Miss Manners Read online

  COUTURE BOOKS

  First published in Great Britain by Couture Books, 2013.

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Iman Sid, 2013

  Iman Sid has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN:978-0-9576452-0-2 (eBook)

  IMAN SID

  Miss Manners

  For my family

  Acknowledgements

  First of all – and most importantly – I’d like to thank you, for picking up my book today. You’re amazing!

  And thank you to the incredibly talented Authonomy community for supporting Miss Manners until it reached the Editor’s Desk. Here’s to many more Authonomy successes!

  A huge and heartfelt thank you goes out to my mum for supporting and encouraging me to write, i.e. buying me a Snuggie and making me tea to keep me warm during the winter; dad for proofing my drafts on the train to and from work and texting to say he’s laughing at the funny bits, twelfth time round; brother for giving me such great advice; sister for being a tough crowd.

  Also, thanks to Lucy York for all her editing expertise and Nikki Dupin for designing such a beautiful cover.

  "Clothes and manners do not make the man; but, when he is made, they greatly improve his appearance."

  Henry Ward Beecher.

  1

  The City

  MONDAY, 18th APRIL

  It was 9.05 a.m. on a Monday morning and I was having a quarter-life crisis.

  I was sitting in my blue 1974 Mini Cooper, which had just broken down in the middle of Camden High Street. Ten minutes before I’d been singing along to ‘Dizzy’ by Tommy Roe, and the next thing I knew I was trying to avoid the rear end of a cab that loomed large in the windscreen; I could do nothing but jam my foot on the brake pedal.

  The little car bucked wildly twice before it lurched forward through the intersection amid the screeching traffic and then, after a sudden pop from the exhaust, it spluttered and came to a complete standstill right in the middle of the road.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. For a split second, my life had flashed before my eyes.

  I looked into the rear-view mirror: bleary and bloodshot brown eyes, no make-up and greasy brown hair scraped into a ponytail (in fact, my hair was tied back so hard I’d given myself a facelift). A ten stone, size ten (big bones) lump of mass with one boob slightly larger than the other and a Helen Hunt forehead.

  This was what the emergency services would see if I were to die right now.

  Plus, I happened to be wearing a pair of my big, holey granny knickers. Probably the manky grey ones I only put on when the washing basket is full.

  I couldn’t believe it, I’d almost died in a car accident and all I could think about was what knickers I was wearing and whether they were presentable enough.

  I hate my life.

  I pictured my own funeral and wondered who would actually bother to attend. I would have died without having achieved anything; I hadn’t fallen in love with a French artist who lived in a small flat somewhere in Paris and painted gothic cathedrals. There would only be three people present: my mother, my father and my best friend, Tara Spackman.

  Then, I pictured what would be written on my gravestone:

  Died trying.

  Those two words said it all. But then, as if that wasn’t already a depressing enough thought, I pictured my obituary:

  Anna Borgström wanted everything, achieved nothing;

  knew everything about nothing.

  A life tragically cut short by excessive daydreaming.

  Anna was born to die.

  That was it. Five lines that summed up twenty-five years of my entire existence – a quarter of a century.

  I had spent the past three years studying for an English literature and creative writing degree in the hope of finding my dream job after graduation. But, of course, reality was much harder than theory.

  My parents tried to point out that if it was a job I was after, medicine might have been a better idea. But not if I wanted to go into journalism.

  University had provided endless activities, classes and groups for every imaginable type of artist, misfit and computer geek. I was creative writing editor for the campus newspaper. We had one of those shiatsu massagers with interchangeable heads, a selection of board games, a ten-pin bowling set and a comfy couch that also doubled as a bed to sleep on during the deadline period. Plus, the office was always filled with the latest film and music releases, to which we could help ourselves once they had all been reviewed. I never got bored. Life was good. But I knew that this dream would soon end and I would have to prepare myself for a post-university job – a real job in the real world, which I tried to put off for as long as possible.

  My university colleagues, who had begun working immediately after graduation, were already minted. They had clocked in jobs at advertising firms, book publishing houses, newspapers and radio, and were getting on with their careers. And then there was me – three years of diagramming and deconstructing books, plays, short stories and poems, and for what? A BA honours suffix to place after my name on my CV and a job as shop assistant in the Harrolds toy department.

  The tasks required were mindless, unnecessary and fit for a chimp. I swear I’d actually got dumber in the two years since graduation, and there was no escape in sight.

  I was stuck in a dead-end job. I needed change and I needed it fast. A challenge – a real challenge. A job that would motivate me to wake up every morning and look forward to the exciting day ahead. Something that involved writing. You know, book reviews, magazine articles, television commercials or even obituaries. Anything. Just as long as my three years of literary mind grind didn’t go to waste. I wanted a second chance at life. An opportunity for a new beginning.

  Suddenly, the sound of blaring horns woke me with a jump from my daymare and thrust me back into reality, reminding me that I was trapped in traffic. Because of me, the city was gridlocked. Insults were flying, angry honking echoed down every street, drivers, like petulant children faced with broken toys, pounded their dashboards in frustration.

