'Loads,' I say, a bit offended. 'I've picked up a lot from Golden Peace, you know, Suze. I've done conflict resolution, and everything. "To understand everything is to forgive everything,"' I can't resist quoting. 'Buddha.'
'OK, if you're such an expert, sort out this conflict.' Suze points at Wilfie and Clemmie, who are fighting desperately over some tiny plastic animal.
'Er ... hey, Wilfie! Clemmie!' I call out. 'Who wants a sweetie?'
Both children instantly stop tussling and hold out their hands.
'There!' I say smugly.
'Is that how you're going to sort out Luke and Elinor?' scoffs Suze. 'Offer them sweeties?'
'Of course not,' I say with dignity. 'I'll use a variety of techniques.'
'Well, I still think it's risky.' She shakes her head. 'Very risky.'
'"One cannot refuse to eat simply because there is a risk of being choked,"' I say wisely. 'Chinese proverb.'
'Bex, stop talking like a bloody T-shirt!' Suze suddenly flips out. 'I hate this stupid Golden Peace place! Talk about something normal. What are you going to wear for the benefit? And don't say something stupid like, "Clothes are a metaphor for the soul."'
'I wasn't going to!' I retort.
Actually, that's quite good. I might drop that into a class at Golden Peace. Clothes are a metaphor for the soul.
Maybe I'll get it printed on canvas and give it to Suze for Christmas.
'Why are you smiling?' says Suze suspiciously.
'No reason!' I force my mouth straight. 'So. What are you going to wear to the benefit?'
ELEVEN.
Suze can talk about shopping. She can talk about shopping!
Not only has she bought a new dress for the benefit, she's bought new shoes, a new necklace and new hair. New hair. She didn't even tell me she was doing it. One moment she was 'popping out to the hairdresser', and the next she was walking back in the door with the most luscious, glossy extensions I've ever seen. They stream down to her waist in a blonde river, and what with that and the tanned legs she looks like a movie star herself.
'You look fantastic,' I say honestly, as we stand in front of my mirror. She's in a beaded shift, the colour of a glassy sea, and her necklace has a mermaid on it. I've never seen a mermaid necklace before, but now I'm desperate for one, too.
'Well, so do you!' says Suze at once.
'Really?' I pluck at my dress, which is Zac Posen and very flattering around the waist, though I say so myself. I've styled it with my Alexis Bittar necklace and my hair is in a really complicated up-do, all little plaits and waves. Plus, I've been practising how to stand on the red carpet. I found a guide on the internet, and printed it out for both of us. Legs crossed, elbow out, chin tucked in. I take up my pose, and Suze copies me.
'I look like I've got a double chin,' she says fretfully. 'Are you sure this is right?'
'Maybe we're tucking our chins in too much.'
I lift my chin, and immediately look like a soldier. Suze, meanwhile, is doing a perfect Posh Spice pose. She has the expression and everything.
'That's it!' I say excitedly. 'Only, smile.'
'I can't stand like this and smile,' says Suze, sounding strained. 'I think you have to be double-jointed to get it right. Tarkie!' she calls as he passes the open door. 'Come and practise being photographed!'
Tarquin has looked shell-shocked ever since Suze appeared with extensions. Now he looks like a condemned man. Suze has forced him into a tailored Prada DJ, complete with narrow black tie and dapper shoes. I mean, he looks very good, for Tarkie. He's tall and strapping, and his hair has been artfully mussed by Suze. He just looks so ... different.
'You should wear Prada all the time, Tarkie!' I say, and he blanches.
'Stand here,' Suze is saying. 'Now, when you have your picture taken, you need to tilt your face at an angle. And look kind of moody.'
'Darling, I don't think I'll be in the photos,' says Tarkie, backing away. 'If it's all right.'
'You have to be! They photograph everyone.' She glances uncertainly at me. 'They do photograph everyone, don't they?'
'Of course they do,' I say confidently. 'We're guests, aren't we? So we'll be photographed.'
I feel a fizz of excitement. I can't wait! I've always wanted to be photographed on a red carpet in Hollywood. My phone bleeps with a text and I pull it out of my clutch bag.
'The car's here! Let's go!'
'What about Luke?' says Tarquin, who is obviously desperate for some moral support.
'We're meeting him there.' I spray a final cloud of scent over me and grin at Suze. 'Ready for your close-up, Lady Cleath-Stuart?'
'Don't call me that!' she says at once. 'It makes me sound ancient!'
I head into the children's bedroom, where our babysitter, Teri, is presiding over a massive game of Twister. Minnie doesn't understand Twister, but she understands rolling around on the mat, getting in everyone's way, so that's what she's doing.
'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 Renee 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.
'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.
'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.