Blush With Fame

One of the best things about leaving behind the home counties for London Town is the chance to add value to my tiny life through the occasional spotting of celebrity faces here and there on the golden-paved streets. Fair enough, I may have shared a home town with Michael Caine (though I’m sure he, like most residents, avoided the hideous high street), I may have shared a fleeting glance with Emma Watson on the streets of Oxford while studying there and I may be an acquaintance of Dear Deirdre’s daughter, but the increase in encounter frequency that has accompanied my arrival in NW3 is nothing short of encouraging. And I’m not fussy. Any list of prominence and credibility is enough for me, from Hollywood A-lister to reality TV runner up.

I’m not rummaging through these people’s bins and waiting for them to come out of the dentist’s, I’m just keeping an eye peeled, having a squizz and then moving on. Bob Geldof outside The Ritz? Great, but I keep walking. Gaby Roslin in a well-known Japanese chain restaurant? Obviously looks after herself, but I’m struggling with soup. And so on. It’s a bit like endless bingo, only instead of a prize for a full house you’re rewarded for each spot with a bit of telly glamour nearly breaking into your personal bubble.

But then occasionally you don’t just spot Gail Porter in Hampstead, but a celebrity’s trajectory crosses and intertwines with your life’s own garden path.

Back in March, a very good friend came to visit: my German ex-flatmate from the year I had spent living in Freiburg as part of my degree. Sarah had been instrumental in my successful assimilation into Black Forest living and now it was my turn to show her London. Naturally, she had been many times before and was hard to entertain: “Why do your pubs shut so early?” she asked and “I don’t want to go on the London Eye” threw a spanner in my plans for the weekend. “Your kitchen floor is so dirty I don’t want to take my shoes off,” was another choice comment.

Nevertheless, a load of us went out one evening: a flatmate, some friends from the home village, some friends from Oxford and some friends of friends of all and sundry. We were quite a crowd and we were going to hit the East End and show my visitor a good time. I’m no longer sure how things began, but soon it was gone midnight and we were traipsing the streets for a club. Two hours later, we are still outside, stone cold and sobered, wandering down streets and apparently chasing an elusive house party in Hoxton. Sarah is not impressed, my nipples are like bullets and we’re running out of bemused Middle Easterners to ask for directions. Just as I’m on the verge of grabbing us a taxi, another friend pleads for me to stay as it’s just round the next corner. And luckily enough it is.

We pile into a tiny flat, doubling the numbers at what looked like a small gathering in its dying stages. I apologise to the host on the way in for not knowing him. We settle into sofas and I think right, time to tank back up and show Sarah how to keep a party going young professional-in-London-style. The best part of a bottle of wine later and I’m chatting to some of the other guests. “And what do you do?” I ask two lads sitting nearby after some initial chat.

“We’re actors.”

“Wow,” I exclaim. I’ve had my fair share of am dram board-treading and I am impressed by anyone daring enough to make a career out of being the centre of attention. “Real actors?” I ask.

“Well, I’m a PA as well,” one admits.

I don’t care. “What have you been in?” I demand. They both list off a stream of prestigious roles. “But have you been in The Bill?” I ask, recalling that all British actors appear in Sunhill sooner or later. One of them has and I’m very excited; “My parents love that show.” I’m sure he’s thrilled.

So I’m drunk and embarrassing but I’m having a lovely time. And Sarah seems content to be smoking out of the window. A home friend comes bounding in with news: she has just spotted a very famous actor in the hallway. I don’t believe her at all until I need the toilet myself and find myself squeezing past said individual en route to the lavatory. Under a dark cap and in a casual jacket is a Best Actor Oscar-winning, seminal role-playing, respected, Hollywood A-lister. I have decided not to reveal who due to later behaviour but I think most educated guesses should come pretty close.

I return to my friends with confirmation. I’m in a tiny flat, merry as you like, and a very famous face has just strolled into the room. This is big news. Though strictly speaking, it’s not the first brush with celebrity of the evening. One of our crowd and a friend of a friend from Oxford appeared on a successful BBC3 reality show where young chaps competed in tribal games around the world. He comes over with some wine in a bowl, something picked up on his travels no doubt, and offers me some, which I willingly accept. It’s lemony and actually jolly nice.

“Why are you drinking wine out of a bowl?” an American accent drawls at me. Right, ok, the big famous actor is now speaking to me. How is one meant to behave? I proffer the bowl and ask “Do you want some?”

“Sure,” he says and promptly wanders off with it. That was strange yet exhilarating, a brush with fame. I text my sister to gloat. But then he reappears. I’m sitting on the edge of the sofa arm and he has positioned himself right in front of me. My friends seem to evaporate out of the way. “I’m sorry,” he begins, “I took your wine without introducing myself. I’m *****,” he says and offers me his hand.

We shake and I manage to say, “I’m Rob.” So it’s not unlike meeting anyone really. Apart from I want to explode in a drunken mess and gush in with his surname and a list of films of his I enjoyed and say “Of course I know who you are, you’re…” But I hold it together with all my might. “So, who do you know here?” I ask. He looks older in close-up real-life than in the films and I start to wonder what someone in his forties wants with a party of twenty-three year-olds at three in the morning.

He explains he works in a theatre with ‘some of the guys’. I volunteer that I don’t know why I’m there or what my connection is. Then his little tiny dog he has brought with him runs up and we talk about her and I’m sure I’m behaving and remaining lucid but I’m starting to regret the lemony wine and then he’s off talking to someone else. Never mind, HE introduced himself to ME, and I’m no-one.

“He liked you!” one of my friends points out. Then I realise his attention is focused on our friend from the BBC3 show, who is good-looking. Then I notice him smoking out the window and Sarah trying to engage him in conversation but he’s looking straight through her at other lads. It dawns on me that I was being chatted up by an actor who I think is ‘out’ in the industry but not in the press.

We eventually leave as all are tired and drunk, even though I’m protesting in hopes of gaining my first Hollywood friend. We talk about him loudly in the taxi and the driver must think we’re fawning idiots, which we know we are. The next day I ring a friend who stayed longer. She reveals the actor is known as ‘the boy eater’ and describes how he only spoke to our handsome friend off the telly for the rest of the evening, much to the annoyance of his long-term girlfriend. I swear I could have got his number and probably would have gone as far as dinner, just for the interesting stories alone, but Sarah wants entertaining and I say goodbye.

But I dine out on that story for months to come and make sure it spreads round the office that A-list actors fancy me. Well, one. Maybe. Oh well, my parents are vaguely impressed. I didn’t just spot a Z-lister crossing the street, but this actor was interested in me enough to introduce himself to ME and yes, I am shallow enough to find this cheering. Ridiculous.