At two minutes to eight it looks like we're finally there. Waiters and waitresses are milling around with full drinks trays, moving into position around the main reception room - one is showing another the underside of his shoe for some reason. An older waitress with rather exaggerated eye make-up sidles up to me and says: "What time does overtime start?"
"Midnight," I tell her.
"Oh, good, thanks" she says. I've actually no idea but I suppose I ought to know. The candlesticks, I discover, have arrived because the owner of the shop was persuaded (and bribed) to come back and open it especially so that they could be biked over to us. Now the huge, gilt gothic pieces with their towering black candles are placed on each table along with white lilies and black tulips.
Hundreds, well not hundreds but it seems like it, of girls with flicky blonde hair and names like Arabella and Louisa who work for the Communications Game arrive suddenly and introduce themselves to me and say how exciting it all is and how much they're enjoying working on the account.
Lauren arrives with Peter just after half past eight as we agreed. She looks stunning: a cream coloured dress and simple gold chain. Peter is wearing a maroon velvet smoking jacket and spotted bow tie and looks like he's just walked off the stage of an amateur dramatic society production of The Mouse Trap.
"Hi babe," says Lauren.
"You look great," I say, putting an arm around her and kissing her on the lips.
"Thought I be'er make an effor'" she says.
"You're not going to do that all night?" I half beg, half command her.
"Oh, don't worry," she laughs. "It's been driving Charlie bonkers," she tells Peter. "No, I didn't get it babe. Peter thinks they wanted someone a bit more in your face, a bit more off the wall."
"A bit more Sara Cox or Davina McCall," says Peter knowingly.
"Oh, right," I say, thanking God I'm not going out with someone 'in your face.' "What was the programme exactly?"
"It's a proposal I put to E4," says Peter, glad to be able to take the lead here. "The idea is that it's a bit like This is Your Life, only it's This is Your Sex Life, at least that's the working title. We find a celeb and reintroduce them to everyone they've ever had sex with from the person they first lost their virginity to, to long term lovers and one night stands. The guests rate them and tell some funny stories."
"But E4 didn't like it," I say, unsurprised.
"Oh no," says Peter. "They love the concept, it's just -" Just Lauren they don't like? "They just haven't found the right presenter yet."
"That's not you is it really?" I tell Lauren rather than ask her.
"No probably not. But Peter's got some other projects in the pipeline for me," says Lauren, who I notice is standing next to him, not me. Anyone who didn't know us might think that they were the couple rather than her and me. I'm about to try and angle myself nearer to her and get my around round her again when Guy approaches us.
"Hi Charlie, looking pretty sharp tonight," he says, beaming.
"Thanks. From someone who knows so much about labels and style that's quite a compliment. Looking pretty good yourself. Er, Guy this is my girlfriend, Lauren Tate, and this is..." I know I should say a friend of ours, not a friend of hers but it sticks in my gullet, so I just say "Peter Beaumont-Crowther".
"Pleased to meet you," says Guy, shaking them both warmly and taking in Lauren I note proudly. "Charlie mate, I need to introduce you to some people, can I, er, steal you away for a sec?"
"Of course," I say.
"Sorry, duty calls," grins Guy at Lauren and Peter. "Very nice to meet you, look forward to seeing you later, perhaps we can have a proper chat then. Have a great evening."
Lauren and Peter smile generously as Guy leads me away. I turn briefly to tell Lauren I'll catch up with her later but Peter has already moved around to talk to her, standing between us, so that she can't see me anymore.
I meet a couple of very dry money men from New York who Guy talks to for most of the time as if I might put my foot in it. By this time the place is really filling up. The girls from the Communications Game grab me every few seconds and say: "Charlie, I'd really like you to meet..." or "Charlie, do you know....?" or "Charlie, you must meet..." Marketing people from the smart brands, editors of glossy magazines, style journalists, design celebs appear, tell me how much they're enjoying themselves and how excited they are about the site, tell me they loved the piece in the Post, give me a card and suggest we have lunch, dinner, breakfast or drinks before disappearing back into the crowd to be replaced by another well-moisturised, expertly-made-up, non-streak bronzed face.
