Miss Manners (4 page)

THURSDAY, 28th APRIL

6–11 P.M.
: Miss Manners Dinner @ The Dorchester.

NOTES
: Once I poison Genevieve’s food, she won’t be able to compete, and I’ll win the contest! Yay for me! Oh, Pinkie, you are beautiful.

‘We’ve got the Miss Manners Dinner on Thursday the twenty-eighth of April at The Dorchester...’ I turned to the next page.

FRIDAY, 29th APRIL

7–12 A.M.
: Miss Manners Masquerade Ball @ Lancaster House.

NOTES
: Ah, Brian Fairfax. You will be mine! All mine!

‘The Miss Manners Masquerade Ball on Friday the twenty-ninth of April at Lancaster House...’ I turned to the next page.

SATURDAY, 30th APRIL

8 P.M.–12 A.M.
: Miss Manners Contest @ Royal Albert Hall.

NOTES
: If Genevieve de la Croix somehow manages to survive the food poisoning, I’ll smother her dress in itching powder. I’ll show her who the real Miss Manners is.

‘And then there’s the Miss Manners Contest on Saturday the thirtieth of April at the Royal Albert Hall.’ I looked up at Tara and Felicity’s entranced faces. They were like little kids at a magic show.

‘
Miss Manners?’ I looked over at Tara and Felicity, then googled Miss Manners.

Miss Manners, established by none other than the queen of all socialites, Brie Breckenbridge (etiquette guru), is a contest that measures aspiring socialites according to etiquette, deportment, voice, intelligence, talent and personality.

This year’s Miss Manners contest will be judged by Princess Annabelle of Monaco, current Miss Manners title holder Arden Maxwell,
Tatler
editor Lisa Blake and musical director Fraser Harrington.

Contestants will be competing for the following prizes:

●
£10,000 cash

●
7-night stay for 2 people at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Tokyo and 2 tickets to Tokyo Fashion Week (worth £3,000)

●
Transform teeth whitening (worth £600)

APPLICATION FEE
: FREE

REGISTRATION FEE (successful applicants only)
: £2,500

DEADLINE
: 6 p.m., Wednesday, 20th April

Applicants must be female, aged between 18 and 30 years old before 31st December of the year of the contest and British citizens residing in the UK. Applicants must not be married or have had children.

Successful applicants will be contacted by telephone on Thursday, 21st April.

‘Wow, check out the judging panel!’ Felicity yelped like an excited puppy, leaning closer to the screen.

‘
Check out the prizes!’ Tara pointed out.

‘
Check out the two and a half grand registration fee!’ I said.

So, Pinkie was entering Miss Manners
, I thought to myself.

My antennae perked up. This sounded like the perfect challenge; the perfect
‘event’ for my article. My mind was racing.

‘
Light bulb!’ I announced. ‘I’m entering the contest!’

There was a stunned silence.

‘I could write a ladette to lady-type feature, then enter Miss Manners. It’s perfect! What do you think?’

Tara and Felicity stared at me as if they had just smelled a fart.

But no sooner had the words escaped my lips than I realised just how ridiculous an idea it was. After getting a little too carried away with all the excitement, I bit my bottom lip and thought for a second.

Firstly, how was I going to pay the £2,500
registration fee? Secondly, what made me so sure I’d be selected out of potentially hundreds, or even thousands, of applicants? And thirdly, how was I going to win the contest?

‘
What? Are you crazy!’ Tara shrieked, shaking her head.

‘
Well, you asked me how I was going to prove that
anybody
can become a somebody. Well,
I’m
anybody. And
this
is how.’

‘
Anna, it’s two and a half grand! How are you going to pay that?’ Tara bounced on the sofa, reminding me of a spring chicken.

I thought for a moment, blinking repeatedly.
‘Oh, yeah. That.’ I sank into gloom again.

‘
Yes
that
!’ Tara stressed. ‘I mean, that’s, like, enough money to cover a year’s worth of rent!’

‘
I’ll get a job,’ I offered.

