Miss Manners (11 page)

I turned towards Henry.
‘Well, I’d better be off, then. I think I need a long soak after today.’

‘
I don’t blame you,’ Henry said with a smile. ‘Oh, and remember, I’m picking you up at one outside your place tomorrow.’

‘
Sure,’ I said with a smile, then left.

10

Fairfax Manor

SATURDAY, 23rd APRIL

I don’t normally sleep in until the afternoon, but today was an abnormal day.

‘
Anna! Wake up! There’s a yummy boy at the door and a chauffeur-driven Bentley waiting outside,’ Tara announced excitedly, prancing around the room. ‘So, who is he? Where are you going? Is it a date? How many degrees of separation are we talking here?’

‘
Huh? What time is it?’ I checked the clock. ‘Twelve fifty-five? Oh, crap! I was supposed to meet Henry at one!’

‘
Mmm… Henry?’ Tara repeated, intrigued.

‘
Don’t worry, nothing to get me reaching for the old/new/borrowed/blue just yet. He’s interviewing Brian Fairfax at two and invited me along.’

‘
Brian Fairfax?’ Felicity popped her head out from behind the door.

‘
Tara, can you tell him I’ll be five minutes,’ I asked groggily, rubbing my stiff neck and feeling as if I hadn’t slept in days.

‘
Sure.’ Tara sauntered off like a little girl down the hallway.

‘
I can’t believe you’re meeting Brian Fairfax. He’s only London’s most eligible bachelor!’ Felicity sang excitedly.

‘
We’ll see about that,’ I declared matter-of-factly. ‘While I’m there, I thought I might as well ask him a few questions.’

‘
Like what?’ Felicity asked, her face lighting up.

‘
I don’t know yet,’ I croaked.

‘
Well, in that case, ask him if he’s single,’ she said with a cheeky grin.

In the space of five
minutes, I managed to wash, groom and clothe myself; definitely a new record. Dressed in my newly acquired Armani suit, I grabbed my new Chanel shoulder bag containing my Jimmys, slipped on my comfy trainers and schlepped down the hallway towards the front door like a narcoleptic diplodocus.

‘
Morning,’ I said, forcing a cheery smile.

‘
Afternoon,’ Henry corrected. ‘Lazy day?’

‘
Sorry. I forgot to set my alarm.’

Today, Henry was wearing a red jumper with the torso of
Super Mario emblazoned on the front, which made it look as if his head were perched on top of a tiny body. A mini Mario.

‘
Bentley,’ I said, pointing at the colossal black Bentley behind Henry.

‘
Bentley,’ he confirmed, stifling a laugh.

I turned back towards the
flat to find Tara and Felicity staring transfixed at the Bentley. Once they had snapped out of their trance, I waved them both goodbye, then walked towards the beautiful black beast. Before I got within a metre of the car a tall, slender man wearing a hat, a tailcoat jacket and a pair of brogues greeted us and opened the door.

The first thing I noticed whil
e sitting in the Bentley was the rich smell of the beige leather interior, the ten-inch television screens behind the front seats and all the snazzy little buttons (which were very tempting to fiddle with). I sighed, and looked out of the window sultrily, like a model in a perfume advert.

‘
So, what are you expecting Brian to be like?’ Henry enquired with a disarming beam.

‘
An arrogant, spoiled brat,’ I guessed. ‘So, have you met him before, then?’

Henry mused for a moment.
‘Nope. But, you never know, he might actually be... quite a nice guy.’

‘
If he offers us food and drink, then I might reconsider,’ I decided.

The car made a turning down Half Moon Street and stopped outside an elegant white Georgian building arranged over seven floors, which was right next to the Flemings Hotel. It looked like an advent calendar with a different scene behind each square.

My first thought was
how much is this posh pile worth
? I estimated at least six million.

‘
Well, this is it,’ Henry announced, wide-eyed.

As the car purred to a halt, I attempted to open the door. But, like before, the chauffeur had got there first.

‘Mademoiselle,’ said the chauffeur with a polite bow of the head, which made me smile.

As I walked towards the house
I noticed a plaque above the black door that read ‘Fairfax Manor’. Henry pressed the intercom button.

‘
May I help you?’ came a clipped British accent on the other end.

‘
It’s Henry. I’m here for the interview with... Brian.’

A few moments later, the door opened. A butler stood there in full regalia. I couldn
’t believe it. I thought all the butlers had gone to California or sitcoms or both. He was a tall, chinless man in, I would say, his late forties, although he could have been younger. I think it was the slicked-back hair that aged him.

‘
Good afternoon, I’m Giles Humphreys. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Allow me to show you through to the drawing room,’ he breathed, gesturing past the staircase.

As soon as I stepped
over the threshold and through the door that reminded me of Mr Benn’s, I immediately realised why the place had been named Fairfax Manor. The interior was decorated in a French colonial style. A clear blue sky filled with fluffy clouds and cherubs was painstakingly painted onto the ceiling, which was embellished with gilded coving. The staircase looked like melting white chocolate, landing invitingly onto the black and white chequered marble floor. But before I could continue with the whole ‘who lives in a place like this?’ routine, my thoughts were interrupted.

‘
So, what do you think?’ Henry asked, his eyebrows raised to the roof.

‘
Man, Brian has a butler and everything,’ I whispered back as Giles led the way.

Henry laughed.

‘See. I told you he was a spoilt brat,’ I continued.

As I walked into the
drawing room, a brown-haired guy in his twenties dressed in a brown jumper, brown suede jacket and brown trousers was sitting on a green Chesterfield reading the
Financial Times
in one hand and sipping tea in the other.

