Miss Manners (26 page)

As I rushed back to the dressing room to change into my final dress,
I pressed it up against my body and looked into the mirror. I was not impressed. Especially when I looked at the other girls’ creations in the room, which seemed to completely dwarf my feeble attempt at dressmaking.

Remembering Felicity
’s Cleopatra dress, my mind was suddenly swamped with conflicting thoughts. Should I wear the Cleopatra? Or my pathetic attempt at an elementary school play costume? I didn’t have long to decide. As the tenth girl strutted the stage, I had to make a quick-fire decision.

I gently pulled the Cleopatra out of the bag, pressed it up against my body,
then stared into the mirror. It was even more beautiful than I’d remembered. The colourful jewels around the neckline sparkled under the lights, and the gorgeous blue satin melted in my fingers. I’d even brought the golden snake headdress and matching necklace and earrings along with me.

So, with very little time left, I slipped into the Cleopatra, placed the beautiful
, long black wig on my head, then finished the entire look off with the headdress, earrings, necklace and snake sandals.

A stage manage
r ran towards me, a look of panic spreading across her flushed face. ‘Oh, there you are! I just wanted to know the name of your creation before the compère introduces it to the audience?’

I thought for a second, but not too much that I would begin to have doubts about my decision.
‘Cleopatra,’ I said, my heartbeat going into overdrive.

She
relayed the information into her headset, her gaze firmly fixed on the compère.

‘
Forgive me, Felicity,’ I whispered, whilst looking at the person I’d become in the mirror.

In no time at all
the stage manager turned back to me, a flustered look sweeping across her face.

‘
You’re on,’ she said, ushering me onto the stage.

‘
And last but not least,’ proclaimed the compère, ‘Phoenix with her beautiful dress… the Cleopatra.’

As the audience applauded
I looked at the stage manager, hesitating. Maybe stealing Felicity’s dress was a step too far? Maybe entering Miss Manners was a huge mistake?

‘
Go on,’ she encouraged, a smile cracking her face. ‘You look gorgeous!’

I smiled in an attempt to mask my fear and doubt, then slowly walked towards the stage and, finally, onto the catwalk. I just hoped to God that Felicity would forgive me.

‘Eyes on the prize,’ I reminded myself. ‘Eyes on the prize.’

As I glided to the end of the catwalk and stood gazing blindly at the audience, I thought I noticed Felicity on the front row. I looked harder through the bright lights, trying to read the facial expression.

I was right, it was Felicity. She didn’t look happy. Her arms were folded and she was frowning. I bit my lip and mouthed the word ‘Sorry’, but she wasn’t having any of it. I didn’t blame her. What was I going to do now? How was I ever going to make it up to Felicity?

Sitting next to Felicity was Tara. She didn
’t look any happier, either. In those few moments, I felt as if my entire world fell apart. I’d just killed two birds with one stone. And those two birds happened to be my best friends.

Tara and Felicity both stood up and left their seats.

Meanwhile, the compère turned to face me, signalling for me to exit the stage. So I did.

Whilst I was backstage considering the monster I
’d become, the compère announced another ten-minute break. I removed the wig and headdress to allow my brain to breathe, but it just made me feel worse. I concluded that either Tara and Felicity were coming to find me, or they’d left to go home.

I
walked to the door that led to the entrance of the Royal Albert Hall, but a stage manager was guarding it.

‘
I need the toilet,’ I said, in a bid to get past.

‘
There are toilets in the changing room,’ she replied squarely.

Damn!
Surely there was another way out?

‘
Fine. I need some fresh air, then,’ I offered in a last-ditch attempt.

‘
No one is allowed in or out of the backstage area, I’m afraid.’ She looked at me, unimpressed. ‘The contest is about to resume in five minutes. Shouldn’t you be rehearsing like all the other girls?’

It was no use. I was in the presen
ce of a stubborn moose head. So I headed back into the dressing room, resigned to my fate like the captain of the
Titanic
.

27

Little Liars Start Big Fires

I was dreading stage eight – talent. I hadn’t even rehearsed
Für Elise
, let alone the acting, singing and dancing. And what was worse, I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do for the free talent round. Aside from the ability to turn my fingers ‘inside out’ (the ‘Alien Hand’, as everyone called it back when I was a nine-year-old chasing boys around the school playground), I didn’t have any other talents. But right now, I had to play the piano.

So whilst the girls all tinkled away on a Steinway onstage, I drew a keyboard on an A5 sheet of paper and attempted to practi
se the tune backstage.

It was useless. I couldn
’t hear a thing. Thirty seconds later I gave up, deciding it would be better just to sit and wait for the public beheading.

Although none of the girls had been able to play past
eight bars, they weren’t all that bad. I mean, they had stumbled on a few notes here and there, but other than that, they’d actually managed to finish in one piece.

