And the Award Goes to...

Safely back from New York, I read the reviews for the trip and once again the customers seem delighted; many have already booked up for another travel club holiday. As we all sit working our way through the bookings for next year, I have to stop myself staring at Charlie and grinning; I get a frisson of excitement every time I think about the surprise wedding. To keep the conversation on anything but weddings, I tell him that he has Patty doing nineties tunes to look forward to.

‘OMG – do you think she’ll do the Spice Girls?’ he asks, hitting on yet another car crash waiting to happen.

‘Well I think she’s bloody scary,’ says Josie.

‘Nah,’ – Charlie is really thinking this through – ‘it would have to be Ginger – the Union Jack dress and everything. If she did Posh, it would just be a bird in a black dress scowling.’

‘She could do Baby,’ adds Josie, ‘with those bunches in her hair.’

‘All ready to plait them for Britney,’ I think to myself.

I leave them contemplating Patty’s outfits and head off early to get ready for tonight’s award ceremony. I couldn’t sleep last night practising my acceptance speech over and over again. I’m not even sure if they let you give a speech but I have one ready just in case. A lack of sleep is not conducive to looking one’s best and when I glance in the bathroom mirror one of those wrinkly Shar-Pei dogs seems to be staring back at me. There will be photographers at this event and the pictures will be circulated widely; I wonder if I have time for a facial? I pull the loose skin back towards my ears. Oh dear, I definitely have to find the time. I ring the mobile beautician and ask if by any chance she does more than feet. Fortunately she does and agrees to come round in an hour or so.

My dress is ready and hanging there waiting for its moment on the stage; it is beautiful but just looking at it makes me nervous. Should I have chosen a cocktail dress instead? Full-length is a bit of a gamble when it comes to walking up steps. This is ridiculous, I have to stop dwelling on tonight until, well, tonight.

Of course I can’t stop thinking about it at all. In my fantasy life, I’ve won the award and glided graciously on to the stage like a BAFTA-winning actress. I’ve then come back to my modest starter home and the first thing I do is place the trophy with pride at the centre of the mantelpiece. Entrepreneur Magazine and maybe even Hello then come round to do a profile and comment on the modest circumstances for someone going places. Hmm – so how does the fantasy work now? I guess being homeless is even more modest, but Patty’s house isn’t that modest so it ruins the story; where am I going to showcase the trophy now? Where will the magazine shoot be? Is this an omen that we’re not going to win? I suppose we could keep it in the office.

Before I have the chance to worry any more, the beautician arrives complete with her folding massage table and a CD of whale music; that and the aromatherapy oils soon do their thing and I start to relax. One thing at a time. I’ll move into Patty’s but then I have to find my own place – I’m ready now. Meanwhile, focus solely on lying back and relaxing while this wonderful therapist works her magic and gives you back the skin of a twenty-year-old.

If only.

I hear someone snoring gently and eventually realise that it’s me. I don’t know how long I’ve been out but the deeply nurturing moisturiser has done its job and although I couldn’t pass for forty let alone twenty, I look rested and I’m ready for a fabulous night.

A beep of the horn tells me the cab has arrived and I take one final look at myself before heading down. My new burgundy gown has a fitted full-length skirt and a velvet bodice making the most of my figure. The scooped neck with discreet beading and three-quarter-length sleeves take the attention away from all my worst parts and I feel as if I’ve already won. We head first of all to my parents’ house – my dad is my date for tonight; I booked six places and hoped that by now, I’d have a plus-one. Dad comes to the door in his rented tuxedo and looks as if he’s going to burst with pride. Mum insists on taking picture after picture and I’m so pleased that I don’t have a date. I’d much rather be giving my folks this little adventure.

The cab pulls up at the five-star hotel hosting tonight’s awards and I take a deep breath as Dad holds out his arm and we head in. I couldn’t be more nervous if there were a red carpet and paparazzi in tow. Checking the events board, I make my way to the champagne reception and the excited chatter of people telling each other that tonight is just a bit of fun. I spot Charlie and Peter across the room and head straight towards them. Someone grabs my arm and I turn to see Josie with Matt.