‘
And if you don’t?’

‘
I’ll think of something. I mean, come on, it’s not every day opportunities like
Couture
and Miss Manners come knocking on your door. And anyway, isn’t there a Chinese proverb that says something like, “When opportunity knocks, open the door?”’

‘
Yes, but you can’t just open the door without looking through the peephole first. You need to be prepared. You need a plan. I mean, you can’t just enter a contest like Miss Manners expecting to win it without a plan,’ Tara said matter-of-factly.

‘
Well, the plan is I don’t have a plan. And from what I’ve seen it can’t be
that
hard to become a socialite, right? I mean, look at Pinkie. If natural selection really did exist, then people like her would be extinct.’

‘
Yeah, and can you believe these people are actually allowed to vote?’ Felicity scoffed whilst pouring herself a glass of Welch’s purple grape juice in the kitchen.

‘
Unfortunately, the eyes of some birds weigh more than their brains,’ I replied.

‘
Socialites don’t need brains,’ Felicity said as she made her way back to the living room. ‘There are two different types of socialite. In New York, a socialite is born from money, manners and couture by Alexander McQueen; in Hollywood, a “socialite” is born from reality television shows, sex scandals and public romances.’

‘
Yes, but we’re in London,’ I said. ‘And like I said, I have Pinkie’s diary. So, even if I don’t get accepted as a Miss Manners contestant, consider
this
: I have a list of all her social events, personal notes and celebrity contacts and I’m going to dish the dirt on that little strumpet. But, in the unlikely event that I do get accepted as a Miss Manners contestant, I will befriend all ladder-climbing socialites and drag them by the collars henceforth!’ I said in a mock-posh accent, waving a resolved finger in the air.

‘
Come on, Dorothy, click your heels and come back to Kansas,’ Tara said as if I’d left my common sense on the top deck of a bus.

I pondered for a moment.

‘How long before Minky collects the rent?’ I asked Tara.

‘
First of May. So that would be in...’ Tara counted on her little fingers. ‘Two weeks.’

‘
Two weeks!’ I exhaled. ‘So, I’ve only got two weeks to make any money?’

The landlady was called Joan Mink, hence
the nickname ‘Minky’. She was a Miss Havisham-esque eighty-six-year-old spinster who told us silly stories about her cats, Nips, Bud, Boon, Longhorn, Frederich, Valmont and Hendrix, wore a variety of garish wigs and vintage Dior wedding dresses, and gave us lollipops whenever she came by to collect the rent – a real rave from the grave.

Well,
I won’t be getting a lollipop this time round
, I thought to myself.

Tara
’s sports watch started bleeping.

‘
It’s four-thirty. I’d better get going. I’ve got to set up early for tonight,’ she said.

Tara was
bar staff at a live venue called The Forum. It was a hub for new musical talent and Tara was compiling her musical repertoire so she could apply and audition for a gig. She had been working there for three months.

Before leaving, Tara said
to me, ‘Think positive,’ then turned to Felicity and said with a regal bow, ‘Oh, and welcome to our humble abode.’ And with that, she skipped off like Skippy on a trampoline.

Once Tara had left, I turned to Felicity.
‘So, I was thinking, you wanna go check out some clubs tonight?’

‘
I’d love to. But I’m just worried about getting back to my place afterwards.’ Felicity scrunched up her dainty little nose. ‘I hate the night bus.’

‘
Don’t worry, you can stay the night,’ I offered with a welcoming smile. ‘Clean sheets in the cupboard.’

Man, I was turning into my
mum.

‘
Really?’

I nodded.

‘Well, in that case, I’d love to,’ Felicity chirped. ‘So what do you have in mind, then?’

‘
Depends. What sort of music are you into?’

‘
Jazz?’

‘
Jazz?’ I thought for a moment. ‘Hmm... oh yeah, Tara mentioned a new jazz band playing tonight at The Forum. I think they’re called MoFo or something.’

Felicity looked at me as though I
’d sprouted another head.

