My night with Ryan Gosling

Or what a Hollywood A-list celebrity party is really like

Ryan Gosling on a big screen. Can you spot Geri Halliwell and Greg James?

Hello, and thank you for reading The Honesty Box. If you are new here, welcome.

Today, in the name of public service journalism, I’m writing about a celebrity party I went to this week.

Last month, I received an email invitation to a celebration of the birthday of a wristwatch, promising a cocktail reception, celebrity ambassador guests, and a screening of a short film in the presence of Ryan Gosling.

Sure, I can manage that, I thought.

As I typed my email response, I didn’t really take in whether it was Ryan Reynolds or Ryan Gosling, but I was interested to see what happens at this kind of party, which, it turns out, was being hosted by the son of the richest person in the world (who isn’t Elon Musk).

After I said yes, I promptly forgot about it, until Wednesday this week when I realised I would be at a client’s office on the day of the do and wouldn’t have time to wash my hair or zhuzh myself up ready to meet Ryan.

Once, I nearly knocked Rita Ora over with my lumpy tote on the steps of the Albert Hall, such was the bag’s size

On Thursday (party day), I stuck on a calf-length clingy black dress with long sleeves that I hoped would be ok with trainers in the office and sparkly heeled boots at night.

It didn’t really work with trainers: because I am 5’4 (163 cm), I looked sort of like an out of proportion caterpillar with little feet and extended arms.

Naturally, I was having a bad hair day, so I tried to organise my curls into a messy-but-sexy updo with a crocodile clip, but as my hair is currently quite short, little bits of it stuck out at the back, making me into a long, black caterpillar with a furry neck.

I decided that thick eyeliner, bright pink lipstick, glasses and a fuzzy fringe would have to be the lewk (look, to anyone over 40) I went for, and hoped this combination would be alluring enough for Ryan, whichever Ryan it was.

Standing on one leg in front of the mirror in the office loos, I tried a high-heeled sparkly boot on, and felt a bit less caterpillarish.

Then I went to the loo and realised my period had started. (Sorry if this is too much information, but periods have happened to me every month for more than 30 years and still I am surprised every time. Plus, this is significant information for the story, I promise.)

I didn’t have anything with me, so on the way to meet Ryan and the celebrity ambassadors and say happy birthday to a watch and thank the richest person in the world’s son for asking me to the party, I went into a shop and bought panty liners.

While I was there, I checked my shopping list and bought cotton wool pads and hand cream too, then shoved them all into my free tote bag along with the sparkly boots.

Aha, I thought, fishing out the little drawstring pouch I keep my Invisalign teeth straighteners and toothbrush in, this will do.

As I approached the party (in a large ‘space’ below Denmark Street near Soho in central London), I remembered I needed to change my shoes.

I went into TK Maxx around the corner and fished my heeled boots out from under the toiletries, replacing them with my trainers. I was nearly set.

I’d been to this venue before, so I was relieved to know there wouldn’t be too much of a red carpet to walk down.

(The last - and only - time I went to a celeb event of this magnitude, I nearly knocked Rita Ora over with my lumpy tote on the steps of the Albert Hall, such was the bag’s size.)

But I had forgotten one crucial thing: a handbag.

This fact led to me sitting on the floor next to the cloakroom, scrabbling around in my work bag in the dark (did I mention I also had a rucksack with me?) for some kind of substitute.

Aha, I thought, fishing out the little drawstring pouch I keep my Invisalign teeth straighteners and toothbrush in, this will do.

Happy birthday, watch!

But then I realised I needed to somehow do an invisible panty liner transfer from my tote bag into the Invisalign bag, which involved more scrabbling, which I did while some very tall people in sequin suits and see-through sequin dresses stomped past me.

After a non-alcoholic cocktail (kind of like a negroni with watermelon soda) and several lovely canapes (Caesar salad with a parmesan crisp, tuna tartare), I found a stool in a raised area near the front where I could get a good view of the action - the action being a five-minute film-slash-advert for the watch, starring one of the Ryans.

I put my Invisalign bag on the table (logo face down) and tried to take some photos of Geri Halliwell, the only celebrity I recognised in the entire place. Then I sat on my stool alone for a bit.

