The Orange Prize party has been honed over the years till it has reached some sort of pinnacle of party perfection: last night everyone agreed: “the best party of the year”. It wasn’t always quite like this. In the days when bankers ruled, some of the vast outlay wasn’t so wisely chosen: there was the one at the Royal Opera House with pop girly dancers. The cathedral fluted roof of the Royal Courts of Justice couldn’t really combine with Orange’s slick stage dressing. But for the last two years they have settled on the perfect venue: the Clore Ballroom at the Festival Hall: a fairly bland room on which anything might be painted. 

The food was spicy, the music for once spot on: a very tall female saxophonist improvising over Latin grooves. The Orange isn’t just about women writers: it is a celebration of the international literary scene. The woman were exceptionally gorgeous and instead of the lumpy assorted males you usually see at literary do here were dazzling Africans in their tunics. 

The cat-walk treatment of the short listed writers, with rock music and flashing lights is still cringe-making, but it doesn’t last long. Beyond that, it is sheer effervescence. You go home with a goody bag and start reading on the train a book you probably wouldn’t have got round to for years. Mine is Ellen Feldman’s Scottsboro and I’m instantly gripped. How has she caught the voices of these two poor white girls in Alabama in the ’20s so well: “Some of the whites tried to get friendly, and most times me and Victoria wouldn’t say no to a piece of fun and maybe two bits into the bargain but this time we didn’t pay them no mind”?


 


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