‘
Hey. Henry, right?’ Toffy Bumbag, who I assumed was Brian, asked in a forced, slightly exaggerated American accent, before turning towards me. ‘Who’s your lovely friend?’

Eww, gross! He actually licked his lips! And what
’s worse is he doesn’t seem to think I have a voice box!

‘
Anna,’ I accented, confirming my presence. ‘Anna Borgström. I’m an intern at
Couture
.’

‘
Lovely,’ he said, smirking like there was a bad smell. ‘Right, well, shall we begin the interview, then?’

I looked at Henry as if to say
, ‘See – no food, no drinks.’ But then, just as I had lost all hope...

‘
Oh, I almost forgot. Would you guys like anything to eat or drink?’ Brian asked hurriedly.

‘
I’ll have a Diet Coke, please.’ Henry turned to me. ‘Anna, what would you like to drink?’

‘
Earl Grey,’ I said, without a moment’s hesitation.

‘
A Diet Coke and a pot of Earl Grey then, please, Giles. Oh, and make it snappy.’ Brian winked, clicking his fingers.

Giles grunted
in a disgruntled manner before walking stiffly off.

‘
Fire away.’ Brian took another sip of his tea, then lounged in his enormous seat.

Henry switched on his Dic
taphone, then spent the next forty-five minutes asking Brian questions about what he’d like to do, what he’s doing at the moment, his ultimate ambition and whether he’d like to continue running the family business. However, as I have the attention span of a dead fish, I plastered my notebook with doodles and sketches of the interior.

Once the interview was over, Henry stood up to shake Brian
’s hand. ‘Right, well, thanks for your time, Brian. It was really... interesting.’

‘
I know, right,’ he said, extending an arm. Then he turned to Giles, signalling him over.

Giles pigeon
-walked over from the other side of the room, wafted a hand in the air, then escorted us out of the building.

‘
Giles?’ I said in a mock-posh American accent as we exited the building. ‘Giles, would you fetch me a glass of water. Giles, see to it you escort our guests out. Giles, wipe my bum. Giles, Giles, Giles.’

‘
Well, I guess you were right. He
is
a spoiled brat,’ Henry conceded, stifling a smile.

I turned to face Henry.
‘So, what next?’

‘
Café?’

‘
Sounds good to me,’ I said, beaming.

Henry waved the Bentley off gratefully, then we both
strolled over to Bar Italia, a family-run café in the heart of Soho renowned for its thick and creamy Italian hot chocolate (plus it’s a perfect place for people-watching and celebrity-spotting; I’ve seen Kat from
EastEnders
and Pete Burns there).

A hot chocolate and a chocolate fudge brownie
later, I returned home around six-ish. As I opened the door and entered the flat, I was dying to flop onto the squishy sofa. But it wasn’t going to happen just yet.

‘
Guess what, chickadee? I’ve been shortlisted!’ Tara announced, jumping around in a close approximation of the Snoopy dance.

‘
What on earth do you mean?’ I asked.

‘
I have an audition. At The Forum! This Friday! Which means I have...’ She counted her fingers. ‘Six days!’ Tara screamed, then ran around like a headless chicken.

‘
Oh, wow! Congratulations, Tarzy!’ I said, smiling broadly. ‘That’s incredible news!’

I felt so proud of Tara. All those months of preparation had finally paid off. She was going to be a star!

‘O-M-G. Do you know what this means? I mean, if I get through, that is.’ Tara turned to face me with puppy-dog eyes, her hands on my shoulders. ‘I really need you to be there. I need your support. Can you make it?’

‘
What time’s the audition?’ I asked.

‘
Midnight.’ Tara paused, attempting to register my reaction. ‘Look, I know it’s late, but that’s the time I’ve been allocated. I mean, I totally understand if...’

‘
Sure. I’ll be there,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

‘
Really? Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re amazing! You don’t know how much this means to me,’ Tara said with a beatific beam on her face, hugging and kissing me hungrily.

Whilst Tara skipped into her bedroom, I got out my laptop and
googled myself (as you do). But the only items that came up were obituaries, Facebook profiles and online CVs of other Anna Borgströms.

Great, and
here I was thinking I was the only Anna Borgström in the world
.

So I decided to check Google Alerts instead, which I set up yesterday so that if either my name or my
blog title was mentioned by anyone anywhere, I’d be notified. Although I had no alerts for Anna Borgström, I did have plenty for Secret Diary of a Socialite – 636 alerts, to be exact. Wow!

It had been covered on TV and radio as well as in newspapers and magazines. This was so surreal. I scanned a few of the headlines that came up in the search results, then clicked the top one that came under
Daily Mail
:

Who Stole Pinkie’s Diary?

The online blog, entitled Secret Diary of a Socialite, written by an anonymous author who refers to herself only as Blogstrom, has set a new record. It has managed to clock up thousands of followers in less than a week and has, as a result, been crowned Blog of the Week.

However, although the blog is an online hit, Blogstrom has revealed a number of celebrity secrets that have caused major controversy. A few of the secrets include: Pinkie’s little black book (or should we say pink book) of bachelors, revealing her to be a ‘man-eater’, as well as her biting remarks on high-profile personalities.

As a result, a campaign entitled Who Stole Pinkie’s Diary, has been launched to find the true identity of Blogstrom. So, the question on everybody’s mind at the moment is: Have You Seen Pinkie’s Diary?

Who Stole Pinkie’s Diary? I did. But was it the right thing to do? Should I have just held my head high and walked out of Harrolds? Right now, there were only two people in the entire world who knew I had written the blog: Tara and Felicity. But then, I had a flashback of how Murphy had eyed me suspiciously back at the
Couture
studio. Well, if he does know, then let’s just hope he doesn’t tell anyone... or that anyone finds out.