This was followed a few nights later by a Notting Hill Gate soiree for another author who shares my agent, given in one of those incredibly grand houses which open their gardens to the public once a year just to show us plebs how the other 0.01 percent grow roses artfully over the conservatory. It was achingly lovely - the party, the house, the hostess, and possibly the author but I admit I've gone off him since he was sniffy about the fact that my own book launch was held in a pub. Snob.
Mr T was already installed with a glass in one hand and suitably interested guest in the other.
'I didn't know you were coming,' he said, managing not to sound disappointed.
'Ah but I knew you were coming because I RSVP'd for you, and of course, as you know, old Chuckie is a friend of mine and this is my manor.'
Okay, well it's not my manor. It's Lady Somebody Rather Impressive's manor, but although I live somewhat to the north of the area, it is still, with a small, geographical stretch of the post code, my neighbourhood. In fact I saw many people I knew. My husband's cousin was there with his wife. David Macmillan and Arabella Pollen whose son went to school with mine and who was good-natured enough to greet me enthusiastically were also there. It was very, very starry. I saw friends, neighbours, countrymen and a lovely redhead (I have a weakness for redheaded women) whose daughter used to go to nursery school with my anarchist back in theri finger-painting days. I felt like I was in an episode of This is Your Life and that everyone had gathered especially for me. I think I knew more people there than at my own book launch - so thanks for that Chuckie - I got the classy party after all by virtue of association.
As I was just about to leave I found myself speaking to two diminutive men, and yes, I know, I think everyone is short and that I'm an Amazonian Queen just because I'm wearing heels, but I am convinced I could look at the top of their heads from on high. One was sporting brightly coloured Christopher Biggins specs of the sort architects used to wear in the 80s to underline that they are creative people, or which Children's entertainers use to denote that they are fun. He was funny and nice and told me he had noticed me earlier which I took as a compliment and not to mean that I looked like a lighthouse on a particularly rugged coastline in my red dress. We chatted the sort of drivel you chat about at parties - and it seemed to me, though I admit I'm out of practice in these things - that there was a little bit of mutual appreciation going on. I was thoroughly enjoying myself until the glamorous redhead came up to me and put her arm around me and asked me to remind her of the name of my book.
'It's called The Lost Wife's Tale,' I said, preening a little (look two glasses of wine on an empty stomach followed by two crackers with pate do not provide fertile ground for modesty) as Mr Red Specs' face fell a little.
'Do you all know each other,' I asked, getting ready to launch into the story of how we met all those years ago...
'Yes darling,' said beautiful red head, 'Do you know, that Marion's son was at nursery with Doone... (presumably the elder sister of Eyre and Mansfield) and she's just written a novel...' she continued as I realised that far from being strangers, I had in fact been chatting up her husband for the previous ten minutes. That was the end of that beautiful romance. I do think that couples should be made to wear badges at parties, just to save embarrassment. Turned out the other man had a daughter who was in my girl's class at school. I once had to ring him when she disappeared to see if she was holing up there. It's a small ruddy world. Too darn small.
A weathered aristo in a fortified blonde perm joined us and reached into her handbag to reveal a packet of Camels (particularly apt given her complexion - they should put that on the side instead of a health warning), from which she drew one, and lit it up. Just then my literary friend, approached and said she had run out of fags. I resisted the obvious pun and told her to ask the Dowager for a smoke.
Dowager looked us in the eye and without missing a beat said: 'I'm afraid I don't have any cigarettes,' and kept on puffing.
You see that's how the rich stay rich (and married). They hold on to what belongs to them. And they don't share.