‘
No, wait,’ I corrected. ‘Quinto. Yeah, that’s the one. I think she said they start around nine-ish.’

‘
Quinto!’ Felicity repeated, her eyes lighting up. ‘Yes, please! Signed, sealed and delivered!’

Felicity decided to go for a walk to familiarise herself with the area whilst I got to work on my
Couture
article. I only had about an hour left to brush up my CV
and
write the article before the 6 p.m. deadline. So I flicked open my laptop, stared at the blank screen for a moment, then began work on my CV.

Two cups of Earl Grey and a smoked
salmon and cream cheese bagel later, I finished my CV and began work on the article. I wrote hypnotically for a full hour, trying hard to stop myself from deleting half of every sentence I typed.

Several toilet visits and blank stares into a half-empty fridge later, I finally finished. I wrote a short covering letter, attached both my CV and
the article, then, at 5.57 p.m., hit send.

4

The Forum

Felicity and I arrived at The Forum just before 7 p.m. It had a chilled-out, laid-back atmosphere, with blue strobe lighting and lounge music. The kind of place where the Ramones were on the T-shirts of people who had never actually heard their music. I hoped the relaxed vibe would be contagious or at least available in a glass for a reasonable fee.

At the back there were two guys performing jazz on a small stage surrounded by tables and chairs. I
’ve always thought of jazz as a kind of lullaby. Jazz and classical music always managed to put me soundly to sleep.

‘
Hey, what are you doing here?’ Tara asked, prancing over all excited.

‘
Just wanted to give Fi a feel of Camden life.’

‘
Awesome, dude,’ said Tara. ‘Hey, you see that guy with the thinning hair over at the bar?’

I looked over at the bar; a vertically
challenged man whose slightly stacked body was probably an attempt to compensate for his receding hairline was pulling a pint and chatting to a punter. ‘Yeah,’ I replied.

‘
He’s Boris Lawson, the general manager of this place. And you see that guy over there?’ She pointed at a small table in front of the stage.

‘
The one with the beanie?’ asked Felicity.

‘
Yeah,’ said Tara. ‘Guess what he is?’

‘
Drunk?’

‘
Actually, he’s a talent scout. Ben Morrison – he’s always in here. Owns his own record store down the road.’ Tara looked over at the table. ‘Do you think he’s hot?’

Ben
‘Beanie’ Morrison was tall and skinny with floppy brown hair and had the look of a man who knew his way around a Stratocaster. He looked like a mellow kind of guy. Someone who wouldn’t look out of place in a skate park.

‘
Not my type,’ I replied. ‘But that’s gotta be a good thing though, right? I mean, can you imagine if every girl was attracted to the same type of guy? There’d probably be World War III and the entire female species would die out.’

‘
Looks like his glass is empty.’ Felicity said to Tara with an inane grin, like a bizarre mix of the Joker and the Cheshire Cat.

Tara blushed, smiled,
then skipped off towards Beanie.

But
her smile faded instantly when she saw a tall, blonde girl walking over to Beanie with two drinks in her hands.

‘
Uh-oh,’ I said. ‘Looks like he’s taken.’

Tara looked over at me and Felicity despairingly from a distance.

‘Poor Tara,’ I said.

‘
Boys are stupid, throw rocks at them,’ said Felicity. ‘We’re better off without them.’

I nodded.
‘Agreed.’

Tara walked over to me and Felicity.
‘I can’t believe it. I stand no chance now.’

‘
Your name will be up there in lights one day,’ I encouraged. ‘Don’t give up.’

‘
You’re right. Ain’t no guy gonna stand in the way of my career!’ Tara declared, as if she were about to launch into a rendition of ‘Independent Women’.

Felicity turned to Tara.
‘What time’s your break?’

Tara checked her watch.
‘Well, it’s eight o’clock now. So, in about an hour.’

But before
I had a chance to reply, Boris the Balding Boss stampeded towards us.

‘
Uh-oh,’ I groaned. ‘I hope he’s not coming over here to tell you off for talking to us!’