"How's it going?" says Guy to me anxiously at one point.
"Very well," I say.
"Good, good," he says, looking around us. "Everyone happy, everyone enjoying themselves?"
"Yep. I've met so many new people, all really excited about it all."
"Mmm? Good," says Guy, looking around in the other direction, rather distractedly.
"These people, er, where are they?" I say, fiddling around with the mass of cards I've assembled. "They want to do a promotion with us. Develop some synergies," I explain, repeating the woman's phrase.
Guy looks down at the card for a moment and then sniffs: "Huh! It's a possibility. I'm not quite sure that they're 2cool material, though."
"Oh, OK."
"Good stuff, champ," he says, diving back into the crowd.
I go to get another drink and notice Lauren and Peter talking to two gay guys and it dawns on me who Peter reminds me of - Barry Humphries. Not as Dame Edna or Sir Les but just in civvies, just himself. It also dawns on me that they look like a couple. My girlfriend with Barry Humphries. I begin to move over to them but Arabella or Sophie or whatever the hell her name is grabs me and introduces me to someone from some in-flight magazine. When I finally escape Lauren and Peter have disappeared. I look around to see if there is anyone else I should speak to when I notice Nora talking to a tall guy with floppy hair.
She immediately sees me and I decide to go over and say hello. I still haven't managed to speak to her since the article so it might be useful to share a few candid thoughts.
"Hi Charlie," she says extending a hand.
"Hello," I say coolly.
"This is Rupert. Rupert works for Cartier."
"No I don't." says Rupert. "I work for Sotheby's.”
"Do you? How interesting," says Nora as if she has just met him.
"Don't worry." I tell him. "Accuracy's not her thing."
"Isn't it?" she says sweetly. "Here, Charlie, you haven't got a drink." She sticks her hand out to a passing waitress but moves rather too quickly and immediately glasses begin to fall like dominoes on the tray. The waitress squeals in horror and tries to steady herself but she is soon covered with red and white wine, champagne and orange juice. As is Rupert who has tried to help her.
"Oh, you're soaked," says Nora, who like me seems to have escaped the deluge of booze.
"I think I'd better go and dry off in the gents," Rupert says as calmly as he can.
"Don't worry, just go to reception. We've had some spare jackets put aside just in case," I tell him - one useful thing I did discover from Simon Smith. I check that the waitress is all right. She says 'Fine, thanks', looking malevolently at Nora and then disappears into the kitchen where they are presumably used to this sort of casualty.
"Well done," I tell Nora.
"I can't believe that woman's a waitress," says Nora, watching her go.
"Why not?"
"She's so clumsy."
"She's so clumsy."
"Yes, didn't you see her? You would have thought a waitress could at least keep a bunch of glasses on a tray. Poor woman, it must be her first night or something."
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
"So, nice party," she says.
"Thanks." She is wearing a maroon velvet dress, long sleeved but backless and her hair is up. There is a chunky, hippy chain around her neck. She does look pretty good actuall
y. I remember Lauren once telling me that in many ways it doesn't matter what you wear, as long as you wear it with confidence and feel comfortable in it and Nora seems to feel pretty pleased about her outfit.
Despite this I decide to plunge straight in.
"I saw the article."
"Oh yeah, Monday's piece. Did you like it?"
"Well no, frankly, I didn't."
She looks surprised.
"Really? Why not? Did I get something wrong?"
"Yeah, most of it."
"Oh my God, no. I hate getting things wrong. Which bits?"
"The whole thing. It was so naff. It made me look like a complete smarmy, arrogant tit. How did you find those pictures?"
"Oh, the picture desk do all that kind of thing. I liked the one of you in the white shirt though. What was that for?"
"Oh, just a fashion shoot I did ages ago."
"'Oh, just a fashion shoot', he says. So cool," she laughs.
"Well, it was just a job. But it was the article as well: 'the blonde, six foot hunk is self-effacing.'
