Miss Manners (3 page)

Note to self
: buy some magazines.

‘
Really? Well, anyway, according to
Forbes
magazine he’s worth about four and a half billion.’

‘
Four and a half billion! That’s disgusting.’ I grimaced, attempting to mind-count all the zeros. ‘Well, that definitely beats laying golden eggs!’

I looked over at Pinkie, who was still bick
ering with Joy. ‘So what’s the “talent” been doing to keep her fame afloat, then?’

‘
Well, there’s the book deal for the
Adventures of Bunny Simpkins
series (which she doesn’t even write herself), her own equestrian clothing range (which she doesn’t even design herself) and her own perfume range, Pink of Perfection, which smells like a chicken shed.’

‘
Oh, so that’s what the smell was. I thought it was the gassy little toads over in the petting corner.’

So, according to Felicity, Pinkie Mortimer was the latest headline-making It girl of the moment to have come off the conveyer belt; a socialite and brand who was quite simply
famous for being famous.
A girl whose fame – not to mention her ego – was in inverse proportion to her talents. If I unfolded her brain, it would probably just about cover a rabbit dropping.

Felicity sighed.
‘And to think she lives at One Hyde Park, the world’s most expensive flats, whilst I’m living in a box on Tottenham Court Road!’

‘
A box? Is it really that bad?’

‘
I live with a Russian girl, Natalia – official leader of
Clean Freaks Incorporated
– who’s either OCD-cleaning around the house or locked in her room like a hermit crab. And then there’s this French boy, Didier, who’s always out until stupid o’clock.

‘
Wow, it really
is
that bad!’ I frowned. ‘Well, if you’re looking for a place, we have a spare room. Camden. Six hundred per month (excluding bills). So, what do you say, you wanna be my roomie?

‘
Really?’ Felicity’s face lit up like a firework. ‘That would be a-mazing!’

‘
You can check the place out later today, if you like? Here’s my number.’ I removed a furry pink glove and quickly scribbled onto one of Pinkie’s countless book signing flyers scattered about the till. ‘Just give me a bell later and let me know what time you want to pop in.’

Unfortunately, no sooner had I begun to feel
relieved that I’d been forgotten and wouldn’t have to play mascot for the Devilish Diva after all, than I was spotted.

‘
Bunny Simpkins! There you are! Come here, Bunny!’ Pinkie gestured as if I were a two-year-old.

I was not happy. I was being baby-talked to by a bimbo.

‘You want my autograph, liddle bunny?’

You talking to me, you mongrel?

I breathed in hard – after almost throwing up in my mouth – and decided to just get the act over and done with as quickly as possible. Forever. I never wanted to remember this day. Ever.

Just don
’t mug yourself
, I reminded myself.

‘There is nothing so sweet as a bunny

A dear li
’l, sweet li’l bunny

I can hop on my toes

I can wiggle my nose

And my powder puff tail is quite funny

Sniff
, sniff, nibble, nibble.’

BUNNY wiggles tail
.

I wanted to die. I felt so ashamed.

‘
No, no, no, no, NO! It’s all wrong! You didn’t pronounce your t’s! Do it again! This time pronounce the “t” in “little”,’ screamed the Red Queen, or rather the Pink Queen.

This was not happening. I couldn
’t bear the humiliation of having to repeat the entire thing. My dignity was in free fall.

But then I noticed Bill waving at me from the other side of the room with an angry look on his face – an obvious signal to go ahead and repeat the circus.

So, reluctantly, I did.

‘There is nothing so sweet as a bunny

A dear
little
, sweet
little
bunny

I can hop on my toes

I can wiggle my nose

And my powder puff tail is quite funny

Sniff
, sniff, nibble, nibble.’

Surely the airhead couldn’t fault this Oscar-worthy performance?

‘
No, no, no, no, NO! You didn’t wiggle your tail! Again!’

So, I gritted my teeth and did the whole
BUNNY wiggles tail
routine.

‘
Are you dumb? I meant do the whole thing again!’

By this time, my nerves were in overdrive and my head was about to explode. I seriously couldn
’t take her orders anymore.

Suddenly, everything was in slow motion.

Bill was standing beside Pinkie, staring at me and shouting incoherent words that sounded something like, ‘Aya shnupid okwa?’

I closed my eyes for a moment and pretended this was all a nightmare and
that when I opened them again, I would be tucked up in my bed with a hot chocolate, teddy bear and a Bollywood. But when I did open them, everything reverted to normal pace.

‘
Did you hear me, or are you deaf as well as dumb?’ Pinkie spat, stamping like a spoiled brat.

I couldn
’t take it anymore. I had been called deaf and dumb twice in a single day – once by a cabbie and now by a socialite.