‘
So do I,’ said Tara, looking at us as if we were to blame.

‘
Tara, Tara!’ Boris panted. ‘I need your help! Quinto have just cancelled on me! Our main act has just cancelled an
hour’s
slot on us!’

‘
What? Why?’ Tara asked, looking more relieved than surprised.

‘
Apparently, their car broke down on the way,’ Boris croaked. ‘Your music is pretty jazzy, right?’

‘
Well, it’s more spicy soul mixed with–’

‘
Listen, no time,’ Boris interrupted. ‘Can you cover them for thirty minutes?’

‘
Are they not coming at all, then?’ Tara wondered, her green eyes as wide as saucers.

‘
Their manager said they’re stuck and won’t be here for at least another hour and a half.’ Boris fixed his gaze on Tara, his eyes pleading. ‘So, can you do it or not?’

Tara tried her hardest to
contain her excitement. ‘Sure!’

‘
Thanks, Tara. You’re a star.’ Boris turned to leave.

‘
Wait!’ Tara shouted, stopping Boris in his tracks. ‘What time’s my slot?’

‘
Nine.’ Boris checked his watch. ‘It’s almost five past eight now, so that leaves you just under an hour to get ready. I’m counting on you, Tara.’

Boris hurried off towards the front of the stage, leaving Tara looking totally and utterly dumbstruck.

Tara blinked beadily. ‘Did that just happen or did I dream it?’

‘
Do you want me to pinch you to find out?’ I suggested.

‘
Quinto!
They’re like the hottest thing in jazz right now,’ Felicity said, all a flutter. ‘Especially Zak. I mean, Joe and Adrian are hot, don’t get me wrong, but Zak Quinto – well, he’s something else.’

‘
So, I take it they’re all brothers, then?’ I wondered.

‘
Yes,’ said Felicity, drifting into cloud nine.

‘
And you’ve just been given
their
slot!’ I chirped. ‘This is your chance to shine like the star that you are!’

‘
Aarrgh, no way! This is crazy! Crazy awesome, man!’ Tara enthused, ruffling her shiny black hair.

I knew exactly how much this meant to Tara. She h
ad spent months in preparation: rehearsing all the dance moves in front of the mirror in her bedroom, assembling all her show outfits, writing lyrics on scraps of newspaper she left lying all over the flat, recording and re-recording tracks.

‘
But… but I’m not prepared. I don’t even have my soundtrack with me,’ Tara said, panicking.

‘
Well, Boris did say you have just under an hour, right? I can just go and get your stuff. I mean, it’s only ten minutes down the road,’ I reassured her.

So Tara wrote me a list
.

‘
Oh, and make sure you put them all inside my pink drawstring bag,’ Tara reminded me before I left.

‘
You little diva,’ I said with a cheeky smile.

Okay, so it wasn
’t quite ten minutes down the road. More like fifteen minutes pushing through the crowds, ten minutes to gather all the items together, and then another fifteen minutes to get back to The Forum. So about forty minutes all together, which left Tara with only ten minutes to prepare for the gig.

Before I entered
The Forum, I braced myself for a grilling.

Once inside, I looked around
for Tara or Felicity, but they were nowhere to be found. So, I asked Boris behind the bar.

‘
They’re in the backstage dressing room,’ he replied gruffly.

So I ran backstage, closed my eyes, entered the dressing room and let loose.
‘I’m soooooo sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ But when I opened my eyes, a tiny old man in his eighties was sitting at the dressing table on which stood his false teeth and a black toupee.

‘
That’s okay,’ he said with a lisp, smiling through his gums.

‘
Oh, sorry. I thought you were–’

‘
They’re in the next room,’ he whistled. ‘Dressing Room One. This is Dressing Room Two.’

‘
Oh. Okay, thanks,’ I said. But, before I had the chance to leave, he stopped me in my tracks.

‘
So what’s your act, then?’ he asked, before placing his false teeth into his mouth.