"Well you are."
"And what about 'They employed me because I've got the right look - classy, cool." It's not difficult to show her how painful those words are for me.
"Well you did say that - in a manner of speaking - over lunch."
"What?"
"Anyway, I'm really sorry if you didn't like the piece. My editor loved it and I thought it was very positive really. Just what Piers wanted."
"What? Piers told you to write that."
"Well, he didn't tell me exactly what to write, obviously, but he did give me the spin beforehand, told me all about the site and then I pitched the story to my editor and she said to write it like that. I couldn't not do it."
"It was all Piers' idea, all that stuff?"
"Yup. Well, most of it."
"And you just wrote what you were told."
"Charlie," she says, suddenly serious. "I've got to keep my boss happy. That's the way it goes. You want to please Guy and Piers, I want to please my editor. If I don't she'll fire me - it's as simple as that."
I think about it for a moment. I've sort of only had to please Penny and Karyn in the past by going to castings and turning up at jobs on time properly shaven and with my hair washed, but, talking to my friends who have worked for companies I think I know what she means about pleasing the tosser in the glass surrounded office.
I look at her for a moment, trying to decide what it must be like to be Nora Bentall. To be very bright but to have to please your boss by writing clichéd guff that is only marginally connected to reality, to be so amazingly clumsy (is that why I'm standing some distance away from her?) and to have a dress sense which somehow doesn't correspond with what you see in the shops, with what your friends wear or what appears in any magazine, but which you are perfectly confident about and comfortable with.
"So where were you when I rang?" I ask. "Why were you 'sort of' out?"
She grimaces.
"I was keeping a low profile."
"From me?"
"Oh, no, like I said, I tried to ring you but 2cool isn't in the phone book yet and I only had Piers' mobile and he said he'd get you to call me but obviously he didn't pass on the message."
"Obviously not." Thanks Piers, I make a mental note to ask him about that when I see him. "So you were just avoiding someone else you'd slandered?"
"No, no," she says, holding her glass in both hands and looking away while she begins her story. "It's really embarrassing, actually. I'd just done something really stupid.”
"Something else?"
"Something else?"
"I mean in addition to that article."
"Oh, not that again."
"So what was it you did that was really stupid?"
"I was sending this email to my friend Gemma saying: 'I'm going to the ladies, meet you there.' You know, it was for a girlie chat. Thing is we both quite fancy this guy in the office. I'm sure he's gay but never mind. Anyway, unfortunately, her last name is Allworthy, well that's the not unfortunate bit, after all it's quite a nice name, isn't it? Don't you think? Allworthy."
"Lovely," I say, wondering where the hell this story is going.
"No, the unfortunate bit is that instead of clicking on 'Allworthy, Gemma' in the 'Send To' box, I clicked on 'All Staff'."
She pauses.
"So all the staff at the newspaper got an email from you inviting them to meet you in the loo?"
"Basically, yes."
I consider it for a moment. Then I realise that actually it's probably the funniest thing I've heard all night, all week, and I find myself almost crying with laughter. When I look back her, wiping my eyes, she has a 'What can you do?' sort of look on her face.
"So did anyone turn up?" I ask her, not too seriously.
"Well, I'm told that quite a few people did. Even the boys from the mail room were sticking their noses round the door out of interest. I think they thought drugs were involved. Apparently the Fashion Editor went, but she doesn't have a lot do at the moment because there aren't any shows on - as you know. Who else? A couple of people from the news desk popped in. Actually it was quite sweet - the editor's secretary emailed me back to say that he couldn't come because he had a lunch booked with the Home Secretary."
"Has he no sense of priorities?" I demand.
"He'll never get anywhere in journalism with that attitude," says Nora.
Just then the music pauses and there is a kind of fanfare from the rather spookily placed mini speakers around us. "Ladies and gentleman," says a voice. "This is 2cool2btrue.com." Suddenly the video wall is alive. To the sound of some chilled out instrumental beat which rises and turns into a dance anthem we see some of the images I saw in the office but which are now enhanced. They seem to appear out of nowhere and disappear by blending into each other, drawing us in and spinning us round. I almost feel like I'm losing my balance at one point.