When it came to my turn, I tried to visualise the keys in my head in the hop
e of remembering the notes. But as soon as I sat down at the giant grand, my mind went blank.

I stared at the keys for a moment, then, finding t
he first two notes, E and D#, began by twiddling them both. But the problem was, I didn’t know when to stop. I ended up twiddling them at least ten times before attempting to complete the first bar.

After
the first two bars I decided it would be best, for both the audience and Beethoven (who was probably turning in his grave right now), to end the piece. Before the piano lid would decide to close over my hands.

Although I
’d had a few piano lessons as a child, I was never able to get the hang of sight-reading. I knew from an early age I was never going to follow in the footsteps of Beethoven and become a child prodigy.

Finally
I stood up, semi-bowed to the audience who, even through the blinding lights, I could tell were unimpressed by my performance, then shuffled off stage.

As the
compère announced ‘Round ten: acting,’ I grabbed a copy of
Twelfth Night
and proceeded to speed-run through my lines last minute dot com. I was never going to be a RADA student either, as it turned out.

According to my GCSE
drama tutor, I lacked talent, stage presence and projection. So I was determined to prove her, and everyone else who ever doubted my acting abilities, wrong.

Once the first few girls had taken their turn, the
compère called me to the stage. As I stood beneath a scorching spotlight, feeling thousands of eyes boring into me, I began to understand the true definition of stage fright. My stomach lurched and I felt frozen.

Seriously, w
here’s an ejector seat when you need one?

‘
Remember, light-hearted and reflective,’ I coached myself, trying hard not to buckle like a newborn calf.

Squaring my shoulders,
I took a bracing breath then just went for it. ‘I left no ring with her. What means this lady?’ My throat was dry, my heart was racing, my palms were sweaty and the words were sticky. ‘Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,’ I continued, attempting my best Felicity Kendal impersonation. But I was so distracted by other thoughts that I ended up tripping over several words.

Where did Tara and Felicity go? Were they ever going to forgive me? How was I ever going to make it up to them both?

‘It is too hard a knot for me t’untie,’ I finished, hoping the audience had mistaken the silences between lines for dramatic pauses as opposed to bouts of forgetfulness.

I breathed out like a bagpipe, then
pigeon-stepped off stage to practise vocal exercises for round eleven – singing.

I stood in front of the dressing room mirror, placed my hands on my hips,
then breathed in deeply. I tried to think back to Tara preparing for her gig at The Forum. What would she do in my situation? Would she be nervous? Excited?

Tara had given me
some singing tips a few days ago. ‘Relax,’ she coached. ‘If you don’t relax, then your voice will crack.’

I tried to shake out my arms and legs to loosen up a bit, but I still couldn
’t relax. As adrenalin pulsed through my veins, I began to jump up and down on the spot like a crazed baboon or jumping bean.

From the corner of my ey
e I caught Sophie staring at me, a look of disgust painted on her face. I stopped doing an impression of Tigger, deciding my time would be much better spent rehearsing the lines of ‘I Dreamed a Dream’.

‘
Phoenix,’ the stage manager called, ‘you’re on next.’

‘
Hmm,’ I responded, like a waning wind instrument. I looked at the lyrics one last time, clenched my fists, then shuffled out of the dressing room. My feet felt leaden, dragging me downwards, making every step an immense effort.

Relax
, I coached myself.
It will pass
.

I walked on stage, held the microphone to my mouth,
then took a deep breath.

Wow!
I’d somehow managed to sing the whole chorus without my voice breaking, running out of air, or swallowing.

But as I
surveyed the audience, I noticed something wasn’t quite right. The audience looked almost pained, probably at my lack of tuning. They were leaning forwards, some of them squinting their eyes.

‘
Your mic,’ the stage manager whispered into my ear. ‘It’s off.’

Great!
Just my luck! The one time I’d actually managed to sing without any hiccups, and the microphone happened to be off.

‘
Here,’ she continued, swapping her microphone with mine, ‘try this one.’

I had to psyche myself up all over again, which was an absolute nightmare. Before I sang into the new microphone, I tapped it to make sure it was workin
g. As I did, a loud squeak came out of the speakers, compelling everyone to cover their ears.

Wow, great start. I bet this was
an omen. It was so embarrassing I wanted to run off the stage,
Napoleon Dynamite
-style. But I didn’t.

I sang the song again, and once it was finished, felt a little better. A few of the audience members
even smiled, which I put down to the fact that I’d stopped singing. Luckily, nobody’s ears were bleeding.

Next up was
round twelve, dancing. First the waltz, followed by the minuet.

‘
Girls, girls, girls,’ Murphy intoned as he entered the dressing room. ‘You’ve all been wonderful so far. If you please, your partners are waiting outside. Once you’ve paired up with them, each of you will be called to the dance floor.’

