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Chapter Eight

“Angelica, over here, Angelica!” There’s a gaggle of photographers, just to the side of the red carpet, and they’re all calling my name.

Seriously, it’s a like a wall of them, jostling with each other, their cameras hanging around their necks, the flashes brighter than any night club strobe.

“Give us a pose, Angelica, that’s right darling,” they’re shouting, and it’s almost like listening to a football chant, I can hardly hear what they’re actually saying, there’s that many of them talking to me at once.

The people-pleaser in me wants to shout, “What? What do you actually want me to do?” as I just want them to get a good shot, have a picture in the papers tomorrow that my mam can tear out and pop on her (hopefully soon) new fridge.

But when I do lean forward, to ask what pose I should do, I’m shouting with my mouth open and then I hear one of them say, “that’s right love, open your mouth like usual.

” I recoil back, looking around to hear if anyone else heard him, or will tell him off.

But no one does. And I don’t have time to let it bother me, as all of a sudden Damon is by my side.

He travelled over in a different limo to ours, and his presence beside me is comforting.

I want to cling onto him, and have him guide me through this throng.

Being on this red carpet, the camera flashes lighting me up, it’s the spotlight I’ve always wanted.

But at the same time, it’s stressful handling it on your own.

Am I doing it right? I keep trying to shake off this out-of-body feeling of being an imposter.

So Damon’s arm, pulling me in by the waist, feels grounding. I never want him to let me go.

The snapping noise from the photographers’ cameras gets even louder then, the flashing even more insistent.

“Angelica and Damon, reality TV’s golden couple,” shouts a journalist, rushing up to us, a huge microphone in hand.

It’s all fluffy, like a cuddly toy on a stick, and she’s thrusting it in our faces.

“So, do you think you can forgive him for the way he treated you?” she’s saying to me, but before I can answer the photographers are yelling at her to get out of the way and they need to get their pics in first.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Damon says to her.

“It’ll be your turn later.” Was that a wink I saw?

I don’t know. The camera flashes are making my eyes all dotty, and Damon is wearing a different aftershave from the one he wore in the house.

It must be more expensive, it smells of cedar and a deep, dark vanilla.

It’s intoxicating. “Go on, give her a kiss,” one of the photographers yells, and Damon does this big showy display, dipping me back like we’re ballroom dancers, before pulling me right in, the taste of his lips just as addictive as when I first felt them on mine.

Soft but unyielding. He pulls away and looks me dead in the eye, and people can call me a mug all they want, but the desire burning in his eyes, during moments like these, reveals his true feelings. I can see it, clear as day.

Then, in an instant, the cameras are suddenly pointing at someone else.

We turn to see Samantha, and conveniently one of her straps has slipped down, revealing a hint of raspberry-pink nipple.

“Oops, sorry about that boys,” she giggles, as the photographers elbow each other out the way to get the shot.

Damon keeps holding my hand all the way along the red carpet, standing close by my side during all the press interviews.

I look around for Madison and Layla, I want them to see this, how attentive he’s being.

But they’re already inside, no doubt getting stuck into the free white wine.

Still, at least there’s all this actual photographic evidence of us.

“We’re going to be all over the front pages tomorrow,” Damon says, pulling me in for a squeeze.

“You’re the best Angelica, honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you. ”

With that, he’s gone. Marc’s ushered him to follow him into the bathroom and I’m left with just the lingering smell of his aftershave.

The North Stars lot are spread across two huge round tables, and we’re really near the front of the stage.

I always remember Mam telling me you can tell how important you are at a wedding by how close your table is to where the couple sit.

At the awards, I think the stage counts as the top table so we must be flavour of the month.

I can practically smell the presenter’s breath (mouthwash covering a base layer of gin).

He’s up there now, practising his cues and being informed where different people will stand.

The whole show is airing live on TV tonight and, even though I’ve watched it every year so I anticipated I’d feel vaguely familiar with what’s going on, I forgot we will get to see all the things that aren’t shown on the TV.

Like, what’s going to happen in all the ad breaks?

Before the awards and show begin we have a three-course meal, for all the celebs and VIPs who are here.

I’m trying so hard not to crane my neck and goggle at people but it’s hard.

On the table next to us is Alexis Vonnette.

She’s absolutely tiny, but has this glow to her that I swear must be injected into her somehow, there’s no way she’s getting that from a bottle.

It’s like she’s got this rich aura that just leaks into the air surrounding her.

Even if you had absolutely no idea who she is, or you were an alien from another planet, you’d set one eye on her and just know she was rich and famous.

“Have you seen Kristophe Spruce?” Layla whispers, or at least she thinks she whispers, but it comes out more of a boom.

“He’s so fit. I’d risk a restraining order.

” I’ve been sitting with Layla to one side of me, and Madison the other.

Leo’s sitting on our table, but across from me, so I couldn’t speak to him without yelling anyway, but even he keeps making faces at all the different celebrities around us.

He texted me to tell me that when he opens his eyes wide that’s his cue for an A-lister nearby, and then he sticks his tongue out in the direction they’re walking.

At one point he even went cross-eyed trying to show me that Harry Styles was one way, and Tom Hardy the other. I was in stitches.

We have a big metal bucket at the centre of our table, full of clinking bottles of wine and fizz.

We don’t even have to top up our glasses ourselves, the lovely waiting staff come around and do it for us.

Though I bet they’re gutted to be placed on our table as they’ve got twice, or maybe three times, the amount of work to do compared with the other tables.

We’re necking our wine quickly, because we’re playing a game with the other table, which has Damon, Marc and Reed on it, as well as Samantha.

I don’t know how she ended up on the table with the lads, but she looks fuming as none of them are paying her much attention.

We have to take a sip every time someone is caught on camera not smiling, take a gulp every time someone thanks God and/or their mothers, and down our drink if someone wells up during their speech.

We also have to manage all this without Gerald suspecting a thing.

It’s easier for us as we don’t have him on our table, mind you, he’s up and down so much, saying hello to all his industry friends, that he’s like a pogo stick.