Let them eat cake...

The personal invitation was from Donatella Versace, the venue her Italian estate. And the occasion? Jennifer Lopez's wedding. Jess Cartner-Morley joins the A-list
I am eating Jennifer Lopez's wedding cake. It has soft layers of sponge between wodges of nutty chocolate that taste like melted Baci (an Italian sweetmeat). On a velvet sofa a few yards away, Jennifer and whatsisname are soppily feeding morsels to each other like the newlyweds they are. My slice has the loop of a "J" on the pink and white icing. I am considering keeping it as a souvenir.

I am not, I should point out, in the habit of gatecrashing celebrity weddings. My presence here is entirely above board. The embossed invitation in my jacket pocket reads: "Donatella Versace has the pleasure of inviting Jess Cartner-Morley to a dinner celebrating the wedding of Jennifer Lopez and Chris Judd. Tuesday October 2, 9.30pm, Villa Fontanelle, Lake Como."

The telephone call had come two days before. Donatella is having a small dinner for her honeymooning friends, at home in Como. Am I free? Funnily enough, I think I might just have a window for that. Donatella's parties, after all, are legendary. And a celebrity wedding dinner: well, it's like Hello! come to life.

Word spreads quickly. Like musical chairs, there are never quite enough of Donatella's invites to go round. Wardrobe crises loom, and are disregarded (with Jennifer Lopez in the room, no one is going to be looking at anyone else). And there are etiquette issues to be negotiated. What is the form when invited to the wedding party of someone you don't actually know? Does one buy them a toaster?

The big question, though, is why we're invited at all. Much as I enjoy my own company, I find it hard to believe the Lo-Judds personally requested spending part of their honeymoon with me. There must be another explanation. Rumours fly: Donatella is lending them the villa for their honeymoon (true, I think) and they are giving her some glitzy publicity in return; Donatella will use the occasion to announce that she is producing the J-Lo clothing line (not true, thankfully.)

Thirty minutes out of Milan, suburbia gives way to beautiful mountain landscape. The driver Donatella has kindly lent me asks how many times I've stayed at Villa Fontanelle before. He is disappointed that I've never been there. He has heard it's very beautiful.

He's right, of course. At the end of cobbled lanes thick with the scent of citronella candles, Villa Fontanelle is a lakeside palazzo of dreamy elegance. The entrance is flanked by violinists on plinths and waiters with trays of pink champagne: in a typically Donatella touch, they all wear black masks, lending an air of Eyes Wide Shut hedonism.

The hostess and guests of honour are still upstairs, leaving us mere mortals to gawp in peace. Those looking for Versace rhinestones to sneer at are disappointed: all is in impeccable taste, with thousands of tiny scented candles and blush-tinted orchids. The view from the sitting-room balcony is Disney-beautiful: candle-edged lily pond giving way to fireflies buzzing across the clear lake, full moon above the smoky mountains beyond, lights twinkling in distant hills.

It is now 10pm. This continental late dinner time is all very sophisticated, but I'm starving. Fortified with canapes (caviar on melba toast, obviously) I stake out the territory with fellow gawpers: in the absence of a seating plan, it is vital to work out where the important people are likely to sit and position ourselves at the next table. From this vantage point, we take a celebrity count. Frankly, it's a bit mediocre. There is Patsy Kensit, who looks as if she is about to burst into tears, but might just be overdoing the pout; Jamie Theakston, looking tall and gawky surrounded by diminutive, gelled Italians; a very pretty girl in a red dress who someone said was Michael Caine's daughter; and, oddly, the former EastEnders actor Paul Nicholls. There are no pastel suits or big hats, disappointingly; instead, it's a sea of this season's black Versace.

The gleam of candyfloss hair in the candlelight signals the arrival of Donatella, in a clinging, floor-length leopard-print dress with silver sparkly bits, closely followed by Jennifer and Chris. La Lopez is in ponytail, hoop earrings and a tight jade-green satin all-in-one jumpsuit. I'm disappointed that we don't get to see the £50,000 Valentino dress, but I guess that would have been rude, given who her hostess is; and there's no denying that she looks incredible.

Everyone applauds the new couple, who, irritatingly, upset our plans by taking a table in the marquee, which we had written off as B-list. After gnocchi with porcini we relocate to the centre of the action, hovering nonchalantly on sofas, so I can't tell you what the main course was.

Now, I know that the cool thing would be to say it was all very dull, and I would have had more fun in the pub. True, lots of glamorous parties are utterly tedious. When the crowd are fashion people, the atmosphere wilts from lack of sexual crackle and pop: most of the men are gay, and the few that aren't are so intimidated by being outnumbered 20:1 by beautiful women that they skulk in corners drinking. But it would have required serious pretensions to miserygutdom to be arch about this do. A wedding party gives everyone an excuse to drop the veneer of seen-it-all-before boredom and be excited. Everyone claps and grins along to the slightly embarrassing salsa troupe; when the newlyweds dance, commoners and B-list celebrities alike stand and coo. And for whatever reason, they don't seem to mind grinning strangers eating their cake. Ain't love grand?

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