As we walked outside, I found Brian looking around until his eyes met with mine. He walked over to me, smiling.

‘There you are,’ he crooned.

There was no mistaking how gorgeous he looked.

‘Here I am,’ I replied, giggling like a school girl (I wanted to slap myself).

‘
Are you ready?’ he asked shyly, his hands in his pockets.

‘
As ready as I’ll ever be,’ I said, biting my bottom lip. ‘You?’

He looked at me for a moment,
then grinned. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

‘
Phoenix Valentine and Brian Fairfax,’ the compère announced theatrically.

Pinkie and Genevieve immediately turned to look at Brian, puzzled.
Pinkie noticed me staring at her. ‘What are you looking at?’ she spat spitefully through her veneers.

‘
A cat may look at a Queen,’ I replied as calmly as possible before Brian and I linked arms and walked down the stage steps onto the dance floor.

Man,
this cow had to run out of milk sometime, right?

As I stood in the middle of the floor wait
ing for the live orchestra to begin, Brian pulled me closer to him, his warm body edging into mine.

‘
Relax,’ he whispered reassuringly into my ear, his breath on my neck. ‘Just follow my lead. You’ll be fine, Cleopatra.’

But I knew deep down that I wouldn
’t be fine. I mean, what did he know? He didn’t have a clue about how I’d let down my best friend or stolen my housemate’s fashion project. I swallowed hard, allowing my body to melt into Brian’s as the music started.

As he
literally swept me off my feet, I found myself thinking back to the masquerade ball, those familiar blue eyes smiling at me through the mask and the smell of shower gel, fabric conditioner and sunshine filling my nostrils.

It wasn
’t really until tonight that I realised I actually fancied him. Especially in that James Bond suit! But then I remembered something – that everyone who was present at the Miss Manners contest now knew the identity of the
real
Brian Fairfax.

As I made a turn, I noticed a number of
paps focusing their cameras on Brian. As I flashed him a questioning look, he raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘I know, don’t worry’.

Oh no, what if this meant Brian
would have to leave London? Considering the way I’d treated him, he’d probably never want to see me again. And anyway, why would Brian ever be interested in boring old
me
? There were plenty of girls who were a thousand times better looking than I was.

M
y thoughts were interrupted when the music stopped and I found myself staring into Brian’s beautiful eyes. Although I wanted to kiss him right there and then, we were forced to part for the next dance: the minuet. As we danced, I felt as if I were a character in a period drama. And for once in my life, I felt truly beautiful.

Once the dance w
as over, all the girls curtsied and the boys bowed. Brian took my hand and ushered me to an empty space in the backstage area.

‘
Brian,’ I whispered worriedly, ‘what are you going to do now that everyone knows who you are? You’re not going to leave, are you?’

Brian smiled.
‘I’ve decided to stop playing Hide and Seek. And anyway, I still have to complete my internship.’

‘
But you don’t need to. I mean, you
own
the magazine.’

‘
It doesn’t make any difference. I still have to prove myself. I want to succeed on my own terms,’ he said, beetling his brows. ‘I mean, come on, I don’t want to be known as just another dim-witted playboy sponging off his parents like the rest of those nitwits.’

‘
Nitwit,’ I repeated, laughing. ‘I haven’t heard that word since nineteen ninety-six.’

We both laughed as we reminisced
about insults from the nineties.

A few moments later
Brian stopped laughing, his eyes softening. Then he edged closer to me. ‘Anna–’

But before he had chance to finish what he was about to say, the
compère made yet another announcement.

‘
And finally, round thirteen: free talent,’ the compère boomed into the microphone, ‘where the contestants will perform a hidden talent of their choosing.’

I looked at Brian apologetically.
‘I’ve got to go.’

But
as I turned on my heel to leave, Brian pulled me close, the warmth of his arms enveloping me like a cosy blanket, making me feel delicious and warm. As his arm touched me, a flicker of electricity ran through me. On a Richter scale of tingles, I’d say it was about a ten. Then he kissed me, which sent hundreds of butterflies fluttering around my ribcage, not to mention a totally off-the-scale tingle measurement.

Wow!
I’d never been kissed like that before. It was the kind of kiss you only see in Hollywood movies, then think to yourself how over-hyped it was. But after
that
kiss, I think Hollywood have pretty much got it spot on.

I licked my lips
seductively, smiled at Brian, then walked over to the dressing room to contemplate what to do for the free talent round.

Free
talent? Okay, so what, if any, talents did I have? To put the possible into impossible, I decided to make a list of my talents to date:

1)
        
Alien Hand, where I turn my fingers ‘inside out’ to resemble (yep, you’ve guessed it) an alien’s hand

2)
       
Turning my eyelids inside out

3)
       
Forking my tongue

4)
       
Placing my legs behind my head

5)
       
Hindi quotes and translations from Bollywood movies I’d seen with Tara