Rumbled on the Cannes Red Carpet

Did your Mum always tell you to wear nice underwear in case you were hit by a bus? Might I suggest you also maintain a flawless pedicure? Because you never can tell when you might have to exit a limo. It’s your twinkle toes the paparazzi spot first.

From now on, I’m going to follow my own advice, but the reason I had undressed toes was, well, I’d been busy and I wasn’t expecting a complete stranger to call me up offering 24-hours of sudden glamour on the French Riviera as a VIP guest of Chivas Regal - who make whisky of course, but - who
knew - have also recently been engaged in a campaign to bring back the lovely old manners of true chivalry.

They even sent a car to my front door and then the itinerary was thus; fly London to Nice, onwards to the star-studded Hotel Martinez, Cannes (with Beyonce and Gael Garcia Bernal as fellow guests). Next, there would be pamper time at the beauty salon before heading along the Croisette for the
world premiere of ‘Robin Hood.’ Then the after-party too, which Chivas could get me in to alongside Russ and Cate because they are the Cannes Film Festival Offical partner. Oh alright then.

Except the plane is late, hence frantic calls saying I’ll need to get into my gown in the airport toilet. Slight problem there. My luggage hasn’t arrived. Eventually, a lady from Air France hands me an overnight kit. Um, how to build an outfit from a make-up wipe, a toothbrush and a T-shirt?

Thankfully, there are troops to be marshalled as my limo swings round the hairpin bends of the Côte d’Azur. Shoe size? 41, (not that huge really, but gigantic on the scale of the shiny designer boutiques that line the seafront). Girl 1 is dispatched on the back of a motorbike to head inland, where perhaps they have bigger feet. Girl 2 sets off on a sort of supermarket sweep of any designer gear bigger than a size 8 (”They’ll lend me a Christian Lacroix gown size 10. Ca Va?” Sweet, but with the girth of my hips, ca va pas). Make up artist and hair dresser are on stand-by.

It’s so late, that by the time I reach Cannes, the tailback of bumper-to-bumper limos, carrying the likes of Kristin Scott Thomas in flawless Armani and Cate Blanchett in McQueen, stretches way past the Hotel Martinez. So the only way to meet my pit-stop team of dressers is to sprint through the back streets, then it’s in a side entrance, up a sweeping staircase (which guys in tuxes are hurrying down), along a corridor and into a suite where four, five, six girls set to work. Hair, tonged; make up applied; jewellery, thousands of dollars-worth dropped over my neck. Essentials are transfered to a pretty evening bag but then it’s “Non, non, non!” to everything on the rack of clothes.

What about that T-shirt then, plus the Akira Isogawa scarf I always swag around my neck against the chills of the plane? “Ca va!” they decide, but then, oh, there’s a sharp intake of breath from the girl at my feet. Unlaquered nails - quelle horreur! - plus a pair of black satin sandals won’t go on. Quick as a flash, she hacks the backs off. I will wear them till 2 am. Strangely, when I try to put them on another day, they will no more fit than would the tiny slippers of a lotus flower Chinese concubine.

Despite the lateness of the hour, I have to show willing and try a cocktail at the Chivas Bar. (Well, you do, don’t you?) Then limo, cameras, carpet. While I survive the first onslaught of the paps as we get out of the car (one of my fellow guests is wearing Jimmy Choos so sparkly, the camera flashes bounce off them), I’ve got to time my progress along the red carpet with military precision. While my front view is just about OK, the rear is a shocker, so I wait, wait, wait, then go - just in front of Kate Beckinsale in her frilly lilac Marchesa as all the paps swivel to face her.

Except the snappers love her so much, the gap between me and Kate is getting bigger and bigger and now, looming in front, is the exposed expanse of the famous Palais du Festival staircase. The scary thing is, that while the paps are focusing on the stars, the TV cameras are doing sweeping panoramic views and transmitting live on the international news. I slow down a little, hoping for cover, but damn Cuba Gooding Jr.! Can’t he put a step on it and shield my rear view? “How chivalrous of him to hold back so you can truly enjoy your time on the carpet,” etiquette expert and man-about-town, Olivier Bassil, whispers in my ear as he passes me just as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

Gulp. The view ahead is about as welcome as Everest without oxygen but I’ve got to start my climb. Then a roar from the crowd signals someone is makingmovie star magic. I shoot a backwards glance to see Salma Hayek working a one-shoulder maroon gown by Gucci - love her! - and I bolt ahead.

Actually, there’s something to be said for the swag of a warm scarf when the air-con is chilly, and I find I’m perfectly dressed for the beachfront after-party too given it’s a little blustery out on the pier in the laid-back chill area (chill indeed) but the view is sensational. Oh look, there’s a gentleman ready with a tot of Chivas to warm the cockles. What a nice thought. By now I’ve decided that although I’d expected a night of glamour, a night of chivalry where every detail is though of is far more fabulous. I’m even offered a pair of little folding slippers once I’m back in the car in case my heels hurt. Not, of course, that I’m wearing heels, but the glam chivalrous team have thought of everything. Umbrella? Check. Handbag sized notebook? check. Scheduling a catch-up meeting tomorrow morning not at dawn but at the delightfully chivalrous hour of 9.30 am? Check. I do like these people.

“Good news! Your bag has turned up,” I’m told which means that at least I can leave Cannes scrubbed up and suitably attired. For - a nice surprise this - a helicopter awaits to take me and my unworn eveningwear back to Nice Airport, which takes a mere 7 minutes, soaring over the sparkling Mediterranean. Headphones on, we’re up and off, flying low over the billboards and the chic tented city which is Cannes in full-throttle. Finally, I feel like a real film festival diva.