Behind the black door

As book clubs go, Grazia’s must be one of the starriest. The event, held at Waterstone's in Piccadilly, boasts champagne, cup cakes, goody bags and celebrity guests.

When Emma Freud interviewed Sarah Brown about her newly-published Behind the Black Door this month, the audience included the likes of actor Bill Nighy, Four Weddings and a Funeral creator Richard Curtis and Grazia editor Jane Bruton. I was mesmerised by Nighy, chic in his thick-rimmed black specs and far taller than I expected, while my teenage daughter only had eyes for Jane Bruton’s sky-high leopard-print heels.

Many of Sarah Brown’s revelations – from how she got a rabbit belonging to the children’s entertainer she booked for her son Fraser’s birthday party into Number 10 without having to go through the security scanners to her wry comment that it didn’t really matter what she wore when she stood next to supermodel Carla Bruni - have been widely reported already. But it was fascinating to hear her talk about the book – and hard to believe that she used to be terrified of public speaking. Consummate PR professional that she is (she ran her own PR outfit for years before marrying Gordon), she came across as cool, unflappable and ultra-discreet. The sort of best friend we'd all like to have really.

Tall and statuesque in a stylish brown dress, she admitted she’s not a “shout-ty” person, that her favourite book is Kamila Shamsie’s Burnt Shadows, her favourite film The Social Network and her guilty pleasures “a glass of wine, chocolate and Glee.” Oh, and I’m not sure how convincing this is, but her favourite rapper is P. Diddy!

Behind the Black Door is published by Ebury Press, price £18.99.

White hyacinths and pink tulips

Walking past the florist’s shop at this time of year makes me sad. They’re getting ready for Mother’s Day and the pavement outside is filled with baskets of fragrant white hyacinths and delicate pink tulips that are still in bud.

Mother’s Day is bitter-sweet these days. I long to send my mum flowers wrapped in brown paper and tied with ribbon, fix lunch and catch up with all the gossip over a glass of champagne. But she died nearly seven years ago and instead of dwelling on what might have been I’m going to make the most of being with Lottie and Ned, my lovely teenage children.

The trouble is that even though she’s not here I still want to tell my mum everything. She’d be enthralled to hear I’ve recklessly bought a tumbledown farmhouse in the south of France. And she’d be appalled that it’s damp, derelict and only has half a roof. She’d be staggered by how tall Ned’s grown and how scary he is when he’s whizzing down hills at full pelt on his bike. She’d be so proud of Lottie’s place at university and fierce independence.

My grandmother died at the age of 62 and after that my mum always dreaded Mother’s Day. One year she wrote in her newspaper column: “Don’t say it’s sentimental rubbish, emotional blackmail, commercial exploitation and that your mother knows you love her anyway. I’m sure she does, but the joy she’ll get from a tangible expression of your feelings is more than worth the effort. There were times when I forgot to mark the day for my brilliant mother and what I’d give now to be able to send her flowers by the lorry load.”

As always she was completely right. So today I'm thinking about her and remembering all the wonderful times we had...