From Notting Hill to New York . . . Actually Read Free Page A

morning. I could well take up a yearly membership if I like it.’
    ‘You mean if you catch a glimpse of Jude Law in a sweat-soaked vest!’
    ‘There is that added incentive!’
    The taxi pulls to a stop outside the TV studios where we’re dropping off Oscar’s outfit. While Oscar pays the driver, I look up at the rather dull building we’re about to enter. It doesn’t look much like I’ve imagined a TV studio might look. It’s quite drab and boring on the outside. But as we go through the security gate outside, giving our names and reason for being there, and then on into Reception where we sign our names in a book, it begins to feel a bit more exciting. I see photographs of some of the programmes that are filmed there, and some of the personalities that work on them. Oscar flashes his visitor’s pass at the smiling receptionist and we’re allowed further into the building.
    ‘So where do we have to go now?’ I ask, trying to act cool but feeling a sense of nervous anticipation, like a child about to visit Santa.
    ‘This way,’ Oscar says, prancing down a long corridor.
    As I follow him, I try and look as if I visit TV studios every day of the week, but the reality is my head is swivelling to and fro trying to see inside rooms and offices in the hope that I might spot something exciting going on.
    But it’sall quite boring, really, not at all what I expected. It’s just like a normal office block.
    Then as we turn a corner, and Oscar hurriedly sets off down the next long corridor, I pause for a moment to glance back at a small crowd of people gathering outside one of the rooms we’ve just passed.
    It couldn’t be – could it? It had looked an awful lot like him sitting in that chair as we’d whizzed past … But what would he be doing here at this time of the morning?
    Then I see a sign above me on the wall that says
Wake Up Britain TV Studios
, and the penny drops. He must be a guest this morning on breakfast television. I’m about to call out to Oscar to wait a moment, but the corridor stretching out in front of me is empty.
    I look at my two options. Chase after Oscar and his 1920s flapper dress and matching headband, or casually wander back down the corridor and possibly get the chance to speak to Colin Firth …
    It doesn’t take much thinking about.
    I’m about to take a step towards my date with destiny when a young man in faded jeans and a Ted Baker t-shirt taps me on the shoulder.
    ‘Excuse me?’ he enquires.
    I’m almost thrusting my hands in the air in surrender and admitting that yes, I’m not supposed to be here alone when he continues, ‘Are you the fitness expert?’
    ‘I … I’m sorry?’ I ask, looking at him in bewilderment.
    ‘The new
Wake Up Britain
fitness expert? To say there’s been a bit of a panic goingon down there,’ he gestures down the corridor, ‘is an understatement. We didn’t think you were going to make it when you said you’d been in a traffic accident. I’m Rich. We spoke on the phone.’
    I stare at him blankly.
    ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, looking worried. ‘Are you in shock or something? You don’t have concussion, do you?’
    ‘Er, no …’
    ‘Good-good, then let’s get you down to make-up. You’re looking a bit pale.’
    He grasps hold of my arm, and before I know what’s happening I’m being escorted down the corridor and into a small room decorated almost entirely in white. It has large mirrors running the length of the wall, and several high seats standing in front of the mirrors.
    ‘Hi,’ says a young girl with long auburn hair and wild jewellery, gesturing at one of the seats. ‘Sit right here. Won’t be a mo.’
    I’m just about to explain that I’m not actually an expert in fitness, and that the only time I really get out of breath is when I have to run the length of Oxford Street on the first day of the sales, and that I can judge my current strength levels on just how many shopping bags my biceps can endurein the process