‘In July 1996, I was thrilled to be invited to a friend’s sixteenth birthday family dinner at the Groucho Club (London! Soho!). There would be wall-to-wall famous people and I would take my place amongst them. Until then — living in the sticks — I’d had mostly goats for company. But in fact our group was seated alone in an upstairs private dining room, kept away from the actual event: drunk celebs in the downstairs bar.
‘After dinner I was dying to shake off the olds and slip in to the bar for a real drink, but we were swept down the back stairwell and into the lobby to get our coats; the Groucho was done with me and it had shown me nothing. The door onto the wet street opened and there stood Harvey Keitel, surrounded by friends. My memory is hazy at this point but I expect they were beautiful, and throwing back their heads in mirth as they waited for me to pass.
‘I thrust out my hand before he disappeared forever: “I’m Polly!” “Pleased to meet you Polly,” he replied, “I’m Harvey. Have a great night”. The door swung shut behind him. I pleaded with my friend’s family to let me chase him in for an autograph and was scolded by her older brother: “People like him come to places like this to escape people like you!”
‘And then we went back to the country, to my insignificant life in what was, from then on, absolutely nowhere.’