Emmaprovement Continues...

Last week, I get an email from a PR asking if I'd be willing to attend Fashion Fringe, as they only have "space for ten journalists" and they would love for me to attend. I agree, feeling pretty VIP. Fashion Fringe is one of the most glamorous events on the LFW schedule.

Organised by Colin McDowell of the Sunday Times, the event showcases four new talented London designers and the panel of Fashion Fringe judges - including Tom Ford, Naomi Campbell and Claudia Schiffer - is pretty impressive.

I basically forget about it until the day arrives. No ticket. I put a call in, and someone from the venue calls me back to assure me my name is on the door.
"There shouldn't be a problem," she says.
And, stupidly, I believe her.
When Taryn and rock up to the piazza in Covent Garden, I realise I should have maybe sorted this a little more concretely. There are hoards of people milling about, including the usual tourist crowd with their cameras, freaking out that a fashion event is on.

We find the reception area and it's three deep with fashion wankers, air-kissing each other. After four days of this, I've lost the ability to make small talk. I've also lost my patience. So I - a little bruskly - push past someone to speak to the PR.
"Hi, I'm Emma Cheevers. From Urban Junkies. I just called. My name is on the list. Hand-written, supposedly."
The girl doesn't even check the list. She just hands me a white wristband. Score.

Not until Taryn gets given a black wristband do I realise I've just been screwed. I grab an organiser, point at both our wristbands - "what's the difference?" I ask.
She looks pityingly at me. "Yours is a standing ticket."
F*ck that.
Now, being Canadian, I rarely complain. I eat raw hamburger rather than send it back. Regularly. But after four days of being pleasant to PRs, I've hit a wall. I go back to the reception table and have a tense, yet firm, conversation with the girl who gave me the offending wristband. The man in charge interrupts, "Wait. You're Emma Cheevers? I thought the girl in the hat was Emma Cheevers".
He points to a girl in a fedora - a f*cking fedora - crushing her way through the crowd. The girl probably heard me say my name and then used it after me. Somehow, in the process, she got my seat.

The PR assures me that when we get into the show, she'll find me a seat. I feel like stamping my feet and having a tantrum. Taryn hands me a glass of champagne.
"Drink up," she says.
"No canapés?" I ask.
"Not yet," she says, scanning the crowd.
"Cheap bastards," I say, grabbing another glass of champagne.

It's another hour before they ask us to move into the showroom. Taryn - knowing what I'm like when I get the hump - keeps offering to give me her seat, but I insist she finds it. There's good swag at these events - someone will take her bag.

But no, in fact, some Ray Ban-sporting Shoreditch twat has taken her seat. The organiser just shrugs her shoulders. Taryn storms to another section and, very confidently, parks herself in the third row. Then calls me over.

"We're too close to the aisle," I hiss, shoving the swag bag into my purse. My big fear - everyone's big fear - at a fashion show is being "unseated". Can you imagine the white, hot shame of being forced out of a seat? In front of EVERYONE? Hideous. I hide my white wristband beneath my coat.

By the time they lead the VIPs to their seats, I start to breath normally. Tom Ford is positively smouldering, if a little short. Claudia Schiffer and Naomi make today's models look like awkward teenagers. Elizabeth Saltzman Walker from Vanity Fair, Zandra Rhodes, Erin O'Connor, Daisy Villeneuve, Louise Redknapp, Hamish Bowles; it's probably the best turnout all week. The paparazzi are going crazy, mostly for Naomi.

And then, the lights dim. And everyone shuts up. And for one second everything is still. Tense with anticipation. It reminds me of the first time I went to a Christmas concert. I remember my velvet party dress, the patent leather shoes, the frilly white socks - but mostly I remember that moment when the orchestra went silent, just before the curtain went up. Fashion shows are like that. Pantomime for grown-ups.