Keith and Katie Price

The pool is blissfully empty while the teenagers are sleeping off their Pina Coladas, but I can’t quite relax. I made it very clear to Katie Price’s ‘people’ that the team would have to keep a LOW PROFILE at the front of the house – especially as they’re starting at 8am. There has already been a text from Keith who is looking after the place while we’re away. ‘ 7.45, they’re here…’ I try to distract myself, looking at the distant mountains, planning the day, resolving to have just fruit for breakfast, I’m sure everything will be fine, but my thoughts return to Lordship Park and the synchronised curtain twitching followed by full on gawping as Katie and her entourage arrive.  After a dozen or so lengths I get out, grab a towel, reach for the phone and call home. Keith is breathless. A fleet of fresh-off-the-production-line, dictator- of-an-African-state-style Mercedes have rolled into the street and are lined up outside the house with their engines purring. Keith is helping ferry in boxes and boxes of wigs and about a thousand dresses while the crew stand around shouting down mobile phones. There’s an impromptu catwalk show happening on the pavement which he is trying to disband while ushering everyone inside. I let him go and fret for several minutes before waking Brian up. The shoot’s a complicated one. It’s for Katie Price TV, featuring models from the new Katie Price modeling academy, filming a commercial for the new Katie Price perfume. Keith calls back. Katie has arrived in a bright pink, customized London Taxi, which has parked out the front next to the red Ferrari that the photographer showed up in. A crowd has gathered. Nice and low profile then. 

Fast forward to 10.30 pm. Boys are on their 3^rd Pina Colada. I’m pacing up and down the buffet on the phone to the producer. The shoot’s run over by several hours. Everyone’s on the front steps smoking, drinking and partying (Keith included - he’s now BFFL with Jordan).  At midnight, after he’s Hoovered up a lot of hair, scraped false eyelashes off the floor and emptied the overflowing ashtrays and half-drunk bottles of Champagne he locks up and staggers the ten yards down the street to his gaff.

I text, ‘sorry – sounds like that one was quite full-on, hope you didn’t have plans for tonight.’