I wanted to be texting a hot husband at home about my celeb spotting fail … but unfortunately I don’t have one

I could hear some friendly chatter happening on my left, and after a while, I turned and asked what their connection was with Ryan/the watch/the zillionaire’s son.

“I’m a footballer,” said the woman nearest me. “I play for Arsenal, and England.”

“Oh my god,” I said. “I cried so much when we won the Women's World Cup last year.”

“The Euros,” she said.

“I mean the Euros! Sorry,” I said.

“Yes. I was player of the tournament,” she said.

I wished I could have turned into the facepalm emoji and disappeared at that point, because of all the well-known people (Alexandria Daddario from White Lotus, Simone Ashley from Bridgerton, Patrick Dempsey from Grey’s Anatomy – I did a lot of googling when I got home), Beth Mead ought to have been the most celebrated star there and one I instantly recognised.

Me and my Invisalign handbag and a very fast red car

Luckily, distraction from this massive faux pas came in the form of a man wearing a camel-coloured 1970s-style suit, brown polo neck and Cuban-heeled boots, who appeared on stage to welcome us.

It was Greg James, the BBC Radio 1 presenter, who duly introduced Ryan (it was definitely Gosling) and played the short film Ryan starred in, where he tried to steal a watch by escaping in a very fast red car.

I can’t say much about Ryan apart from I loved his shoes.

They were Gucci, and heeled, and worked with his wide-lapelled suit and pink shirt. (I love that men are doing more with fashion right now - see Paul Mescal and Austin Butler at the Oscars this year - and I enjoy the ‘70s look.)

(Greg also introduced the son of the richest person in the world, who curiously looked like he’d raided someone else’s wardrobe in a slightly crumpled suit.)

My friend Nicky (left), Annie Mac (centre) and me on Friday night

Why am I telling you about this? In the name of honesty. Like the time when I found myself doing a book deal from a hotel in Las Vegas, which sounds glam, I mostly felt rather lonely at this party.

It felt quite strange to be surrounded by beautiful and mainly very tall people in a place where I knew no-one, and was feeling frizzy-haired and unprepared.

I tried to be curious, like a good journalist, but really I wished I had someone to share the event with.

I wanted to be texting a hot husband at home about my celeb spotting fail, handbag snafu and men’s shoe admiration, but unfortunately, I don’t have one.

Later, I went up to Beth Mead and thanked her for what she is doing for women, and apologised for not recognising her. She was kind, and I left feeling a little better.

Side note: the night after the watch event, I went back to the same venue for one of my favourite parties ever: Annie Mac’s Before Midnight, a kind of rave that finishes at 12, in time for the last tube.

No Hollywood celebs, no posers, just pure fun and dancing… and I got to meet Annie at the end!!!

Things I like

Poking outward

I’ve been reading Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck, a book of essays about being a woman (Nora wrote the screenplay for When Harry Met Sally, among many other achievements).

In it, she refers to having written a piece about having small breasts, which I duly looked up. It’s a 1972 essay and made me laugh out loud. Especially this bit, where she’s describing the bras she wore at school:

“Each time I changed bras I changed sizes: one week nice perky but not too obtrusive breasts, the next medium-sized slightly pointy ones, the next week knockers, true knockers; all the time, whatever size I was, carrying around this rubberized appendage on my chest that occasionally crashed into a wall and was poked inward and had to be poked outward.”

This is still true: I have some bras that give me knockers where the padding sometimes has to be massaged back into shape (though rarely because I have crashed into a wall).

What the Goop cruise is really like

Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop appears to know no bounds, and this essay by Lauren Oyler in Harper’s Magazine - I Really Didn’t Want To Go On The Goop Cruise - is hilarious.

Lauren’s openness about what it’s like to go on a press trip (which is usually an all expenses paid group holiday you’re meant to review honestly - though Lauren’s magazine paid for her to go), is brilliant, from her descriptions of the other journalists there, the publicity people’s WhatsApp group messages, to the unintentionally funny wellness experts - and Gwyneth herself.