The days before the big night seemed to last a lifetime. I even had to work another premiere in the run-up, and enviously watched the guests saunter up the red carpet without a care in the world. Very soon, I reassured myself, that would be me. I’d bought a new outfit for the occasion, something that was high street, but could never be described as ‘just another dress’. With a low-cut neckline and swishing fishtail, I was out to make a statement. The day before, I humiliated myself by putting on paper knickers and allowing a stranger to spray me mahogany, to give me that LA radiance. Debuting the whole ensemble in front of my housemate Erica that night – who as my ‘date’ was also primping and preening like a TOWIE girl – I couldn’t help but think back to the disparaging comments I’d had about my showbiz obsession back at college. Of course, interest rates and global warming are much more urgent topics of discussion than the latest blockbuster in the grand scheme of things, but nothing could compare to this for pure excitement. Showbiz should be exciting. Empty it may occasionally be, but is there really anything wrong with simple fun? Back at university, Erica and I had bonded over a mutual love of Ewan McGregor nude scenes and perfecting the moves to ‘The Macarena’, so I knew she’d be my perfect companion. The last person you want next to you at a premiere is someone who takes it all seriously.
Leicester Square seemed extra packed that night; clambering through the crowds to the start of the carpet proved especially difficult in four-inch heels, one of which I’d already managed to get unceremoniously stuck in the groove of a London Underground escalator. I was starting to feel a little sweaty from the exertion, and began to dream about the kind of chauffeur-driven limo that transports most celebs to premieres. I just had to hope I could pass off my hot flush as ‘glow’.
Eventually we reached the security men who were guarding the sacred carpet from the great unwashed and, after flashing my tickets at them with a degree of smugness that even I was surprised by, we were let on to the crimson runway. It stretched ahead of us for about 100 metres, stopping just short of the cinema doors – but now was not the time to pull a Usain Bolt, I would be taking this slowly, savouring every second. On our left were fans and autograph hunters, many of whom would have been camped out since this morning in order to get a good position. On our right, the journalists, familiar faces largely, but they looked different from this angle, as if they were more bored than excited. But I didn’t want to be reminded of my day job. I took a deep breath, blocked them out and began my journey.
And then came the deafening sound of … silence. As we strutted up the carpet, the colour drained even from my fake-tanned skin as I found myself being firmly put into place. No one shouted my name. No one took a photo. And, of course, from my colleagues in the press pen, there was not one request for an interview. All I saw on their faces was an expression that said ‘Who does she think she is?’
I soon started to quicken my pace, desperate to get the whole experience over with quickly. I’d hoped to feel, just for a moment, like a part of the celeb world; in the end, I’d never felt further away from it. While a red carpet might feel like home for the famous, the screams of fans serving as a validation of their work, for someone unknown like me it is the loneliest place in the world.
Eventually inside, I had another humiliation to suffer. I bumped into a girl from a rival magazine, like me she was there as a guest, and was chatting to a group of people I knew from a local radio station. They’d been sent a whole bunch of invites too. Still dressed in their work clothes, they looked me up and down, smiled sympathetically at all the effort I’d gone to, then carried on their conversation. A journalist trying to be glam was obviously ‘so not cool’.
Since that night, I’ve learnt an important lesson about premieres: eventually everyone gets invited. Of course, film companies send out wads of tickets – they want the event to look busy and buzzing. It wouldn’t do to have empty seats at a premiere; after all, they don’t want their star to look out from the stage as they introduce the movie only to be greeted by the sight of a half-full auditorium. So us ‘regular’ people in the media get invited. We’re needed only for our bulk.
Erica gave my hand a reassuring squeeze as we walked down the aisle. We took our seats – just regular chairs at the back of a cinema I’d sat in many times before. The sheen was rapidly vanishing from the evening. More people, all of whom looked as if they’d come straight from the office, took the seats around us. The only ‘celebrities’ visible in the vicinity were a dance duo who’d found minor fame on a TV talent show a couple of years earlier. While the ticket may have said that we must be seated by 6.45 p.m. sharp, at 7.20 p.m. we were still no nearer to watching the film. We sat there waiting, uncertain what to say, munching loudly on the free packets of Maltesers that had been placed on our seats. I started to feel nostalgic for the cosiness of my office, with my dazzling computer screen and my trusty cuppa. Finally, after 45 minutes, the producer and stars of the film appeared on the stage to introduce the movie. But, as the lights went down, I saw them slip out of the fire exit with their entourages, heading off into the night to do something far more sexy and exclusive than watching their movie with a bunch of nobodies. I slipped off my high heels and curled up into the seat – as much as I could curl up in that bloody dress, anyway – wishing I could just go home.
Thankfully, I wasn’t allowed to. The film, which to add insult to injury, was terrible, wrapped up and Erica virtually dragged me up to the waiting buses that were shipping us all out to a party venue down by the Thames. I knew that I was about to get a talking to.
‘Holly Forrest, you listen to me. You might not be a superstar and the movie that you took me to might have sucked big time, but that’s no reason for our night to end on a downer, okay? Let’s get on this bus, let’s sit on the back seat like naughty schoolgirls, then let’s go to the party and drink too much and dance like idiots. Are you with me or are you with me?’
I swear Erica could have been a sergeant major in another life.
So that’s exactly what we did. Until four in the morning, if you really want to know. And the best thing about all of it? Almost every celebrity we saw there looked miserable, unable to really let their hair down because they know it’s never good to be photographed looking worse for wear. But us? We could do whatever we wanted and no one would care – two deliriously drunk, happily carefree nobodies.
In the same way that I only really understood a lot of Absolutely Fabulous after I’d started mingling with similarly hilarious PR women, I only really ‘got’ a lot of romantic comedy films once I’d started to analyse my own life as a media girl. On inspection, my day-to-day existence looked a lot like the plot of a Katherine Heigl movie – without the benefit of actually looking like her. It’s no surprise that so many ‘chick flicks’ have their lead characters work in journalism (The Devil Wears Prada, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and Confessions of a Shopaholic to name but a few). It’s a world rammed with confused women – women who, on the one hand, are desperate to prove themselves in a career by working every hour that God sends, but on the other wanting to lead a normal life: spend time with friends, have a relationship, maybe even a family. Of course, it is possible to do a bit of both. The fact that it’s not exactly easy, however, is the kind of dramatic conundrum that every rom-com screenwriter in Hollywood wets themselves with excitement about.
Take my friendship group as a case in point.
It’s a Sunday afternoon and I’m cosying up by the fire in my North London local with my friends, relaxing after a hard week (the previous Wednesday had witnessed the BRIT Awards – always exhausting) and enjoying a massive roast dinner. My housemate Erica is one of my oldest cronies, she’s the kind of girl I can talk to about anything. She works in the media too, though less on the journalistic side and more in marketing. At work she’s a ball-busting