More famous people troop across the red carpet. Edie spots a junior Cabinet Minister. I spot two Sugarbabes. Then, finally, yet another car with darkened windows pulls up and a familiar pair of knees emerges from the back door.

‘Here she is!’ I squeal. Even Edie has the decency to squeal too.

Gradually the knees give way to a glimpse of thigh and the bottom of the cherry tomato. Cameras flash. Holding firmly to the hem of her dress, Jenny inches nervously along the rest of the seat and manoeuvres herself out of the car. I can see why finishing schools have classes in this sort of thing.

She stands beside the car, waiting, while a fat old man in a dinner jacket squeezes out beside her. We scream to grab her attention, but everyone else is screaming too, so she doesn’t hear us. Her hair has been curled into tight ringlets. Someone has decided it would be a good idea to give her lots of shiny green eye-makeup. And whoever did the fake tan got more than slightly carried away. She is orange from the hemline down.

Not so much a cherry tomato any more. More of a traffic light.

Jenny smiles nervously into the bank of flashing cameras. Fat bloke beside her (her father) takes her by the elbow and some men in black suits with walkie-talkies guide them both towards the red carpet. From the look on her face, it might as well be the guillotine.

Once she’s there, Hollywood’s Hottest Female gives her a brief wave of acknowledgement. Her husband flashes a smile. Joe Yule, on the other hand, is suddenly busy signing things for a group of fans and talking into their phones.

Jenny’s dad works hard, on the lookout for TV presenters to talk to and grinning madly at anyone with a camera, including the crowd. For a while, Jenny wafts around vaguely in his wake. Finally, she spots our frantic waving and gives us a bit of a smile. It’s hard to tell from this distance, but I would swear she looks almost tearful. Then suddenly the men with walkie-talkies are closing in and she’s ushered through the doors and into the cinema. It’s all over.

‘How d’you think she looked?’ Edie asks. This is, after all, my area of expertise.

I try for a few seconds, screwing up my face with the effort, but nothing will come.

When your best friend has just been standing outside the biggest cinema in Leicester Square, near one of the sexiest women in the world who happens to be dressed in form-fitting Armani Privé, sky-high Manolos and matching husband, and your friend looks like a traffic light, standing next to a fat, baggy guy with fake hair, there is no fashion vocabulary that can adequately capture the moment.