My night at the Oscars

A girl can now die happy. Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston are here - and Jude Law is just a champagne glass's length away from me. The men are all drooling over the glorious Hilton sisters, Paris and Nicky, but I find my own object of desire - I bump into James Van Der Beek, who plays Dawson in Dawson's Creek. This will make my girlfriends so jealous. As London woke up this morning to snow, ice and chill winds, I have left the wintry weather behind to attend the post-Oscars party hosted by Elton John and InStyle magazine at the Marquee in Los Angeles.

Along with the Vanity Fair bash, held down the road at Morton's restaurant, it is the only place to be post the Academy Awards, where stars will commiserate with the losers, air-kiss the winners, swap the names and addresses of their plastic surgeons, and examine each others' Botoxed foreheads for surprise.

Tickets for the party are thousands of dollars each, all sold in aid of the Elton John Aids Foundation, but I have been invited to be the only journalist allowed inside. A rather jammy assignment, I can hear you saying, but, as I soon discover, one that is fraught with sartorial minefields.

I arrive the night before the ceremony, and check in at the Mondrian Hotel in West Hollywood. The concierge finds the fact that I am from London "way cool". My room is a minimalist white cube, and I soon develop snow blindness.

After ordering room service ("Did you say you wanted a side order of RICE?" says the waiter, who hasn't been asked for carbs since 1998), I decide to gatecrash the party downstairs by the pool being held by Best Actress nominee Charlize Theron who, like Naomi Watts, earned her accolade by being brave enough to appear on screen with no make-up whatsoever.

Her party is heaving. I push my way to the Sky Bar, which isn't hard as the guests are all size 0, and I am struck by how old-fashioned all the women seem: they are still wearing foundation, blusher and frosted eye shadow, have big hair and tiny noses, and can be summed up in two words: Eighties Dallas.

At about 9.30pm, just when the party seems to be hotting up, everyone decides to go home - Los Angelenos, it seems, take the Oscars oh-so-seriously. But some of us head for the Whisky Bar in a nearby hotel, where I spot Jude Law and a brown-haired Sienna Miller enjoying a nightcap.

As Sunday dawns, I decide to put myself through a pre-ceremony preening. All the swanky hotels are full of beauty therapists, stylists and hairdressers who are busy transforming, honing and harvesting their guests. I pay a visit to my hotel's "eyebrow station" for a tidy, have a mani and a pedi in my room (half the price of London, and twice as good), and then go round to the suite of hairdresser to the stars, Nicky Clarke.

He has done the hair of every star from Princess Diana to Kylie, so I ask him what is the most common mistake made by female celebrities. "They don't change their style when they hit 40," he says ominously (Hollywood actresses are, of course, supposed to throw themselves over the Grand Canyon at this age; actors are merely meant to remarry).

I tell him I want to resemble Penelope Cruz, and he looks doubtful. He asks me what I will be wearing. I have decided to Diane von Furstenberg, and sparkly high heels from Bottega Veneta.

Only when putting it on do I discover that it is completely see-through. I consider using tit tape to hold it in place but opt instead for a vest. I am still worried that everyone will be able to see my Myla thong, and figure that my best option will be to stand with my back against a wall for the duration. After watching the ceremony in my hotel room - best dressed? Nicole Kidman in Chanel couture; worst? Uma Thurman in a tiered floaty number - I join Nicky Clarke in our limo to the party (the going rate for a car tonight is $800).

The traffic jam can probably be seen in space; the 10-minute drive takes nearly an hour. Getting past security takes almost as long: I have to show my passport, and my photo phone is confiscated; in this dress, there really is nowhere safe that I can hide it.

I am dismayed to see that we have to negotiate our own mini red carpet, flanked by paparazzi. Nicky is chatting to David Furnish, so I have to walk the rest of the way on my own. I am very worried that I will appear in next week's Heat magazine in the section called "The pictures they DON'T want you to see".

Inside the party? What can I say. The scent of flowers is overwhelming-I spot Scarlett Johansson, who, after keeping a rumoured six designers dangling, eventually plumped for Alberta Ferretti; she is still so young that here in America she will have to wait another two years for a glass of champagne.

The party was full of supermodels, including Helena Christensen, Milla Jovovich and current Vogue cover star Natalia Dodianova. Christensen looked the most amazing in purple.

I also bumped into a lifelong idol, Dirty Dancing star Patrick Swayze. Having met him, my life now seems complete. I also met Donald Trump and his gorgeous brunette companion.

There was also, in among the green swathes of the marquee, my new best friend, Martine McCutcheon. She told me she was wearing Vera Wang, and that she hadn't been able to find anyone to do her hair, and it had been a "f***ing nightmare".

She was with the British contingent that included her boyfriend and the shoe designer Patrick Cox. I am now about to go and fetch my goody bag upon leaving the party.

The limos are still arriving and all the Oscar winners seem to be here. But they were all getting the same treatment as I did, having to show ID and have their hands stamped.

I think everyone's waiting for Charlize Theron, the real star of the night who - even in the cut-throat world of Hollywood - everyone agrees did well to win Best Actress.