Many years ago, when I was very young, very shy, and newly married, my husband and I were invited to the very snazzy launch of a brand-new line of jewlery belonging to a big luxury goods group. My husband had recently started working in the legal department of this group, and my sole knowledge of what to expect at this sort of event came from the pages of magazines like Tatler.

Just looking at the fancy invitation we’d received weeks in advance sent my adrenaline levels orbiting outer space, initially just accompanied by the usual helium-squeals of “OMG I have nothing to wear.” For once, my wardrobe concern was legit, since how often do 27-year-olds like me get invited to parties where there will be movie stars and famous singers and models, and all kinds of other glitzy human beings?

So, one Saturday afternoon, my mama and I went into Geneva on an outfit hunt. I tried all sorts of beautiful things, and finally settled for a flared Marilyn-red silk skirt with a semi-stiff petticoat that ended just above the knee, with a matching bustier. The look felt young, and a little bit sexy, with pin-up vibes that somehow managed to steer clear of Tex Avery.

On the big night, I was loaned a set of chunky gold jewelry from the new collection. I had my hair professionally done in a high ponytail, and wore gold, high, strappy sandals, because I could still walk in heels back then.

I did discreet makeup and finished the look off with a red lip. I felt rather gorgeous. My husband thought I looked fabulous. Huzzah!

I’ve always found that the fun part  of most parties is the anticipation, the ceremonial of getting ready. I love the search for the perfect outfit, whether it’s in my wardrobe or at the shops. I enjoy the pre-party pampering, the hair and makeup.

Eventually though, you’ve got to step out into the light. You’ve got to smile, and - particularly at professional affairs - you have to come up with vanilla-flavoured small talk, and try to remember names, and not fall over, or spill something down your front, or pick at a piece of pickle stuck in your teeth. You’ve got to remember whether your bread roll is the one on the left or on the right, which knife and fork to use, and not have one drink too many.

I felt like I needed training wheels. An airbag. A teleprompter. A hand to hold.

When we arrived at the event I immediately wanted to turn around, go home, put my pjs on and have poached eggs on toast. I was out of my league. The glamour was off the charts for a newbie like me. I didn’t feel underdressed, I just felt like the biggest imposter ever to impost anywhere.

I recognized Ursula Andress (the Swiss James Bond girl who starred in Dr. No with Sean Connery), Sasha Distel (your granny/great-granny’s crush), and Petula Clark (most famous for her mega hit “Downtown”)and… and….I don’t remember!!! I just remember that the tent – I mean the marquee – was crawling with VIPs, that the sit-down dinner took place at huge oval tables, that my husband was sitting opposite me but miles away, and that his boss was sitting to my right. Also, my strappy sandals were already biting my feet.

My husband’s boss was a very nice, extremely chatty man who did a great job at getting me to relax. In fact, just before dessert, I’d let my guard down so much that when I suddenly needed to go to the bathroom, but had no idea where to find, I asked him. And he told me. And then it dawned on me that to get there I’d have to coax my strappy sandals to take me right across the marquee via a maze of tables surrounded by celebrities and chi-chi people all having a merry old time. At that moment, the task felt akin to being handed a microphone, and asked to climb on stage and sing Lady Marmelade.

So…

I turned to my new aquaintance and asked him to come with me. I might even have raised my right shoulder a smidgeon, lightly caressed my solar plexus, batted my eyelashes, and ended my question by cooing, “please?” It’s entirely possible.

 Mega teleprompter malfunction.

Big boob.

I vividly remember the slight twitch of his mustaches as he momentarily potentially wondered whether he might be being propositioned, then immediately realized that I was just a little girl who needed the loo. So, this gallant gentleman folded his napkin, stood up, helped me out of my chair, and escorted me through Tinseltent and all the way to the ladies. There, he waited patiently for me to reapply my red lipstick, before escorting me back to our table. To this day I hate to imagine what his wife thought. As for my husband, sitting next to her, he’d turned as white as the tablecloth, certain that on Monday morning he’d be handed a carboard box and told to clear his desk.

By then, of course, I’d realized my faux-pas, and proceeded to dig myself deeper and deeper into my moronic mausoleum by repeatedly apologizing to my mustachioed knight in black tie, who wasn’t in the least bit put out and seemed to find me rather entertaining. So much so that we ended the evening on a first name basis, switching to the familiar French pronoun “tu” instead of the formal “vous”, something my husband never managed to do in close to three decades (Yay! No Monday morning cardboard box!).

Looking back, I realize the evening served as the perfect introduction to the singular world of glitzy professional events, with my husband’s boss metaphorically holding my hand throughout the dinner. I got lucky, because I went on to attend many other events like this during my husband’s career and cannot remember another high-ranked executive being quite so congenial.

Over the years, I learned to read my dinner companions and to dose my spontaneity with an adequate amount of restraint. But no other official dinner has remained as vivid in my memory as that evening under the star-packed marquee, chaperoned by that kind, entertaining and compassionate gentleman.

Have you ever made any major gaffe’s you still cringe over? Please tell me I’m not alone!