hey, Suze!’ I say suddenly. ‘D’you think it’ll be the exact same red carpet as at the Golden Globes?’

‘Maybe!’

I can tell Suze is as gripped by this idea as I am. She starts rearranging her hair extensions on her shoulders, and I check my lipstick for the millionth time.

I’m not going to waste this opportunity. There are going to be some A-list celebrities at this party, and if I keep my wits about me I can do some major networking. I’ve got my cards in my bag, printed with Rebecca Brandon, Stylist, and I’m planning to work every single conversation I can round to fashion. I just need one influential person to hire me, and then word will spread, and my reputation will grow, and … well, the sky’s the limit.

It’s just finding that one influential person which is the tricky bit.

The car pulls up outside the hotel and I give a little squeak of excitement. There aren’t crowds, like at the Golden Globes, but there are barricades, and banks of photographers, and a red carpet! An actual red carpet! There are big screens with E.Q.U.A.L. printed all over, which is the name of the charity. (It stands for something, but I have no idea what. I don’t think anyone does.) In front of them, an elegant blonde woman in a nude dress is posing for the cameras, along with a bearded man in black tie.

‘Who’s that?’ I say, nudging Suze. ‘Is that Glenn Close?’

‘No, it’s the one out of … you know. That show.’ Suze wrinkles her nose. ‘Oh God, what’s her name …’

‘Look!’ I point ahead at a young guy with spiky hair and a DJ getting out of his limo. Photographers are clustered around the car, clicking away and calling out, but he’s ignoring them, in a totally cool way.

‘Are you ladies ready?’ The limo driver turns to face us.

‘Right. Yes.’ I take a deep breath, calming my nerves.

Suze and I practised all afternoon in her hire car, getting out and taking pictures of each other, and we’ve totally nailed it. We won’t be flashing our underwear, or tripping over our heels. Nor will we wave at the camera, which Suze always wants to do.