I walked over to Pinkie and rumbled into her make-up smattered face,
‘From looking at you, I’d say you were blind.’

Pink
ie narrowed her already-tiny eyes into even tinier slits. ‘Who
are
you, anyway? Oh, wait, that’s right.’ Pinkie strutted towards me with a look of pure evil on her face and muttered murderously into my ear, ‘You’re a nobody. A nothing.’

That was it! I mean, I
’ve tolerated grannies pushing trolleys into me at supermarkets, old men farting in lifts, toddlers pulling my hair, spoiled little ‘princesses’ screaming into my face. But this was, by far, the worst.

I could feel the stress-knot tightening in my chest and my heart beating so hard my ribcage rattled. At that moment, a fantasy flashed
before my eyes, just like in the movies, in which I grabbed her throat and threw her to the ground.

I was blinded by continuous flashes of bright white light and deafening screams filled my ears. I looked around to discover that it wasn
’t a fantasy after all.

It had actually happened!

I had roughed it up in front of around thirty-five paparazzi, twenty press, fifty children and fourteen staff. And then it hit me. Bunny Simpkins had just attacked Pinkie Mortimer.

The smelly little tots began to cry, the paps were flashing relentlessly and Bill was fast approaching
, looking as if he were about to kill me.

If her publicist could
‘spin’ this ordeal to the press in a positive manner, I would be very,
very
impressed.

‘
Hey, hey, hey! Are you crazy? Get off her!’ Bill yelled at the top of his voice, pulling me off Pinkie. ‘I want you in the staffroom! Now!’

‘
Psycho,’ Pinkie spat maliciously at me under her breath.

It was then that I noticed
my rabbit head had come off during the fight and landed on the head of a confused-looking kid in the crowd.

ARRRGGGGGH! I hated Pinkie. That dog!

The crowds parted with the ease of the Red Sea before Moses as I stormed off towards the stuffy little staffroom.

I wonder
ed whether I had reacted reasonably – or maybe I had an anger management problem.

A few moments later, Bill stormed into the room in a wild rage, spitting like Sylvester the Cat.

‘What were you thinking, getting into a fight with Pinkie Mortimer? Do you have any idea who she is? I mean, who do you think you are? You’re a nothing, do you hear me? A nobody! First, you turn up almost an hour late to work, then you get into a fight with Pinkie Mortimer at a book signing.’

‘
But–’

‘
I don’t want to hear it. I want you to clear your things right now and get out! You’re fired!’ And with that, he left the room.

As I tearfully gathered my belongings, I
sat and reflected on my morning of humiliation.

Bill was right. What was I thinking?
Sure, I was due my period and suffering a bad bout of PMT, but was that a good enough excuse for getting into a fight that would have put Mike Tyson to shame?

Once the tears eventually subsided,
I noticed that disgusting pink, furry diary Pinkie was carrying when she first came into Riverstones. It was lying alluringly on the table, a bit like the Drink Me bottle in
Alice in Wonderland
.

I scanned the room to make sure nobody was looking then, without a second thought, I p
icked it up, placed it in my rucksack and walked out of Harrolds.

Finders
keepers
,
losers weepers
. Except, I couldn’t help feeling I was the weepy loser.

It was now 10.46 a.m.

Breathe in, breathe out
, I reminded myself – although a little too late.

3

Hartland Road

After another long, gruelling trip on the Underground, I finally arrived at my flat on Hartland Road.

My
flat was small and cold. But it was my first adult room in the big city. The room was mine – the first I could decorate all on my own, with no input from parents – and I loved it. Plays, films, cafés, people, shopping and books. Tara and I had planned it for three years and we’d been living there for almost four months.

We
’d been best friends since meeting on a Shakespeare course at university. We were both in hysterics after our tutor, Mr Fingle, showed the entire class how to say the words ‘bottom’, ‘fart’ and ‘belly button’ in sign language (he was obviously one for toilet humour). It was at that point we discovered that we had exactly the same sense of humour.

Tara was an outspoken, confident, fun-loving, theatrical and quirky Aussie with a passion for singing, dancing and acting. I loved everything about her. I was always in a good mood whenever she was around. I suddenly became nostalgic for university, for all the things we
’d done together then. It was fun now, no question, but it would never be as carefree as it was back then.

I
crashed into the flat, slamming the front door behind me. Just like in a soap opera.

Aaaargh!

I threw down my rucksack, kicked off my trainers, then flopped lifelessly onto the sofa.

Tara, who was on the phone in the living room, abruptly ended the conv
ersation and turned towards me.

‘
Are you okay, chicky?’

