primped and preened

I am primped and preened within an inch of my life. I am waxed, plucked, shaved, trimmed, coloured, tinted, hydrated and anxious as hell.

My Marc Jacobs dress is fabulous and I know I will look great in it, with my slightly darker than usual spray-tanned skin. I know that I will have an ally in Kate. I know that I can chat and network successfully (if I watch my champagne consumption). I know that I can dance with strangers and not feel uncomfortable.

The question then, is why on earth am I so anxious? This is a work function for goodness sake. This is not Cinderella's ball. This is a run of the mill, have a drink or two, shmooze the partners and then circulate round the room kind of event.

The nerves have to be put down to Ben. It is the only explanation I can find. He has been so slimey in his niceness and that conversation with Uncle and Peters, it all points toward this wicked plot to make my life an administrative nightmare rather than a legal heaven (if that's even possible at BCF).

And then to make everything worse, I just ran into Ben in the kitchen. He is looking fabulous. His outdoorsiness is radiant. He has had his hair cut and it is darkly, gently curly at the edges with a good bit of mess about it. It's the kind of hair that screams: 'I get out of bed like this every morning!' And he is wearing his good suit with that brilliant vintage tie that the girls apparently like.

The only thing for it was to out-nice him again. So I smiled and brushed against his arm as I leant across him to fill my mug with hot water for my tea. I giggled a bit and said I was looking forward to this evening. Then he placed his hand on the small of my back and said he was really looking forward to it as well and that I must save him a dance, no excuses.

Then I blushed. He is so much better at this than me.