  A chunky-looking balding guy, aged about fifty and built like a rugby player with a neck about the same width as his head, stepped out of his cab and walked over to my window with an enraged look on his face.

  I quickly closed my car window for fear he would grab my throat and squeeze hard like Homer Simpson.

  ‘Oi! Move yer car, Madam! What do you think this is? Bleedin’ drivin’ school?’ he shouted, his face reddening as if he’d been slapped. ‘Go on, getta’ the way!’

  Madam? Since when did I become Madam? Seriously, it couldn’t possibly get any worse than this.

  I was wrong.

  Before I had a chance to respond, my phone bleated. The caller ID confirmed my worst fear. It was Him. William Weisman. AKA Bill – my boss. My heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Aa-nn-aa! Where are you!?’ he screamed the moment I snapped open my battered old blower. ‘You were supposed to be here five minutes ago!’

  ‘I’m so sorry, it’s just that my car’s broken down in the middle of–’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ he
snapped, cutting me off. ‘Just get your sorry self in here right now or you’re fired!’ Click. The phone went dead.

  I stared at it for a few seconds... breathe in, breathe out... and then continued with my miserable life.

  The burly cab man that looked like a wife-beater rapped on my car window, yelling once more. ‘Oi! Are you deaf? I said move yer blinkin’ car!’

  ‘I can’t, it’s broken down. I mean, what do you want me to do? Fly?’

  Suddenly, I realised my window was closed the whole time and the cabbie couldn’t hear a word I was saying. So, I cautiously opened it a bit.

  ‘My car’s broken down,’ I repeated.

  The cabbie scrunched up his face like a constipated bulldog, folded his Popeye arms, then huffed, ‘Deaf and dumb.’

  Ignoring his comment, I picked up my phone and tapped in the number for the RAC.

  ‘Hiya, yeah, my car’s broken down in the middle of Camden High Street. I literally hit the brake pedal and it just stopped. I’ve been here for ten minutes now and I’m running late for work. How long before you get here? What!? Forty minutes! I can’t wait that long! I’ll get fired for sure! I need to get to work ASAP. Is there any way you can get here sooner? Look, who am I speaking to? Sharon. Alright, Sharon. Shaz. Can I call you Shaz? I’ll call you back in five minutes. I need to call my boss to let him know.’

  Be calm, be confident, I coached myself.

  The cabbie stared at me. I stared at the cabbie.

  ‘The RAC will be here in five minutes, mate!’ I shouted in an attempt to make him go away.

  It worked.

  The cabbie shook his head angrily, then walked back to his cab behind my Mini. Several cars were queued up behind him.

  I checked my watch: 9.14 a.m.

  This is ridiculous, I thought. I’ll get fired for sure at this rate.

  I turned the key in the ignition twice, but the car just choked, coughed and spluttered. My breathing quickened and my brain went into overdrive. I had to think of a solution... and fast. I sought a tunnel in the earth or a ladder to the sky. Anything that would get me out of this hell hole.

  In a moment of madness, I stepped out of my car, slammed the door shut behind me and proceeded to the nearest Tube station – Camden Town. I hated public transport. I mean, I really hated it. It smelled, made me feel claustrophobic and you could never look at a person for too long in case you offended them.

  During rush hour, the commuters were always packed like models backstage at London Fashion Week. And, as if that wasn’t enough, just before the doors slammed shut, there was always that one latecomer who would jump onto the train at the very last minute and shove his stinky armpit in my face. It made me feel about as dignified as an elderly man line-dancing in a pair of Y-fronts and cowboy boots. But, in this case, I would have to bite the bullet and overcome my phobia so I wouldn’t get fired.

  If only nose pegs were socially acceptable, I thought to myself.

  As I entered the train car, I noticed there was only one seating space left. But there was a short, rotund lady on the opposite bay who spotted it too.

  I looked at her. She looked at me. The race was on.

  For a moment, I dissolved into a daydream of leaping onto her and fighting for the seat. But, in reality, I walked briskly towards the seat and sat down.

  Big mistake.

  A squat, grey-haired man in his fifties sitting to my right was reading The Telegraph – a broadsheet newspaper renowned for its massiveness – which he flapped in my face the entire time. A hefty man in his forties sitting to my left kept nodding off into dreamland onto my shoulder. And there was a loved-up couple standing by the doors who were all snuggled up and whispering I love yous into each other’s faces before looking at me as if to say ‘none of your business’. They were obviously at the honeymoon stage in their relationship, where whoever wakes up first in the morning sneaks off and washes and comes back to bed to make it look like they just woke up that way. They were disgustingly in love. On top of that, I was enveloped by the smell of BO, cheap deodorant and morning breath.

  Only ten stops to go, I reassured myself whilst looking at the Tube map and realising I had to change from the Northern to the Piccadilly line.

  It was 9.46 a.m. when I finally arrived at Knightsbridge station.

