Miss Manners (5 page)

‘
Quinto! They’re here,’ Boris panted. ‘They’ve just arrived. They’re at the backstage entrance.’

I decided to see it for myself. I trekked through the backstage corridors and
, sure enough, there they were. Instruments being unpacked, coats being flung about, legs and vocal chords being stretched out – it was chaos. And then there was Felicity standing next to me, blushing like a sun-ripened tomato and staring at Zak Quinto.

Tara ran off stage, past Stanley and into Dressing Room One to change out of her clothes. She appeared five minutes later fully dressed with the pink bag over her right shoulder. Looking disheartened and completely drained, she handed it over to me.

‘Here. I gotta get back to work,’ she said, deflated, then went to stand behind the bar.

‘
Poor Tara. All that preparation. All that build-up,’ I said to Felicity.

I walked over to Tara, who was re-attaching her staff badge to her jumper.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, squeezing her hand. ‘There’ll always be next time. Except next time, all these people will come especially to see you.
You
will be the main act.’ I gave her a big hug, then we both looked out at the audience and smiled.

5

The Oracle

TUESDAY, 19th APRIL

The next morning, I awoke far too early. It was seven-thirty; I’d forgotten to switch my alarm off the night before.

Today was the first day I didn
’t have a job in two years.

Do I snooze or do I get up and start doing things?

Now, I know I should have been getting up and doing things to the day (i.e. seizing it and grabbing it by the goolies, etc.), but I was experiencing a oneness with my mattress. I’d melted into the springs, flock and foam rubber.

Plus, there was nothing compelling me to get out of bed other than a judgmental cat
staring through the window.

Five more minutes and then I
’ll get up.

I wanted to get back to my dream, but it was too late. It was gone.

As I slowly regained consciousness, my legs dragged the rest of my concrete-heavy limbs out of bed.

You know when your entire body feels like a heavy brick? Well, mine felt like an eight-ton African elephant had been sitting on it after a hefty meal.

I went and made myself a nice hot cup of my usual Earl Grey, collected the post, then slumped down on the sofa. I could tell immediately what most of the envelopes were without even opening them. Bills, bills and more bills.

I hate bills, not least because I have financial dyslexia. I mean, I haven
’t exactly got what you’d call a mathematical mind. I am to the Pythagoras’ theorem what a hippopotamus is to ice-dancing. Not a natural.

As I reluctantly opened each letter, I attempted to mind-count all the expenses:

But then, just as I thought that my problems couldn’t get any worse, I found a letter addressed to me underneath the pile. It read:

Dear Miss Borgström,

Your unpaid clamped vehicle, Classic Mini Cooper, has been impounded at the Camden Vehicle Pound.

Payment for removals/release need to be made in person at the vehicle pound (identification for owner/driver and the motor vehicle, for example, DVLA document V5/VRC, valid certificate of insurance or bill of sale must be produced before release). You will need to make a payment of £200 by Sunday, 1st May.

Yours sincerely,

Mike Fairstow

Vehicle Pound Manager

‘
Oh, come on,’ I groaned.

I thought Mondays were bad. Tuesdays are worse!

I threw the letter to one side, lay back on the sofa, picked up my Earl Grey and accompanying calorific snacks, then turned on the TV for my daily dose of the morning news.

But, to my horror (almost
causing me to spill my tea), there I was in a pink bunny costume fighting with Pinkie in a YouTube video clip. I felt my mouth drop open in shock...

‘Celebs are taking cat-fighting to a new level. ExtremeGossip.com, an online celebrity gossip channel, were the first to report the incident after discovering a number of YouTube videos and photos posted online yesterday. At the signing event of her new children’s book,
Bunny Simpkins
, socialite-turned-author Pinkie Mortimer got into a fight with none other than Bunny Simpkins herself, just days after revealing she’ll be entering this year’s prestigious Miss Manners contest, where she’ll be going head to head with arch-rival Genevieve de la Croix in a bid to validate her socialite status...’

I switched to another news channel. And there I was again...

‘... and the fight comes just weeks before this year’s Miss Manners contest. Will this be enough to affect Pinkie’s chances of winning?’

This is not happening
, I reassured myself.
I’m still asleep and this is all a bad dream
. I stared closely at the TV to make sure that my face wasn’t visible.

It was.

No way! My meltdown had been captured on camera and uploaded onto YouTube, spreading like a virus across all the news channels. Hello, public humiliation. Goodbye, dignity.

Family and friends are going to start calling me any minute
, I thought miserably as the memory unfolded in technicolor.

I had hoped
no one was watching the news
that
early in the morning.

The phone rang.

‘Hello?’ I mumbled.

‘
Hello, darling. It’s Mum.’

AAAARRRRGGH! I knew it. Bad news really does travel fast.

‘Oh, hi Mum,’ I said, trying to disguise an inner twirl of nerves. There was no way I was going to tell her I’d been fired whilst she and Dad were on holiday.

Mum and Dad were ful
filling their lifelong ambition of travelling around the world in eighty days. Their aim was to see as many countries as possible before ending up back in England. I know, a bit old for a gap year. In their ordinary lives, Mum was a freelance herbalist and Dad was an architect. So, it made for a welcome break from their usual routines.

