THE BEST PARTY I EVER WENT TO…
Four writers reveal all
From poignant evenings in with family to wild nights out in Los Angeles, four writers tell us about their most memorable soirees
‘I am Gary Oldman’s wife,’ I told the man with the clipboard.
I was alone in the middle of LA in a slightly too small black Versace dress. It was beautiful: silk, with a fishtail skirt and a corseted bodice that cantilevered my breasts so far upwards that I could practically rest my chin on them. He looked down his list and spotted ‘Gary Oldman + 1’. (I was well ahead of him here; years of underaged clubbing meant I was well practised at outwitting doormen). He waved me through. I was in. To Madonna’s party. Yes. That Madonna.
Rewind. I was sub-25. I was in LA, assisting Charlotte-anne Fidler, Elle magazine’s then-beauty director. The magazine was doing a cover shoot with Anna Friel, dressed exclusively in Versace, and we were the team members who had been flown across the Atlantic to make it happen. When we arrived, we met Anna in the hotel bar.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ said jack nicholson
Rosie Green blags her way into Madonna’s party and has her own Cinderella story
She was even younger than me and happy to hang with a couple of Brits.
Alongside our shoot, the team behind Versace were splashing serious cash on a three-day extravaganza that they hoped would generate column inches in magazines like ours. The brand was celebrating its ambassadors and muses (enter Anna) and hosting parties, lunches and all kinds of fabulousness. We all had limos at our disposal and were staying at The Mondrian Hotel, which was populated by beautiful, famous people.
It was all pretty wild for a girl from Birmingham.
The main event for Versace was its Fire and Ice Ball. Anna Friel and my boss were invited. I was not. I was Cinderella. I was even sleeping at the bottom of my boss’s bed on a put-you-up. Versace’s budgets might be big, but the magazine’s were not. If Charlotte wanted an assistant, sharing was the only way to do it.
It might have been cramped – but I didn’t give a shit. I was in LA, baby.
As Anna and Charlotte got ready to go off and choose their dresses from the boutique, I busied myself by packing up the clothes from the cover shoot. Daniel Marks, Versace’s PR supremo, glanced over. His heart melted. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, come on,’ he laughed. I was allowed to choose a dress for the night.
We got a limo to the Fire and Ice Ball. It was like a weird dream. There was Goldie Hawn in the loo queue, Jennifer Aniston talking to some famous producer guy. There was the entire cast of Ally Mcbeal, and every single supermodel you’ve ever heard of. Just as I was thinking it must be the most exciting evening of my entire life, Anna rushed up to me and said, in her Rochdale lilt, ‘We’re leaving.’ I told her, with the use of some expletives, that I was not leaving. Not ever.
She replied, ‘We are going to Madonna’s party.’ We left.
Trouble is, only Charlotte and Anna were on the list. But, as you know already, this didn’t faze me. I made it into the lift. Suddenly, there was a huge kerfuffle and Donatella and her entourage were crammed in with me. The doors opened, and there was Charlotte and Anna, talking to Gwyneth Paltrow and Ben Affleck. Even as I write this,
I can’t quite believe I’m not making it up. I was introduced. I went to the bar. ‘Nice tits,’ said an oldish man. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ It was Jack Nicholson. I have my dinner party story for life. I introduced him to Anna and suddenly his laser focus switched to her. Then I was offered coke by a film star (I’d tell you who, but I can’t afford the lawyer’s fees).
I hit the dancefloor. Madonna was also on the dancefloor. She was pretty good. My friend Chandra (model and all-round lovely human being) was also there. It was surreal. It was fun. The room was no bigger than your average community centre hall (which was where I was much more used to going for parties). There were floor-to-ceiling windows with views over a twinkling starlit night. I could not believe that I was there.
That night, we got a limo back to The Mondrian. I crawled into my camp bed and, when I woke up, I fully expected to be in my bedroom at home, under my green-sprigged Laura Ashley duvet with posters of Morten Harket on the wall. But no, the dress was strewn across the floor, the heels were kicked off and a little scuffed (sorry, Daniel).
It really happened. And, when I’m knee-deep in domestic drudgery, or if I’m feeling a bit crap, I think back to that night.
And I remember that girl is still in there somewhere.