Читать книгу Confessions of a Showbiz Reporter - Holly Forrest - Страница 6

Sunday 12 February 2012. It’s the night of the BAFTA Film Awards ceremony and I’m bloody freezing.

We’re in the heart of what we call the ‘season’ – those few months during which all the key awards ceremonies seem to take place, everything from the Brits to the Oscars, the BAFTAs and the Elle Style Awards. The trouble with the ‘season’ is that it’s always during the winter. Fine, maybe, for the celebs who party until the small hours in the heated surroundings of the Royal Opera House or the O2, but for us reporters standing outside on the red carpet waiting for them to talk into our microphones, the setting is just a few degrees away from being positively arctic.

I watch my breath blossom into steam in the icy air and crack open yet another hand-warmer pad, tucking it discreetly into the back of my knickers so that it warms the small of my back. Bliss. There’s the first lesson from the showbiz world for you: underneath the opulence there’s always something significantly more unglamorous.

I’m huddled behind a rope with a group of fellow reporters, all women in evening dresses as per the rules of such an upmarket event. Even at an occasion like the BAFTAs, it seems odd to see people so smartly dressed packed into a small space like animals. We’d probably look more at home in the orange suits worn by caged prisoners in Guantanamo Bay. Still, we all courteously compliment each other on our outfits, despite recognising that it’s difficult to look fabulous when you’re shaking harder than a nervous X Factor contestant.

An ice-cold wind blows up this back street of London’s Covent Garden area, a road that has been transformed into something truly special, with huge spotlights, advertising banners and that all-important crimson flooring. On one side of the carpet are scores of reporters; on the other are crowds of fans. Every reporter is required to wear an all-important accreditation around our necks and be in position about an hour before the famous people actually start turning up. We’ve now been here about 55 minutes. The tension is palpable. So is the frost forming at the end of my nose.

… And then it begins, not the celebrity procession, but an unstoppable thought growing in my brain. Every time I have to cover one of these events, it’s always the same. I can’t help it. I’m gritting my teeth; it’s still there, a loud scream in my head, shouting out in capital letters as I check my watch for the millionth time:

‘I BLOODY HATE THIS JOB!’

The bubbly girl huddled next to me is someone I’ve only seen reporting from the red carpets for the last few months; she smiles at me and giggles. Newbies – they’re the only ones that look happy.

‘You okay?’ she asks.

‘Hmmmmm,’ I mumble back.

On the outside I smile back at her. Inside I’m crying. She’ll understand one day.

Then, suddenly, a roar of excitement erupts from down the line. I crank my head around to see what’s happening. Someone is arriving! I rise up from my frozen slouch, microphone at the ready. The carpet is finally starting to fill, a stream of invited guests, not all famous, but each lucky enough to have a ticket to the British movie world’s most important night. The screams in the distance suggest a big star has stepped out of their limousine and is beginning the long walk past the crowds. Around me I hear mumbled suggestions as to who it could be:

‘Is it Clooney?’

‘Please let it be Michael Fassbender!’

‘Knowing our luck it’ll be Peter Andre.’

The shouting is getting louder, deafening almost. Camera flashes spark out from the crowds. Okay, Holls, I tell myself, here we go. It’s time to snap out of the black mood. Women with clipboards are scurrying about at the fence in front of me, talking into headsets and suddenly pointing in my direction. So much action after so much nothing. I shift the hand-warmer pad on my back slightly and take a deep breath. Then someone says …

‘Brad, this is Holly Forrest.’

In the blink of an eye, Brad Pitt is standing in front of me. Shit! Brad ruddy Pitt! He’s smirking, rubbing his hands together to keep warm and looking at me expectantly. The PR girl who’s introduced him stands silently to his side. After an hour of twiddling my thumbs, I have about half-a-second to crank into gear.

‘Hi,’ I say. Except I don’t. What I actually say is more like ‘huh’. My mouth has become so frozen from the cold that my face is more like a ventriloquist’s than a professional journalist.

‘Oh. Hi, Holly. Are you okay?’

‘Yersh, fine.’

Brad Pitt is looking at me weirdly. In an attempt to regain feeling in my lips I’m pouting like a Page 3 girl, and it’s clearly got him a little worried.

‘We’ve met before, right?’

Suddenly, my face flushes. I can feel warmth in my skin again. In fact, I’m blushing. Well, that’s certainly one way of getting my facial features back into working order, I think – get a major Hollywood heart-throb to say that he remembers you. Who cares if I’ve just been doing ridiculous mouth acrobatics in front of one of the world’s most famous men? None of that matters any more because Brad Pitt has said that he remembers me.

Of course, the second lesson of the showbiz world is that celebs often pretend to recognise you, because they know how great it makes you feel. Does Brad really remember me? I quickly calculate that I have interviewed him at least three times before so although it’s unlikely, it’s not actually out of the question. In truth, the warm buzz of excitement now washing over me doesn’t mind whether he’s lying or not. If you want to play that game, Bradley, I’ll go with it.

The hour that I’ve been waiting here, slowly freezing and losing the will to live, begins to feel like a distant memory. Cold? What cold? The passion of the crowds, the importance of the night and the fact that I’ve now got Benjamin Button at his most beautiful standing just a couple of feet away and claiming to know me are all combining to remind me of something very important, something that up until a few minutes ago I’d completely forgotten. It’s a feeling that always comes back. It’s all I can do now to stop myself from running up the length of the red carpet in front of me and blurting it out to the crowd.

‘I BLOODY LOVE THIS JOB!’

Shaking any distractions out of my head I focus and the interview begins, a well-rehearsed two-hander that Brad and I have both performed many times. Now my mouth has defrosted I’m quickly into the usual line of investigation.

‘What do you think are your chances of winning?’

‘What attracted you to the role?’

‘How’s the family?’

I know – not exactly Paxman, right? Red carpets, though, aren’t the place for intensity. It’s all just a show and everyone’s got a script to follow. Even Brad:

‘I’m just proud to be nominated … The role had a lot of scope to it … Angie and the kids are hanging at home right now …’

Despite the formality, I’m loving it. ‘How could I ever complain about this job?’ I’m thinking, as I occasionally lose myself in his sea-blue eyes. This is my home. The chaos going on around me as more stars arrive; the screams of fans, the hails of reporters and photographers; the antenna in my head constantly listening out for a headline or a scoop: these are my comfort zones. The third lesson in showbiz reporting is that this job has a habit of stirring up conflicting emotions, highs and lows – but ultimately I always come back to the same happy conclusion. Right now, there is no other place I’d rather be.

The beaming new girl calls over to me and I’m back down to earth. My 45 seconds with Brad has finished and he’s moved on up the line.

‘I saw you, Holly Forrest! You were flirting with Brad Pitt.’

‘What? And you wouldn’t?’ I call back. It’s true, though, and I’m still flushing. It’s not just that I’ve forgotten about it being cold. I’m now actually hot under the collar.

Brad Pitt, ladies and gentlemen. When it comes to heating you up, he’s significantly more effective than a hand-warmer pad down your pants.