‘
How are you and Dad?’ I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

‘
Oh, we’re great. We’re currently dancing with the Bora tribe in Iquitos, Peru. I’ll email you over the photos and video later. Anyway, so what’s this I hear about you getting into a fight? It’s just that Janet was watching
This Morning
earlier and could have sworn she saw you in a video.’

‘
Me? Don’t be silly, Mum,’ I lied. ‘You know Janet, she’s short-sighted. And when you’re short-sighted, lots of people look like me. I mean, was she even wearing her glasses at the time?’

Janet Moore lived in Bromley, South London
(where I grew up as a kid). I remember she used to give me orange squash and digestive biscuits (both of which would keep me amused for a good while in those days) whenever she babysat me whilst Mum was away at events and conferences. Although Mum and Janet were complete opposites (Mum was adventurous, Janet was homely), they had been best friends for donkey’s years.

‘
Actually, darling, Janet’s long-sighted. Look, are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?’ she asked, rising suspicion in her voice.

‘
Everything’s fine, Mum,’ I reassured her. ‘Look, can I call you back?’

‘
Anna, are you
sure
everything’s alright?’ Mum asked worriedly.

‘
Yes, Mum,’ I mock-chimed, trying to sound as chirpy as humanly possible. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll speak to you soon. Meanwhile, have fun doing tribal things. Oh, and don’t forget to bring me back some shrunken heads.’ I hung up the phone and slumped back onto the sofa, switched the TV off, and closed my eyes.

Seriously, this was too
much. I mean, as if owing £1,287.50 wasn’t enough, I was now on national news! But before I could deal with my public humiliation, I had more important issues to think about. Like, how was I going to pay all that money off? Busking in Covent Garden? No – I needed an act. Renting my room out? No – where would I sleep? Sell my stuff on eBay? No – it was all crap.

I needed to find a quick fix. But first, I needed time to think. So I put on my jumper, combats and wheelie shoes (much faster than trainers) and headed over to Camden Stables Market.

I ambled down the labyrinth of narrow walkways, admiring the diverse mix of clothes, jewellery and music and the smell of waffles, crêpes and Chinese food.

My favourite place was a cosy little area filled with North African cafés – a place called The Casbah. The music was North African, the food was North
African, but the customers were multinational tourists.

The cafés were never empty and always filled with the sweet smells of shisha, traditional music and the hum of lively chatter. I was a real people-watcher and saw poetry in just about everything. Often, I would see a guy writing on a laptop in a café, which would make me think he was writing the next bestseller or something – which would then make me feel
crap. So, as a way of making myself feel better, I tried to guess what they were
really
doing: updating their Facebook status, Tweeting their breakfast menu, emailing themselves, typing their own names into Google, watching repeats of rubbish shows, catching up with the news or just staring stoically at a blank screen trying to look like Jean-Paul Sartre.

I proceeded to my usual café, The Souk,
which was a twenty-four-hour Moroccan café dedicated to escapism. Brown and gold leather ottomans and low wooden tables were dotted throughout in which people reclined, listening to Middle Eastern music, reading a book or simply catching up with friends.

It was quite a bright and balmy morning
, so I ordered a mint tea and went to sit in a cosy nook in the outdoor seating area. But no sooner had I taken a sip than I noticed an enormous Bedouin tent I had never seen before right in the middle of the courtyard. There was a massive sign on the front that read:

The Oracle
.

And underneath it was written:

Fortune Teller and Spiritual Healer – Free
.

I had never been to see a fortune teller before. But, to be honest, I’ve never been one for superstition. Although, it would make for an interesting experience nonetheless. Plus it was free.

So once I had finished my mint tea I thought,
why not
, and strolled over to the tent.

As I stood at the entrance,
I suddenly felt a swarm of butterflies fill my stomach. I don’t know why. Maybe because it seemed so dark and eerie when I looked through the cracks in the curtain, reminding me of things that go bump in the night.

Inside
I noticed a weathered old wooden table on which stood a lantern and a discoloured monkey skull.

‘
Hello,’ said a gravelly voice.

I jumped and my heart skipped a beat.
Where was the voice coming from? I looked around, trying to gauge the direction of the sound. Something prodded me on the shoulder. I swivelled around to find a short, stout woman dressed in a colourful floral muumuu and a matching turban behind me. She reminded me of a teapot.

‘
May I help you?’ said the woman in a thick Caribbean accent, smiling broadly.

‘
Oh, you scared me half to death!’ I clenched my fist, then placed it on my heart. The woman let out a deep laugh. I looked around the tent, noticing various glass bottles, wall-hangings, trinkets, candles and incense. ‘What is this place? Who are you?’

‘
Welcome to the House of Mojo. I am Mojo, mistress of the ancient arts of precognition and augury,’ Mojo announced mysteriously. ‘Diva of divination.’

I didn
’t have a clue what any of those words meant, so I just stared at her blankly. ‘But outside it says you’re a–’