‘This is awesome,’ she whispers and I have to agree.

Matt has interpreted the dress code rather liberally. Wearing jeans and a purple paisley shirt with bootlace tie he stands out in the crowd; everyone passing gives us a quick stare.

‘I like your black tie,’ I say.

‘No point blending in I always think,’ he replies.

No sooner have the words left his mouth than a newspaper photographer comes up to take a picture of him and Josie.

Splendid and noticed or ordinary and overlooked I reflect.

I hear them talk about the unique proposition we’re developing and the great fun we have on our trips. The journalist loves some of the anecdotes and in the midst of all the formal conversations in the hall, my crowd are laughing and sparkling.

I’ve been to events like this before, whether it’s Rotary Club or charity fundraisers and know there’s a set format. First of all the meal is served and it’s always something in a jus. My challenges during eating are:

I doubt the men in the room are pondering such trials and tribulations. There’s entertainment between the main course and dessert and tonight we have a comedian who has been on TV. He’s been given enough information about some of the audience to tailor his material and manages to keep everyone’s attention throughout his set. I’ve been to these events when the entertainment has been awful and the audience have just kept talking. It’s rather rude, but this is probably the one night off these business owners have and they’re as keen to catch up with each other as they are to listen to someone else. It’s a tough gig entertaining this lot.

Throughout the evening, as the wine flows, the noise levels rise and rise. The comedian gets a standing ovation, which I think is as much due to the amount of alcohol now flowing through the room as it is to do with his talent. A couple of people grab him as he comes offstage to take selfies with him. I bet all celebrities wish they could go back to the day when all people wanted were autographs.

The chair of the judging panel climbs on to the stage to start the awards presentation. I grab hold of both Josie and Charlie’s hands.

‘Here we go,’ I say.

A bottle of champagne arrives at our table and my heart misses a beat. For a second, I think this means that we’ve won, but it’s from Peter who pours us each a glass and offers a toast:

‘Whatever happens tonight,’ he says, ‘you guys have been incredible. You had an idea and you made it happen. You’ve had fun and you’re heading for even more.

‘You’re already winners,’ he continues. ‘To the Mercury Travel Club.’

We all clink glasses and toast our year; it’s a lovely gesture but I still want the real thing.

The prize-giving seems incredibly drawn out; one by one the categories are announced. There’s a short video about each nominee and then a local dignitary gets up onstage to open the envelope. I can see the pile of envelopes sitting on a table by the stage and am sorely tempted to run up and rip each one open to see if we’ve won. Instead, I clap politely for every nominee and every award winner until my hands are raw. I’ve entered us in three categories and the first of these is now being read out.

I can’t quite hear the other nominations or the videos because of the blood pounding through my brain. My body is like the Edgar Allan Poe story where the heart beats so loudly, it drives someone insane.

The envelope is being opened and Charlie grabs me. I can’t look but I can hear and it isn’t our name I hear being called out. I’m devastated but can’t let it show. I applaud the winning company wondering what they’ve done that makes them better than us.

‘We’ll get the next one,’ reassures Charlie.

We have to endure two further awards before our next category is announced. I’m less nervous now, my fear has turned into determination; we’re going to get this one I tell myself.

The envelope opens and I stare at the speaker defying him to pick us this time. He doesn’t and yet another business walks up to the stage with huge smiles on their faces, accepting the trophy and lifting it to the ceiling as if it were the World Cup.

‘They’re just saving the best until last,’ chirps Charlie in real danger of being clobbered.

There is a quick break in proceedings before the main award of the night. We all try to stay upbeat and go to congratulate the winners. I last a few moments before needing a bit of fresh air; I step outside to join the smokers.

Those who recognise me commiserate but tell me, ‘there’s always next time’. I resist punching them in the face.

It’s soon time to go back in for the final award, Entrepreneur of the Year. I want this too much and I keep telling myself that it doesn’t matter, but of course, it does. I don’t have a home, I don’t have a man – at least give me this I beg the powers that be.

