‘Hey, Suze,’ I whisper suddenly. ‘Let’s go round again. See if we can get on the proper red carpet.’

‘Definitely,’ says Suze. ‘Hey, Tarkie,’ she says more loudly. ‘I need to adjust my bra. I’ll see you in there, OK? Get us a titchy.’

She hands him his invitation, then we swing round and begin to hurry back up the non-red carpet. There are so many people piling down by now, in evening dress and jewels and clouds of scent, it feels as if we’re like fish swimming against a very sparkly, glamorous tide.

‘Sorry,’ I keep saying. ‘Just forgot something … Excuse me …’

At last we reach the top of the carpet, and pause for a breather. The security guard is still standing at his post, directing people down the maroon carpet. He hasn’t spotted us yet, but that’s because we’re hidden behind a screen.

‘What now?’ says Suze.

‘We cause a diversion.’ I think for a moment, then squeal, ‘Oh my God! My Harry Winston earring! Please, everyone! I lost my Harry Winston earring!’

Every woman in the vicinity stops dead in shock. I can see blood draining from faces. You don’t joke about Harry Winston in LA.

‘Oh my God.’

‘Harry Winston?’

‘How many carats?’

‘Please!’ I say, almost tearfully. ‘Help me look!’

About ten women bend down and start patting the carpet.

‘What does it look like?’

‘Frank, help! She lost her earring!’

‘I lost my Harry Winston ring once, we had to empty the whole pool …’

It’s complete mayhem. There are women on their hands and knees, and people trying to get on to the maroon carpet, and men trying to chivvy their wives along, and the security guard keeps calling, ‘Move along, folks! Please move along!’

At last he drops his rope barrier and comes striding on to the carpet.

‘Folks, we need to keep moving along.’

‘Ow! You trod on my hand!’ cries out a woman.

‘Don’t step on the earring!’ exclaims another.

‘Did someone find the earring?’

‘What earring?’ He looks at the end of his tether. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘Now,’ I whisper in Suze’s ear. ‘Run!’

Before I can think twice, we’re both careering up the maroon carpet, past the unattended velvet-rope check-point and on to the red carpet … I can’t help laughing out loud with glee. We’re there! On the actual, proper, red carpet! Suze looks pretty exhilarated, too.

‘We did it!’ she says. ‘Now, that’s what I call red.’

I look around, getting my bearings, whilst trying to stand properly and smile. The carpet’s definitely red. It also feels quite big and empty, which is maybe because all the photographers have turned away. As Suze and I move slowly along we’re doing our best Hollywood poses, elbows out and everything. But not one cameraman is taking a picture. Some of them are still clustered around the young guy with spiky hair, and the others are chatting or on the phone.

I mean, I know we’re not exactly famous, but still. I feel quite aggrieved on behalf of Suze, who looks absolutely gorgeous.