‘
Huh? Oh, no. I’m not– I’m just here to support my friend, Tara. Moral support, that sort of thing. She’s singing in a few minutes. It’s her first time performing in front of a live audience,’ I said.

‘
Ah. Well, the only piece of advice I can give her is to stay true to herself. Believe me, it never fails.’ The elderly man examined me through his foggy eyes for a moment, as if he were visually weighing a vegetable. ‘How can you tell that you’re getting old?’

‘
Oh. Well, um–’

‘
You go to an antique auction and three people bid on you,’ he said, poker-faced.

I didn
’t get it.

‘
So, whatcha think? Any good?’ he asked, like a wide-eyed child on Christmas Day. ‘I just thought I’d test a joke on someone before my time’s up. I mean, look at me. I’m eighty-two years old and still looking for my big break. It’s not about how bad you are, but how good you want to be, I say.’ He paused to reflect for a moment, stroking his chin. ‘You wanna hear another?’

‘
Oh, no, that’s okay. I’d better get going. I have a delivery to make. But good luck, though,’ I said, before bolting to the dressing room next door.

Tara rushed over to me.
‘Where have you been? I’m on in five minutes!’

‘
Sorry.’ I handed her the pink bag. ‘Slight delay.’

‘
Don’t worry about it. At least you’re here now. Did you get everything on the list?’

I nodded, looking around the room.
‘Where’s Felicity?’

‘
Gone to get drinks,’ Tara replied, gazing fixedly into the mirror.

‘
Who’s the octogenarian in the other room?’

Tara smiled, sniffing out a nervous laugh.
‘Stanley. Stanley Hope. He has the slot after Quinto, I mean,
me
.’

Dressing Room One was small but cosy. There was a small dressing table and chair to the left side of the room with
a Hollywood-style vanity mirror lined with light bulbs.

At the back of the room
was an ornate French dressing screen and a poster of a surreal-looking painting billowing on the wall. It was the sort of painting I had to study in art class back at school.

I walked over to take a closer look. It was a portrait of an odd-looking woman sitting on a chair who appeared to have two faces. Scrolled at the bottom of the poster, I noticed the words
‘Pablo Picasso,
Portrait
of
Dora Maar
’.

The painting made me think, which was always a good thing.

There was a knock at the door.

‘
Tara, you in there?’ came a gruff voice.

I opened the door and Boris nearly fell over from leaning on it. He jogged over to Tara, gesturing at the door.
‘Are you ready yet? The act’s just left the stage.’

Tara quickly applied a final coat of lip gloss.
‘All done,’ she pronounced.

Tara had gone all out. Which was something of an understatement. Tara had gone all out for the Notting Hill Carnival.
She looked very eighties, like Ziggy Stardust, with her silver jumpsuit, pink frills, peach wrap around her shoulders, chunky heels and, to top it all off, layer upon layer of glittery green eye shadow, orange blusher and red lipstick. It was very colourful. I just hoped it wouldn’t give anyone in the audience an aneurism.

‘
So, what do you think of my look?’ Tara asked, leaning on one leg and placing both hands on her hips.

‘
Colourful,’ I said. ‘Very colourful.’

And with that, Tara flashed a winning smile and skipped off nervously towards the stage.
Just before she opened the stage door, Felicity came over holding three cans of Coke.

‘
Here you go. Oooooooooh!’ Felicity almost dropped the drinks at the sight of Tara’s costume. ‘What is that?’

‘
What is what?’ Tara exclaimed, visibly worried. ‘It’s not my make-up, is it?’

‘
Worse. Your outfit. Here,’ Felicity took off her black trench coat and offered it to Tara.

Tara shook her head, then marched off with an angry look on her face.

The place was packed with an audience of around two hundred unsettled people who were all waiting for Quinto.

Tara sauntered over to the CD player and placed her CD into it. But just before she had the chance to hit the play button, a crazed Boris waved his arms about like the Mad Hatter backstage.

‘Tara!’ he whispered breathlessly. ‘Stop!’

‘
What? Why?’ Tara mouthed, looking confused.