Glamour is... talking vacuum cleaners with Jagger

Having spent the past decade or so trying to persuade the world that I'm a Lit Girl, I've decided to come clean. Lurking just below the surface, as my detractors have always suspected, there lies, in fact, a failed It Girl.

Years in denial saw me turning down invites to celebrity dos and shop openings in an effort to convince the literati that I could bat for their team. Well, I've tried it and it's just too boring. I can't face another dinner party discussing the influences of the French Nouvelle Vague on Joel Schumacher.

As my fortieth approaches I've decided to lighten up. So last weekend I flew all the way to Cannes for a party. Not any party you understand; it was Vanity Fair 's second outing at the Cannes Film Festival. As any aspirational socialite will tell you, it's the only ticket you need. The question was, would I be receiving one?

In mid-April I began accosting the postman on a daily basis. 'Anything from New York?' I would ask in as casual a manner as I could muster. I'm not sure I was disguising my desperation very well by standing on the doorstep in my dressing gown at 7am. Friends would ask if I was heading to Cannes this year and I would wrinkle my nose and say nonchalantly: 'I'm not sure if I can be bothered.' What I really meant was 'if I'm not on the Vanity Fair party list, what's the point?'

When the deceptively low-key white card finally arrived, inviting me to dine at the Hotel Eden Roc with VF editor Graydon Carter, I nearly snogged the bemused Consignia representative.

Until the arrival of Vanity Fair, the Cannes Film Festival had definitely started to lose its showbiz shine. The famous Croisette, once scattered with the likes of Bardot, De Niro, Taylor and Bergman, had become the haunt of onlookers content with a glimpse of Angelina Jolie's body double from Tomb Raider. Until last year the MTV party was as glamorous as it got - but then Vanity Fair stepped in. The inauguration in 2001 of its seated dinner for 140 people, prior to its marginally less exclusive party, put aspiration back on the menu. I had to be there.

Unluckily my journey coincided with the latest breakdown in air traffic control. As urgent pleas go, 'I have to get to the Vanity Fair party' lacks credibility, but to the credit of BMI staff they didn't laugh in my face.

For once at least I knew what I was wearing. Emanuel Ungaro had offered to lend this Cinderella a dress. I chose a gypsy-style beaded skirt, which would otherwise have set me back £3,000, and a jersey halter-top that plunged to my navel. I was worried about the top. At 18, it's probably all right to let your breasts pop out by mistake. Approaching 40, it looks desperate, not delectable.

Thanks to the flight nightmare I arrived at the Hotel Du Cap with 30 minutes to spare. On such occasions it's important to prioritise. I still had time for a blow dry from America's most wanted hairdresser, Frederic Fekkai, who was in Cannes to 'do' the Arquette sisters. Fekkai's PR was keen that Frederic and I meet. I wonder if it had anything to do with the imminent launch of his Hollywood-beloved hair products at Harrods? When he arrived at the door of my room, it wasn't hairdressing that sprang to mind. He was devilishly handsome with his dark hair, olive skin and crisp white shirt, and I certainly didn't mind him running his hands through my hair. Presuming him to be gay, I happily stripped off and began applying the various pieces of sticky tape needed to ensure I didn't end up topless. By the time I'd finished, my torso looked like I'd been in a car accident. It was only after Fekkai left the room that my girlfriend informed me he was famously heterosexual.

The idyllic setting adds much to the air of decadent glamour that surrounds the party. Where the Hotel Du Cap meets the sea lies the Eden Roc restaurant. Madonna's naked shots were taken here on a trapeze above the ocean. I was hoping this year for a glimpse of Sharon Stone, but the festival's most photographed judge was obviously busy judging. Instead we made do with Pierce Brosnan, Gina Gershon, Dave Stewart, Mick Jagger, Sting and his wife Trudie Styler, Matthew Modine, Jason Flemyng, Connie Nielsen (from Gladiator ) and, my favourite, the inventor James Dyson. He and I had a long chat about the merits of his twin-drum machine and a nifty new cleaner that you can pull along casually behind you.

I was all set to invest in one until Mick (Jagger) cautioned me that he'd had endless problems with his. The sexy Stones singer and I talked domestic appliances for most of dinner. He's one of the only icons left who raises pulse rates at a party. Short of Elvis reappearing, they're few and far between.

After dinner the party got into full swing. Sting and Trudie brought the room to a halt when they took to the dance floor like young lovers. Five women walked up to me and asked what I thought their secret was.

Late arrivals included Miramax boss Harvey Weinstein, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Mike Leigh. The Chinese whisper was that Leonardo DiCaprio was there, although I never actually saw him. Later I discovered the secret of Sting and Trudie's enduring marriage. He confided in me that he was good at making money and she was good at spending it.

Meanwhile Graydon Carter wasn't letting his responsibilities get in the way of a good time. Instead of schmoozing his all-star guests, he was flailing on the dance floor with Brit Its Kate Riordan and Jessica de Rothschild. It was then I realised who was the inspiration behind my Fekkai-styled windblown hairdo: none other than the party host himself. My 20 minutes under Frederic's blowdryer had transformed me into a Graydonette. No wonder Fekkai was on the top table and I was slumming it, sandwiched between Jagger and Stewart. Those PR people are even smarter than you think...