We’re back at our table and the compère waffles on about how wonderful this evening has been, how high the standards were and how difficult it was to judge. Yada, yada – just get on with it please.

He reads out the nominations for the final award.

‘Sticky PR’ – there’s polite applause.

‘Bikes and Beyond’ – a couple of whoops and more applause follows.

‘Tech-Start Support’ – there’s hardly any noise; they’re either unpopular or very small.

‘Mercury Travel Club’ – we raise the roof with our cheering and then to my horror I hear the final nominee.

‘Hargreaves Security.’

Of course, I knew he was entering but didn’t think we’d be in the same category.

There is now one thing I want more than to win, I want to beat Alan.

I hold my breath as the envelope is opened.

‘You’ve got to beat that waste of space,’ says Dad reading my mind.

‘In second place, highly commended,’ starts the judge then delays for dramatic effect. ‘Sticky PR.’

There’s a cheer and the table gets up to take a bow and accept a bottle of champagne. We can still both win and we can still both lose. I have a horrible feeling about this.

‘But the winner of this year’s Entrepreneur of the Year is a company who have taken an idea and turned it into a business.’

I think we’ve all done that – it could be us, I suppose.

‘They’ve capitalised on market trends,’ continues the judge.

That sounds more like us than Alan, I think.

‘And it’s true to say, they’re really going places now.’

That’s an obvious travel joke, it has to be us. I’m clinging to Charlie’s hand and don’t take my eyes off the judge.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the winner is...Bikes and Beyond.’

There’s an enormous roar of applause around the room and the team get up to accept their award. My crushing disappointment is tempered with relief that although we’re going home empty-handed, so too is Alan.

Peter orders another bottle of champagne to toast our nominations but I don’t feel like celebrating. What am I going to put on the mantelpiece now? The mantelpiece I don’t have.

The compère calms the crowd and asks us to welcome one of our sponsors, the President of Virgin Enterprises. I’m not paying much attention until Charlie nudges me.

‘Isn’t that the guy you were talking to?’ he asks.

I look up and see the man I met at the networking event, the one who told me he was pleased to hear I valued these awards; a fat lot of good that did me.

‘I’ve heard it said,’ he begins, ‘that these awards don’t matter and of course compared to cash-flow and profits they don’t. They do, however, let you know that you’re doing something right, that someone appreciates you even if it is just your local business community.

‘The other people who let you know whether you’re doing something right, or wrong for that matter,’ he continues, ‘are your customers. They have so much choice today and being a small enterprise, you’re unlikely to be the cheapest – so let’s face it, you have to be the best.’

Nods and here-heres around the room. I just wish he’d let us all go home.

‘There is a business here tonight, a very new business, that has been delighting customers since it began. Let’s hear from those customers.’

He plays a video which shows members of the public extolling the virtues of someone. The praise is exceptional and it isn’t until a few people have spoken that it starts to dawn on us.

‘I think they’re talking about you lot,’ murmurs Dad.

I can’t quite grasp what is going on, but the video ends and the president is handed another trophy.

‘You can’t nominate yourself for this award; it’s decided solely through customer endorsement, and this year, there was one phenomenal winner,’ he says.

‘Mercury Travel Club, please join me onstage to accept this award – the People’s Champion.’

I’m screaming and crying and laughing all at the same time. All three of us get up onstage and shake hands with the president. We take turns to hold the award and lift it up, posing for the photographers and just taking in the moment. From the stage I can see Dad standing and cheering, hugging Matt and Peter and wiping the tears from his eyes. I blow him a kiss and try to take it all in; I want to remember everything.

This is the most perfect moment of my life and it simply could not get any better.

‘And now let’s hear from someone else who likes what you’ve done,’ announces the president.

We look up to the video screen and there he is – my hero Richard Branson. I gasp and probably hold my breath throughout his speech. He tells us what a great job we’ve done and how we must keep on innovating.

It may just be a video but I know he’s talking directly to me.

‘Can I take it home?’ I ask the others.

‘Going on the mantelpiece?’ asks Charlie.

‘No – I’m going to cuddle it all night,’ I confess, snuggling it to my bosom.