Gape like a moron.

There’s a truly unsettling feeling about coming face-to-face with someone famous for the first time.

Not that it’s unpleasant, exactly, or even necessarily awkward – it’s just weird, like a gravity shift. Standing there, up close and personal with a face you’ve seen a hundred times, it’s like a membrane’s suddenly popped; it feels like there should still be something in between you, something to insulate us from them.

(Not that you can explain any of this to Daisy Ridley without sounding like a complete fucking lunatic, but hey.)

Instead, you find yourself kneeling down beside her and helping to gather up her clothes, because the motor functions of your brain are luckily still operating on autopilot. Daisy flashes you a stunning smile, then turns back to the girl you were walking with, who’s holding up her end of the conversation like she meets A-listers every fucking day of the week.

‘Thanks, you guys,’ Daisy says – and her voice is friendly, natural, albeit eerily familiar. ‘Stupid stacking cases. I knew they were a bad idea. They’re supposed to, you know, stack –’ she flicks the plastic protrusions on top, ‘but I broke the first one in departures and it’s been an unmitigated shitshow ever since. But seriously, thanks for picking up my stuff.’

‘No problem,’ you say, a little too eagerly, reaching over to grab a crumpled-up t-shirt. Daisy turns that blinding smile on you again – just as some lacy black panties and a screwed-up bra fall out of her top. Without even meaning to, you catch the Victoria’s Secret logo and the big black 32B printed on the label.

Daisy blushes pink. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters unnecessarily, grabbing her lingerie and stuffing it back under a pair of jeans in her suitcase. ‘I really need to learn to pack better… as in, not the hour before my flight.’

Fortunately, the girl jumps in to rescue you. ‘Was it the ash cloud that did it?’ she asks, neatly folding a dressing gown. ‘Apparently nothing’s flying right now. Not even military.’

Daisy nods. ‘Yeah, we only got halfway before we had to turn back. I swear, I can’t believe the timing of this thing – I had to be talked into taking off in the first place! But the pilot swore we could make it, and I had this thing in New York… that’s screwed now, I guess.’ She sighs.

The girl gives her a sympathetic smile. ‘Maybe you can Skype them?’ But her boyfriend’s shaking his head.

‘Signal’s fucking atrocious round here… must be the storm.’ He waggles his iPhone. ‘I mean, I’d Google what’s up, but there’s ash on the cell towers or whatever. No 4G, not even regular internet… you’ll be lucky if you get a text out or in.’

Daisy’s face falls. ‘Shit. Seriously?’

‘Merry Christmas from Mother Nature,’ you say under your breath. Daisy giggles unexpectedly, and you look up, surprised but pleased.

‘Sorry. You just reminded me of something.’ You quirk an eyebrow, and Daisy actually blushes. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. Terrible joke, really. Not even a joke, just…’

All three of you are staring at her with interest, now, and Daisy finally catches sight of the tampons scattered amongst her clothes. ‘Oh, bollocks!’ She starts scooping them up in both hands, and the girl tactfully assists. ‘God, that’s embarrassing. Thanks…’

You let the girls finish repacking, mind still infuriatingly vacant of charming and/or witty things to say. ‘So, what was the joke?’ you offer up eventually, passing Daisy one final pink packet from underneath her case.

‘Oh…’ Daisy laughs ruefully. ‘Well, since you all just helped me pick up my sanitary products, I guess we’re past the polite stage of our relationship. It’s just… merry Christmas from Mother Nature, that’s something my boyfriend used to say to me. I get, um, I don’t know what you’d call it – heavy, ah, flow, sometimes,’ she winces briefly, ‘and the last three Christmasses running, I was… not available for bedroom activities until New Year’s. So it’s just something we used to say to each other. See?’ She shrugs helplessly. ‘I told you it wasn’t funny.’

There is a lingering beat of silence, sort of exactly like the kind of reaction you might expect if Kate Winslet danced up on stage and did an armpit fart instead of an Oscars’ speech. (And then flashed the crowd.)

Then the guy and his girlfriend crack up. ‘I knew I was gonna like you,’ the guy chortles, and Daisy’s face relaxes into a real smile. ‘Also, Em, can I just point out – for once, it wasn’t me who put my foot in it.’ He nudges you and winks.

‘Sorry,’ you say to Daisy, trying your best to look apologetic. She sends you a shy smile.

‘Hey, as icebreakers go… I guess it could’ve been worse, right?’