Supposedly the Best Day of My Life

The "Because I'm Worth It" Issue

I leaned back in my first class armchair on a Great Western train to London Paddington and smiled benignly across at Gill, my dress maker, as she poured the champagne and opened the M&S brie sarnies. We looked out at the burgeoning Enligsh summer countryside and chatted, feeling pretty smug with ourselves - and I was starting to think there were distinct advantages to this getting married business.
As reported in a previous column Gill is a jewel amongst women and, as if I needed proof, I was speeding towards the metropolis with her on my way to one of the most prestigious hairdressing awards in Europe - the L'Oreal Colour Trophys.
The 50th anniversary bash, no less, was taking place at Earl's Court and Graham Norton was compering. But, MUCH more important, than that Central Studio on Colston Street had won a place in the final and Gill had made the dresses for the model, herself and the salon manager - it being the perfect stage upon which to flaunt one's wears in front of fashonista bods. I couldn't bear to let an opportunity like this slip from my fingers and, as soon as I was invited, I procured a (£250!!) ticket.
So, here we were, sipping fizz, discussing the minutia of Gill's global clothes emporium and proclaiming that Central Studio will be jetting off to New York for the L'Oreal first prize of a photographic shoot with Vogue - no doubt expanding to Toni and Guy proportions within the year.
It suited me all this high living, I couldn't help but think, as I nestled further into the big blue padding. I like it when the train guards smile and ask if you're ok. I love it when you get free juice and coffee and the attendant asks if she can get an ice bucket for the champagne and it does seem that there.
So we swanned into Paddington, tube to Victoria, out to Pimlico in a taxi and to the appartments we were staying in - and apartments really are the way forward - hotels are so last year. Anyway, as I was hanging out smoking cigarettes (extremely bad for wedding complexion, I know) and drinking rose in the living room of said flat and it suddenly dawned on me that I had become the woman I always wanted to be.
Here I was Living the Dream Baby! It was like having an out of body experience and for a moment the worries of the world seemed far away.
Who was this person I had become and how had I managed to pull it all off? How had I suceeded in bagging a fabulous man AND had him propose to me? I have wonderful friends, a great job and have amazing experiences with groups of glamorous people, I was wearing a designer outfit, my hair had been ironed straight like glass and, for that moment, everything was clear blue skies.
Surely someone was going to burst through the door screaming "Gotcha!". Instead, it was a half naked gay man running past me with his hands in the air shouting "Is my fake tan streaky? It is, it's streaky!"itals that broke me from my reverie and back to the brain crushing worry of whether my nail polish was too pink.
An hour later we were at the party - and what a party. It has to be said, the event surpassed my expectations. Bigger than an airplane hanger, it was decked across the ceiling and down every wall with white chiffon, glowing pale vilolet in UV lighting, the reception room was alive with air kisses and clinking champagne glasses that appeared as if by magic at your side.
Gill's pale gold corset and multi-layered tuille skirt, which had a knee-length front and scooped calf-length back with a pale gold silk lining, was truly original and stunning, while Sally, the salon manager, had effortless film-star glamour with a powder blue fishtail full-corset dress, complete with draped silver chains across the body. This was topped with a miasma of loose ringlets. As they walked around together, they turned every head and at one point had to run and hide from a Japanese TV cameraman determined to film every stitch on their bodies.
It was a magical night and I was so proud of Gill and everyone at Central - everyone was fabulous, fabulous, FABULOUS. The next day, on two hours sleep, things weren't quite so fabulous. The contrast from the day before was decidedly marked. We trudged around the underground, going in the wrong direction at one point, slumped onto the train and made like vegetables. But through the mists of the hangover and my big brown shades I remembered that for a moment back there I really did get what Andy MacDowell has been banging on about in those L'Oreal adverts for so long - because I am actually worth it.

posted by Sadie Kenshall @ 5:15 PM