Miss Manners Read online

  ‘Okay, okay. Here she comes. Pinkie’s a VIP, so you’d better be on your best behaviour,’ Bill half whispered, half choked.

  VIP? I’ve never even been an IP. I’m just a P.

  Anyway, cue Pinkie Mortimer strutting into the room with one hand on her hip and posing for the cameras as if she were on a Milan catwalk, walking in a way that advertised her fertility.

  Pinkie was a peroxide blonde, size zero twenty-something with eyes like a pair of long-legged spiders, a bum like an eight-year-old boy’s, and a fake-bake the colour of an Oompa Loompa. She was wearing a tacky tiara, a Hubba Bubba pink, skimpy little dress and an accessory under her right arm – a shivery, frail-looking chihuahua called Tinkerbell (according to its jewel-encrusted name tag) with a matching outfit. A deep, pouty perfume mixed with the smell of dog immediately enveloped the entire room. Under her left arm, Pinkie was carrying a book with a retina-frying pink cover and the words PINKIE’S DIARY written across it in bold letters, which was lined with tacky glitter-fluff-trimmed edges. She then whispered something to her PA, handing the diary over to her, who in turn vanished from the room.

  She had barely been away for one minute.

  ‘Joy, where’s my l’eau minérale?’ Pinkie demanded like a diva. ‘Joy? Joy! JOY!’

  ‘Coming.’ Joy charged over to Pinkie with a bottle of Clarendon mineral water.

  Does Joy wipe Pinkie’s bottom, too? I thought to myself, then quickly tried to erase the disgusting vision from my mind. She’ll probably be asking for a glass of Moët & Chandon next.

  Seriously, the world doesn’t make any sense.

  Once Joy had handed the mineral water over to Pinkie, she turned to walk towards Pinkie’s publicist. A David Brent-lookalike in his late forties, wearing a blue suit and a headset in his ear, he stood beside the row of waiting journalists delivering press hits and pitching items to the gossip columnists.

  A good publicist can make anyone seem more important and more desirable than they really are, I thought.

  But before Joy had the chance to speak to him, Pinkie interrupted.

  ‘Joy? Joy! JOY! This isn’t Bling HO. It’s Clarendon. I specifically asked for Bling HO. Tinkerbell hates anything else,’ she said in a whiny, nasal, Daddy’s-little-girl voice.

  Poor Joy. Why did she put herself through all the trouble? Money? I mean, was it really worth it? All the stress and sleepless nights. Joy was literally her surrogate mummy – minus the unconditional love, of course.

  I turned to a shop assistant at Riverstones whom I had never seen before; he seemed hypnotised and in awe of Pinkie. He was a spotty, over-confident teen, wearing a standard uniform. His name tag read ‘Lloyd Moseley, Sales Assistant’.

  ‘Who is she?’ I asked Lloyd, whose gaze was transfixed on Pinkie as if he had just been turned to stone by Medusa.

  There was no response.

  But just when I was beginning to think he hadn’t heard me, his head swished around as if he were auditioning for a L’Oréal advert. He looked straight at me with glaring eyes, evidently angered at my lack of pop culture knowledge.

  ‘Who is she?’ Lloyd repeated mockingly, his brow furrowing furiously.

  The flock of waiting fans became eerily silent and turned to gaze at me as if I had just entered the room dressed as Hitler in a tutu.

  ‘Who is she?’ Lloyd said again, but in a louder voice. ‘OMG, kill yourself! She’s an angel sent unto us to deliver unto us her awesomeness.’ He turned to face the crowd, like a proud parent at a graduation ceremony. ‘She accidentally accepted my friend request on Facebook, you know.’

  ‘No, I meant why is she famous?’ I rephrased, trying hard to stay composed.

  The starry-eyed boy, who was about eighteen years old and immersed in a world of airbrushed celebrities, pondered for a brief moment before answering, as if considering the meaning of life.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what she’s famous for. She’s amazing! She’s an inspiration! A goddess! And I love her. L-O-V-E LOVE HER!’

  Having finished his spelling bee warm-up, Lloyd turned towards Pinkie, kissing then holding up a pink book above his tiny little peanut-shaped head. ‘Love ya, Pinkie!’ he blasted deafeningly, his thumb and index finger flashing an L shape.

  Obviously, I had asked the wrong person.

  Seriously, why is it people worship celebrities like gods? I thought, resigning myself to the idea that their attraction probably lies in the fact that they lack any resemblance to reality.

  I made sure to ask another shop assistant who didn’t seem to be affected by Pinkie Mortimer’s presence.

  As I scanned the room, I noticed a girl standing behind the till wearing a look of sheer boredom on her face and staring into space.

  As I approached, she looked up at me with a smile that seemed to say ‘Poor you’.

  ‘You’re Pinkie’s mascot, right?’ she asked, her lips curling into a crisp smile. ‘Bunny Simpkins?’

  ‘Only for today. I’m usually Anna Borgström, sales assistant at Toy Kingdom upstairs.’

  ‘Felicity Diamond,’ she said.

  I looked over at Pinkie, who was busy throwing a tantrum as well as a bottle of water onto the floor.

  ‘Do you know who that kidult is?’ I asked, nodding in the direction of Pinkie. ‘Why is she famous?’

  ‘That’s a very good question,’ Felicity said, sniffing out a laugh. ‘But then again, why are most people famous nowadays?

  ‘True,’ I said, feeling as if I’d just found a new sorority sister.

  ‘Pinkie’s a notorious social climber – not so much a climber as a mountaineer! She’s dated everyone from Tylar Novak to Sam Caspian. And her latest is Charlie Rose – bachelor du jour. He’s number three on the Most Eligible Bachelors of London list. But once she’s been seen with him a couple of times, she’ll ditch him, then continue to move up the ladder until she finally ends up dating Brian Fairfax – the number one most eligible bachelor. I mean, she literally collects boyfriends like stamps.’

  I didn’t have a clue who any of these people were. The Most Eligible Bachelors of London? Who cares? They’re probably all a bunch of players, anyway.

  ‘So, who’s Brian Fairfax? And why is he number one? Does he lay golden eggs or something?’

  ‘Close,’ she said, smiling. ‘He’s the heir to the Fairfax Publications fortune.’

  ‘Fairfax Publications?’

  ‘You know, the company that owns magazines like Couture, Nouvelle Vague, Prestige and Glitterati.’

  I shook my head.

  I felt as if I had buried my head like an ostrich all my life. I hadn’t read any of them. In fact, I wasn’t much of a magazine reader at all. I mean, who would believe Jennifer Lopez had lost weight and Gwyneth Paltrow had put it on?

  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 bickering 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.’

  Pinkie 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 wondered 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 picked 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 conversation 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.