Tequila Sunrise

Last week, one of Ms R’s favourite clients and all-round top bloke, rang to see how she was. Hearing the black dog was in residence he promptly extended an invite to his splendid house in Grasse. Ms R thought for one minute, threw her bikini and sarong into a bag and headed for the airport.

Glowing with Riviera sun, she attended the birthday party of her other favourite client last Saturday. This is a woman who can buy her own diamonds – not pathetic, gnat sized excuses but big, fat, shimmering, fuck-off diamonds – so the scenario was always going to be somewhat extravagant. And full of fine single men, apparently.

The location was a lush estate in Surrey; a modest, little place with its own golf course, landing strip and a helicopter parked thoughtfully on the lawn. And then there we all were, standing in a huge marquee filled with chandeliers, plush red sofas, a huge chocolate fountain, Burlesque dancing girls and half naked men toting tequila shot glasses in holsters, with salt and lemon tucked neatly away, somewhere. (No it was not Lord Milky’s house).

At this point Ms R would like to tell you that, as she descended the grand staircase, every cock within a five mile radius was immediately pointed at her in anticipation. However she is far too new a blogger to demonstrate that level of narcissism. Actually the first thing that struck her was a barrage of plastic boobs, Botox, and pneumatic lips guaranteed to leave industrial quantities of lipstick on your dipstick. Among the few delightful young things in wispy dresses, all the fashion mistakes were out in full force; cheap sequins, leopard-skin and footless tights guaranteed to make most women look like Bulgarian weightlifters. Rule 1: if it looks good on an ethereal Eastern European model it will not look good on anyone else.

A woman with at least fifty-two badly dressed years behind her, was squeezed into some sort of black tutu with a huge gold belt around her waist, so that her breasts were squeezed up like toothpaste in a tube. They leered at you threateningly from over the top of the dress, and got more menacing as the night wore on. She appeared to be dancing with her young son, but when Ms R looked again she had her hand down the front of his trousers. Apparently she found him on holiday. What is wrong with bringing back shells?

Ms R herself was eagerly claimed by a few people who knew she was the lady’s ghost writer. It seemed that they too had a book in them.

"Yes," she told them, " But we have many things inside us - kidneys for example - however it is only on rare occasions that they need to come out."

"So I don't need to write a book then?

"Best not to."

As promised, there were many men, rather more in fact than single women. As Ms R is revising her roster for the new season she felt it might be useful to have some new blood on the subs bench. While she has randomly met men in restaurants, on the Eurostar, on planes, on a beach and in a bank queue (after a man asked why she was glaring at him) she has actually never met anyone of note at a party. There were men who were nice, men who said things like “I love your hair,” but then were so lacking in energy and wit they made Ms R feel too bouncy, like Tigger in an evening dress. A rather good looking, roguish type ambled by at some point and told her she looked lovely, but he was coked up to the eyeballs. It transpired later than someone had spilled a very large stash on the floors of the male portaloo. According to one witness, there was nobody willing to risk typhoid by getting down and dirty, no matter how good it was.

When asked her name at parties Ms R often says, ‘Bob,’ simply because who actually cares? It's not like you're suddenly going to need a passport or wedding certificate. This also sorts out those who can read between the lines from those who can’t. The man who did pass the Bob test turned out to be charming, but also badly wounded from a previous relationship. Ms R does not do wounded. Rehabilitation is for women who have years to burn.

As is often the case, it was the men working on the night who were the most interesting. Ms R discovered this rich seam of opportunity many years ago at an advertising party. Bored with her colleagues, she happened upon a rather luscious waiter.

“Let’s have lunch."

“When,” said the waiter.

“When do you finish?”

“2am”.

“Fine. I’ll see you then.”

(Ms R has used this approach a few times and the approachees seem to love it.)

But she had no inclination to issue such invites on the night. Instead she had stumbled upon two amazing women who shared an interest in Tequila and possessed sublime character assassination skills. Cue much laughter. They have all arranged a Very Important Lunch. Meeting men is something Ms R finds easy to do, but meeting like minded women is rare.