Belle De Book Launch

Last night, I was jammy enough to attend a launch party for Belle De Jour's first book, The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl.

The call girl in question couldn't come to her own book do (or could she?) for obvious reasons. And the inspiration for this blog couldn't make it either, for equally obvious reason. As I'm sure Belle and Drew would have loved to have been there, I took it upon myself to enjoy the evening to the full, then document the proceedings from the midst of the inevitable hangover.

I thought it only proper to sport my leather boots and finest lingerie in honour of the absent hostess. Sadly, said knickers were not some exquisite peach and cream lacy creation from La Perla, but black g's from La Senza.

The launch was held in a tiny private members' club squirreled away down narrow ally, bang in the middle of the West End. The book may have had a few knocks from critics, but the number of flush-faced rahs precariously balancing on the tiny, red-carpeted staircase as they queued to gain access to the heavily-peopled party suggested that the fascination with Ms De Jour has by no means diminished.

We were greeted at the top of the stairs with a large glass of wine. The green-painted and wood-panelled rooms had been lit by tealights to create a mood of intimacy and intrigue. Jolly nice, we thought. Now bring out the canapés.

We were only a little late, but the three small rooms were already heaving. Coats piled up in the corners, and the club's staff battled through the throng with plates of devils on horseback, pastry rolls stuffed with hot mozzarella, and something that looked and tasted suspiciously like (rather delicious) upmarket prawn vol-au-vents.

I suffered a slight food malfunction as I bit into the pastry roll, unexpected molten mozzarella spurting from the filo pastry and sliding down my fingers. I tried to pay attention to the conversation I was having as the hot fat seared my skin, and gently nibbled the solidifying white streaks from the red flesh as they cooled. Belle writes about red candlewax marks under her clothes glowing with sympathetic heat. I get red cheese marks throbbing slightly under my fingerless gloves. Close, but no cigar.

I have no idea who the people at the party were. There was a large man named Sebastian who appeared to have come dressed as a giant drag salmon. All the guests had made an effort to dress up, and one pregnant lady was kitted out in a t-shirt with the words 'Baby De Jour' stretched across her swollen breasts.

Someone made a speech which I couldn't hear, and produced a whip - the persuader. The wine kept flowing, cheeks grew ruddier, and nobody seemed in a great hurry to leave.

Towards the end of the evening, we had a lovely chat with the book's publisher, who was full of excellent anecdotes, and adamant that Belle is the real deal.

Eventually, we slid back down the battered staircase, and out into the cold.

I was due to meet a friend in Soho, and clip-clopped down Frith Street like the littlest Billy Goat Gruff, warm with drink and clutching a copy of the book. Even though the title on the cover is quite small, a trendy gay man spotted it and stage-whispered to his attendant fag hag: "Belle De Jour!"

What a shame, I thought, that it was me enjoying Belle's moment. It should have been her, whoever she is, listening to her heels clicking on the pavement, pressing her fingers into a copy of her first book, reflecting on her wonderful party, and relishing being the talk of the town.