‘Ready?’ Suze is grinning tremulously.

‘Ready!’

The limo driver has opened the door on my side. I give my hair a last-minute pat and take my most elegant step out, waiting for the flash of bulbs, the shouts, the clamour …

Oh. What?

Where did all the cameras go? They were here a minute ago. I turn round, discomfited, and see them all clustered around another limo, behind us. Some red-haired girl in blue is getting out of it and smiling prettily around. I don’t even recognize her. Is she a real celebrity?

Suze emerges from the limo beside me, and looks around, bewildered.

‘Where are the photographers?’

‘There.’ I point. ‘With her.’

‘Oh.’ She looks as disconsolate as me. ‘What about us?’

‘I suppose we’re not celebrities,’ I say reluctantly.

‘Well, never mind.’ Suze brightens. ‘We’ve still got the red carpet. Come on!’ Tarquin has got out of the limo too, and she grabs him by the arm. ‘Red-carpet time!’

As we get close to the hotel, there are loads of people milling about in black tie, but we manage to push our way through to the entrance to the red carpet. I’m fizzing with anticipation. This is it!

‘Hi!’ I beam at the security guard. ‘We’re guests.’ I proffer our invitations, and he scans them dispassionately.

‘This way, ma’am.’ He points away from the celebs, to some kind of side route which a crowd of people in evening dress are filing down.

‘No, we’re going to the benefit,’ I explain.

‘That’s the way to the benefit.’ He nods, and opens a rope barrier. ‘Have a good evening.’

He doesn’t get it. Maybe he’s a bit slow.

‘We need to go this way.’ I gesture clearly to the bank of photographers.

‘On the red carpet,’ puts in Suze. She points at our invitation. ‘It says, “Red Carpet Entrance”.’

‘This is the red carpet, ma’am.’ He points at the side route again, and Suze and I exchange looks of dismay.

OK, I suppose strictly speaking there is a carpet. And it is a kind of dull red. But don’t tell me that’s where we’re supposed to go.

‘It’s not red,’ objects Suze. ‘It’s maroon.’

‘And there aren’t any photographers or anything. We want to walk on that red carpet.’ I point behind him.

‘Only Gold List Guests will be walking that red carpet, ma’am.’

Gold List Guests? Why aren’t we Gold List Guests?

‘Come on,’ says Tarkie, clearly bored. ‘Shall we go in, have a titchy?’

‘But the red carpet’s the whole point! Hey, look, there’s Sage Seymour!’ Sage is talking earnestly to a TV camera. ‘She’s my friend,’ I say to the security guard. ‘She wants to say hello.’

‘There’ll be a chance to greet her inside the benefit,’ says the security guard implacably. ‘Could you move along, ma’am? People are waiting behind you.’

We don’t have any choice. Morosely, we all move through the barrier and start down the Non-Gold List, Totally Inferior Sub-Red Carpet. I don’t believe it. I thought we’d be on the red carpet with Sage and all the famous people. Not filing along like cattle down some dimly lit maroon carpet that has stains on it.