‘
I hate Mondays,’ I mumbled, trying hard to hold back the tears. ‘I’m such a disaster magnet. My life is a series of outtakes.’

‘
Why? What happened?’ Tara came to sit next to me on the sofa, frowning with worry.

‘
I got fired.’

‘
What?! Why?’

‘
Pinkie Mortimer.’

‘
How?’

So, I explained everything
, from my car breaking down to the fight with Pinkie Mortimer to getting fired. The whole shebang.

‘
Oh, Anna.’ Tara enveloped me in a big, warm hug. ‘Well, you know what I say? Karma.’

‘
Yes, but I don’t think karma is going to pay the rent and bills. I need a job.’ I thought for a second. ‘I know, I could win the lottery.’

‘
Don’t worry,’ Tara assured me, ‘you’ll get another job soon.’

‘
Not during the recession, I won’t. And anyway, I don’t want to be a shop assistant or a waitress or a receptionist. I want a career. A proper career. I’ve been living for tomorrow all my life and I’m sick of it. I mean, everyday is Groundhog Day!’

‘
You know, this could be a blessing in disguise, chick. Just think of it as a new beginning. An opportunity,’ Tara suggested.

‘
Right now, the only thing I’m thinking about is kidnapping Pinkie and punching her square in the face.’

‘
Don’t worry, I know exactly how to cheer you up.’ Tara stood up and raised both her arms self-effacingly. ‘Dr Spackman prescribes a home-made remedy consisting of Mars bar toasties and a healthy dose of either Hollywood, Bollywood, Lollywood or Nollywood. Go on, take your pick.’ Tara wafted a selection of DVDs in the air.

I forgot all the events of my miserable day for a while and immersed myself in the world of Bollywood – fashion, parties and romance. We normally had Bollywood nights on Fridays, but today was an exception. I mean, it
’s not every day you get fired.

Two hot chocolates, three
and a half Mars bar toasties and a chocolate fudge brownie FRijj later, I received a call from Felicity. She told me what I had missed after I left the store. Apparently, when Pinkie went to pick up her diary to leave the store and discovered it had vanished, she threw a hissy fit in front of everyone. She then asked her minions to make dolphin noises to calm her down.

I laughed with a
slight chocolaty burp, then remembered the diary in my rucksack.

Felicity wanted to take a look at the flat
, so we agreed that she would come over at 2 p.m., which was in about thirty minutes.

‘
Guess what, I think I may have just found us a new flatmate,’ I said, turning to Tara.

‘
Really? What’s her name? What’s she like?’

‘
Felicity. And she’s really nice. I met her at work today. She hates Pinkie too.’

‘
Oh, well, in that case, I think she’ll fit in perfectly here,’ Tara said with a cheesy grin. ‘In fact, that should be our new clubhouse password.
I hate Pinkie
.’

So
, after tidying the flat and making it look ‘presentable’, including the floordrobe (wardrobe on the floor) in my bedroom and Tara’s array of jazz magazines scattered around the living room, the doorbell rang.

Felicity entered with a winning smile on her face.
She was immaculately presented and her cool, poised demeanour surrounded her like a cloud of exquisite perfume.

‘
Quite a day, huh?’ she said with a grin, then puffed toadishly.

Once I had taken Felicity on a guided tour of our tiny flat, which consisted of three small bedrooms, a bathroom, a closet and an open
-plan kitchen/living room, we chilled out on the sofa.

‘
So, when do I get to move in?’ Felicity asked, her eyes lighting up like a pair of candles.

‘
Tomorrow, if you like?’ I said.

‘
Great,’ Felicity squealed, clapping her hands excitedly.

We had finally found our third addition to the flat after using the empty room as extra storage since moving in.

Felicity, who was twenty-four years old and in her final year studying for a fashion design degree at Central Saint Martins, had been working part-time at Harrolds during the Easter holidays to finance her course.

But, now that I had been fired, it was as if we hadn
’t found ourselves another flatmate at all. Our rent, which, fortunately for us, was a house-share agreement, was £1,800 per month (excluding bills), which meant me and Tara each had to pay nine hundred pounds per month.

If I hadn
’t been fired, it would have been split three ways, which would mean I would only have had to pay six hundred pounds per month. But, understandably, neither Tara (who was working irregular hours) nor Felicity could afford to stump up for my share of this month’s rent, which meant that I had to find a job – and fast.

‘
So, anyway, Pinkie fired her PA,’ said Felicity. ‘Apparently, she was branded “incompetent” for losing her diary. Personally, I think it was stolen. But who in their right mind would have stolen Pinkie’s diary?’

I averted my gaze and gritted my teeth. But, somehow, Tara noticed my shifty eyes.

‘You didn’t!’ Tara squeaked.