You can tell how impressed people are with the graphics and the breathtaking special effects by the fact that there is a slight pause after the show before the applause begins.
Guy then appears and says, as if he means it: "Wow."
There is a ripple of laughter from the audience and then he begins to speak without notes about the importance of labels and branding in the third millennium, singling out, sometimes admiringly and sometimes teasingly, but always charmingly, representatives amongst the audience from Vogue, Dunhill, Tanner Krolle, Rolls Royce, Salvatore Ferragamo and Cartier amongst others. Then he moves onto his theory that what they have done for clothes, accessories, cars, electronics, and watches, 2cool will now do for the internet. He is self-deprecating about his knowledge of internet technology and even more so when he talks about dotcom start ups - and closedowns - to the further amusement of the audience but then he talks about why 2cool will be different.
I look around me as he speaks. There are certainly some very clever people here and many of them look intrigued, heads to one side, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed shrewdly. Not necessarily wowed - they're obviously too cool, too blasé for that - but they certainly seem interested, intrigued by this rather serious, intense young man with pale skin and piercing eyes, his dark hair receding into a widow's peak and his slight stoop. He looks more like a political speech writer or a City economist than an entrepreneur, let alone a style guru. Perhaps that is why his audience is so gripped - he is not one of them but he certainly has a certain nervy, edgy charisma.
Beside me is Nora. Eyes fixed in an intense, shrewd gaze that I have not seen before. She seems to be weighing up every word and analysing it, somehow thinking beyond it. I ought to ask her if she's going to write this up as an article. Is that what she's thinking? She looks away from Guy for a moment and sees me watching her. We smile at each uncertainly.
Embarrassing. Never mind, I could just be checking her reaction along with everyone else's like any good marketing man.
But I'm wondering why she is called Nora. She sure is a
strange girl. Inviting the entire office to meet her in the loo! Is she really that daft? I can't tell. Anyway, why should I care that she fancies some bloke in the office?
Apparently slightly taken aback and overwhelmed by the enthusiastic reception he generates, Guy mutters some thanks and hands over to Piers before walking off the stage. He's the least smart, cool thing about the whole evening and yet somehow by far the most intriguing. Piers, by contrast, is confident and relaxed. He introduces himself, makes a few obvious but funny jokes about dotcoms and designer labels, and then explains that food is about to be served but first he would like to express the company's gratitude to a few people for making tonight such as success.
"I'd especially like to thank Simon and Charlotte from the Communications Game who have put in so much hard work this evening," says Piers. "Simon, take a bow matey, well done." There is a round of polite applause as people begin to look round to where the food is coming from.
"Fuckin' arse wipe," hisses a voice next to me. It's Heaven.
"And also to Charlotte. Charlotte...where is she?" A spotlight swivels round and falls on a small, timid-looking girl wearing a pink ball dress obviously designed for someone bigger and more outgoing. "Here she is. Well done, Charlotte. You've done a splendid job here tonight." Charlotte beams, some people begin to applaud. "And I know you haven't been well the last couple of days." Her smile weakens. "Poor Charlotte." The smile evaporates altogether. "Chronic diarrhoea," booms Piers, sympathetically. "Sounds like it must have been awful." Charlotte's face is frozen in a mixture of horror and a desperate supplication to Piers to just fucking shut up. "Can't have been much fun but glad you've made it tonight." A couple of people move discreetly but noticeably away from her. "And...er...let's just hope there's plenty of Immodium or something in that beautiful handbag she's carrying," adds Piers for good measure.
I can't bring myself to look back at Charlotte but I am sure she is now on her way to the ladies either to cry her eyes out or to...well, I find myself hoping like Piers that the Immodium is working.
I turn to ask Nora what she thinks - as much as anything to sort of explain my staring at her in that very obvious way during the presentation but she has turned to talk to someone else.
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