Now what? - Lauren Booth is torn between the club and the pub

I try to get Karla, who's a teacher, to come for a drink at a private club. "But I like pubs," she says. "How do you know pubs are better than bars if you've never been?" I ask. "I remember Dallas. JR used to go to swanky bars. Is it like that?" she asks.

We love meeting, but always have the problem of where. You'd think in a city like London, with two pubs and a bar on every block, there would be somewhere we'd both enjoy. Perhaps a "theme" venue where you open one door and you're in the Rovers Return, another in a Jackie Collins novel. If there is such a bar I haven't found it yet. So we wrangle. Eventually, I win.

"Well, don't expect me to wear nail varnish or jewellery," she says, "because I won't."

"OK."

"And if I don't like someone, I'm not going to spend the evening with them just because they're famous."

"Quite right. Good for you . . ." Blimey, all I wanted was for us two mums to enjoy a rare chance to dress up and drink champagne. She was making it sound about as attractive as a night at Guantanamo.

Outside the club our host, the bloke whose guest list we're on, meets us. He's wearing a suit. Karla pulls a face. At the cloakroom, she hands over her denim jacket gingerly, as if fearing she'll never see it again.

Sitting in comfy armchairs next to a piano, Karla admits that the club, though it "exists only to make stars feel better than ordinary people", is fun. Then it starts.

"Lauren, hi, how are you?" The lanky, camp man flaps his hands in excitement.

"We thought we'd never see yoooooouu again." The whole world, says his exuberant gesture, is devastated at my absence. He shouts, rather than talks. He tells me about a mutual friend he met on the anti-Bush march. "He was holding a sign that read 'Coke dealers against Bush'!"

I hooted; he howled. We clasped our sides, we rubbed our eyes melodramatically, and then he was gone. Just as we returned to our conversation about our children's eating habits, we heard a scream.

"Lauurenn!! Sweetness. Don't leave us again. The world is a place of darkness without the light you bestow." The scriptwriter leapt on to the arm of my chair, his buttocks in Karla's face. "How long are you staying? Who are you with? Let me tell you about my new project. And my new shag . . ."

After a couple of attempts I gave up trying to introduce Karla. He had looked at her with a wispy smile then rattled on regardless. The only thing to do was to let him run out of steam.

Finally, Karla and I were alone. "Look," I said, "it's not always like this. I know it all looks shallow and hedonistic . . ."

We drank a couple more glasses. Then an actor came and sat opposite us. The eyes of the woman with him were wide with wonder that she'd bagged a "name" for the night. By the way they talked, and the way his hand kept gliding up her skirt, it was obvious they'd just met.

"Ooh," she said. "Don't!" It was like sitting opposite Babs Windsor and Sid James. Eventually they put their tongues back into their own mouths long enough for him to go to the bar.

The woman yanked at her skirt and looked at us with eyes that said: "Don'tcha wish you were me right now?"

We looked back with eyes that said: "No."

She leaned towards us, glancing nervously at the actor at the bar.

"Do you have any charlie? He can't ask 'cos he's famous." She winked. I warned her against the dangers of asking strangers, particularly journalists, for class A drugs, but Karla was already collecting her jacket.

Next time, we're going to the pub.