‘
Okay, okay,’ I admitted reluctantly, breathing a sigh of defeat. ‘Look, I mean, she
did
get me fired!’

‘
And you got her PA fired!’ said Felicity, raising her eyebrows.

‘
Well, I guess that makes us even, then,’ I snorted.

‘
I can’t believe you have Pinkie’s diary!’ said Felicity. ‘It’s, like, her Bible. Her life. She literally takes it everywhere with her, never lets it out of her sight and doesn’t let anyone look inside it. No one knows what secrets lie in that book. How did you get hold of it?’

‘
It was just lying there on top of the staffroom table.
’

‘
Do you have it with you? Can we see it?’ Tara wondered.

I opened my rucksack and took out the diary.
Their beady eyes turned to me, mouths open, slavering.

‘
Come on, what are you waiting for? Dish the dirt!’ demanded Felicity, unable to contain her excitement.

As I flicked through the diary, I found a planner, diary extracts and a full address book.
No wonder Pinkie didn’t want to leave it out of her sight. She probably never thought that her publicist would either. But I couldn’t help wondering why she didn’t have an electronic diary. You know, like a PDA or something. Surely that would have been easier to drag around everywhere? Or maybe she just preferred to go old school?

I decided to browse through Pinkie
’s upcoming April events.

FRIDAY, 22nd APRIL

11.30 A.M.
:
Couture
cover shoot.

NOTES
: Really not looking forward to meeting Romilly the hippy freak. She is, like, so weird. I can’t believe she actually thinks she’s some kind of style icon. Seriously.

‘It looks like Pinkie’s doing a cover shoot with
Couture
this Friday,’ I announced.
Couture
? The name sounded familiar. ‘Hang on, isn’t
Couture
one of the magazines you said was owned by that bachelor what’s-his-name?’ I asked Felicity.

‘
Brian Fairfax,’ Felicity replied. ‘His grandfather, William Fairfax Senior, is the CEO of Fairfax Publications.’

‘
So who’s Romilly?’ I asked Felicity.

‘
Romilly Winter?’ Felicity said, looking at me in disbelief. ‘She’s the editor of
Couture
.’

It wasn
’t surprising Felicity knew the answer. After all, she
was
studying for a degree in fashion design. ‘Do you think she has Romilly’s contact details? I mean, can you imagine? I would so love to send her a few of my designs one day.’

‘
Let’s have a look,’ I said, flicking to the back of the Contacts section of the diary.

It wasn
’t there.

So I
fetched my laptop from my bedroom and sat cross-legged between Felicity and Tara on the sofa, flipped the lid open, then searched the contacts section of the
Couture
website. Although Romilly Winter was the editor-in-chief of
Couture
, Sarah Bentley, the deputy editor, was the point of contact.

I turned the screen toward Tara and Felicity and read the text out loud.

Couture | Nouvelle Vague | Prestige | Glitterati

To apply for an internship at
Couture
, please send a CV along with a 500-word article based on one of the following options:

1. Write about a personal memory. This could be a memory of an extraordinary event, place or person, or simply something that resonated deeply (500 words).
2. Write a short feature article – a contemporary cultural review or a fashion trend (500 words).
3. Write an opinion piece or polemic. This could be about a person, or on current affairs or social issues (500 words).

The advert concluded with contact details and entry instructions.

‘
Internship?’ I said to myself in a hushed tone.

‘
Sounds like an opportunity. When’s the deadline?’ asked Tara.

‘
Six p.m. on Monday eighteenth of April.’

‘
But that’s today!’ Felicity screeched. ‘I mean, it’s already, like, four o’clock now. So you don’t have much time.’

I leaned my
face on my fist and sighed. ‘Okay, so let’s say I pick option one, what do I write about?’

Tara waved Pinkie
’s diary under my nose as if it were a freshly baked muffin.

Suddenly, I felt as if a light bulb w
ere hovering over my head.

‘
Light bulb!’ I crooned. ‘I’ll prove to everybody that anybody can become a somebody. That you don’t need to be a model, actor, singer or royal to be famous.’

I was starting to get quite excited about the prospect and the more I talked, the more ideas popped into my head. This was a chance to prove both
to myself and to everyone who had ever doubted me that I wasn’t a failure. I wasn’t a nobody.

‘
And how exactly do you go about proving that
anybody
can become a
somebody
?’ Tara’s eyes widened into full moons.

‘
Well, I have Pinkie’s diary, which means that I have access to all her secrets,’ I squealed with delight, waving Pinkie’s diary around temptingly. I flicked through the next few pages. It looked as if Pinkie was really living it up. Event after event was planned.

‘
Okay. So, let’s see what have we here,’ I said tantalisingly.