  I ran out of the Tube station and straight to the entrance of Harrolds on Brompton Road. It was a quaint, beautiful piece of architecture encompassing seven floors. Although I knew a little about its history, I never had the time to appreciate it fully.

  I stared at the elated Japanese tourists with their cameras flashing away at the building and felt jealous of their carefree nature and ability to appreciate its beauty whilst I was about to be told off like a child who tried to set fire to the school.

  I took one final glance at the entrance, held my breath and braced myself.

  2

  Attack of the Giant Bunny

  It was 9.52 a.m. Fifty-two minutes late.

  I’m dead, I thought to myself, even though I was still very much alive. Unfortunately.

  I ran up four flights of stairs as fast as I could to Toy Kingdom on the fourth floor. But before I had chance to step through the door, Bill came running over to me, shouting in panic. He looked as if he needed a Rennie.

  ‘Quick! I want you to learn these lines. You have five minutes,’ he wheezed, shoving a piece of crumpled paper into my hand. ‘Pinkie Mortimer’s publicist noticed you in the bunny costume yesterday and insisted you front her book signing today.’

  Pinkie Mortimer? Firstly, who was Pinkie Mortimer? And secondly, what kind of a name was that? It sounded like a Bratz doll.

  ‘Oh, and here,’ he continued. ‘Put this on quickly. No time to waste.’

  Bill handed me the sweaty pink Easter bunny costume I had been wearing for the past nine days to promote the Harrolds Easter events, which ran from Saturday, 9 April to Monday, 18 April.

  But Easter at Harrolds was no ordinary Easter. Here it meant organic chocolate eggs (where chocolate hens have been given the freedom to roam), a twenty-four carat gold bunny worth in excess of twenty thousand pounds and an Easter egg hunt (five eggs with a letter on each) in Toy Kingdom.

  Oh, but wait. It didn’t stop there. Oh no. Harrolds, being Harrolds, decided to go one step further than everyone else. As it was Monday, 18 April – the final day of festivities – Harrolds decided to finish it off with a bang.

  As I looked around the store, I noticed Toy Kingdom was full of leaping furry lambs, little yellow squawking chicks and cuddly bouncy bunnies. Children were petting, stroking, yanking and poking the animals to their hearts’ content.

  I spotted a girl in the petting corner holding a chirping chick surrounded by tiny tots with shiny faces – very tempting to slap. They were all screaming with delight at the thought of being allowed to touch one.

  ‘But–’

  ‘No time for questions,’ he interrupted. ‘Chop, chop. I’ll be waiting downstairs in Riverstones on the third floor.’ And with that, Bill waddled off down the stairs like a drunken penguin.

  William Weisman, more commonly known to the level-four Harrolds staff as Bill, was short, round and fat, like a football with legs, whose face looked as though it had been made with plasticine and then squashed by something angry. He was a sweaty, umbrella-haired man in his late fifties who hated his life and everyone in it, and who acquired a sense of empowerment by treating his staff like servants. Although I felt a little sorry for him, I hated him more. I mean, Bill was definitely one of those people you loved to hate.

  I walked into the loos with a bunny costume in one arm and a script in the other, remembering how my mum would always advise me to ‘Do your best and forget about the rest’ whenever I was faced with a challenge.

  As I battled my way into the smelly costume and finally zipped it up at the back, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.

  I looked like a Teletubby.

  Seriously, what was this? A Jer
ry Hall promo video?

  Next, I looked at the lines and attempted to memorise them as quickly as possible. It reminded me of all those school play auditions and how I had only ever been given small, non-speaking parts, like a flailing tree or a glove. Although, I do remember once being given a line that went something like, ‘I have a message for you, Sire.’

  My phone buzzed. It was none other than Bill.

  Man, was I popular.

  ‘What’s taking you so long!? Pinkie’s entourage is here!’ he spat down the phone.

  Why don’t you go and suck on a lemon, sour face? I thought to myself. What I actually ended up saying was, ‘Sorry, Bill. Just on my way now. But I haven’t managed to memorise all the–’

  Beep beep beep. The phone went dead.

  ‘Charming,’ I said to myself.

  As I arrived at Riverstones dressed as a pink Easter bunny holding a basket of chocolate eggs, I was immediately swamped by children who decided it would be a good idea to pet, stroke, yank and poke me.

  I hate kids.

  I looked around the room, noticing a horde of paparazzi, columnists, children (mostly young girls) waiting for an autograph and Pinkie’s PA, who looked panicked, her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry, no doubt making sure everything was running according to schedule.

  She was a short, stout woman in her mid thirties with short brown hair, who looked like everyone’s mother. It seemed she had little or no time to herself, that her life revolved around making Pinkie Mortimer happy. She reminded me of a stage manager at the theatre, ensuring that all departments were on standby and everything was running smoothly before each show. In fact, there wasn’t really much difference between a celebrity circus and a West End show. Pinkie’s entourage was the production team: her publicist was the director, her PA was the stage manager and Pinkie was, well, who would have guessed it, the star of the show.