Miss Manners (7 page)

‘I walk like Britain’s fattest man, I talk like Eliza Doolittle, I eat like Henry VIII and I dress like Bob Geldof.’

Around ten minutes after the phone call, I received an email from Janet confirming all the details as promised.

Okay, so t
he good news was that I now had a place at the Miss Manners Academy and would be competing in the Miss Manners contest. The bad news – how on earth was I going to raise £2,500 by Sunday?

I tried to thin
k up as many ways as possible, but nothing seemed feasible. Just as I was about to give up, I remembered my car. My beloved Mini Cooper, which was now sitting in the Camden car pound. I would have to pay two hundred pounds to release it, then sell it.

So, at 12.25
p.m., I went to the nearest cash point, withdrew two hundred pounds cash and set off to find the car pound.

Once I
’d arrived, I was met by a short, corpulent, cockney-twanged man in his forties. He looked like a Steve. He actually turned out to be Mike Fairstow. Close enough. Although, based on my preconception, I would have imagined a Mike to be a tall, skinny, bespectacled man in his forties. I decided it was time to throw my stereotypes into the toilet and flush them away.

‘
Awight? Can I ’elp ya wiv anyfink?’ Mike said in a rough, gravelly voice.

‘
Um, well, yeah. My car. Mini Cooper. It’s been impounded. Here.’ I gulped, slightly intimidated by the overbearing figure that was Mike Fairstow.

‘
Awight, love, follow me,’ he said, waddling towards the car park.

There were a lot of cars at the car pound.
And a lot of Mini Coopers.

‘
There ya go. Mini Cooper. Take yer pick,’ he said, gesturing at the array of Minis. ‘We got a red 1993, a green 1984, a yella 1997, a blue 1974–’

‘
That’s the one,’ I interrupted, pointing at a blue Mini in the distance.

I waited in a queue, filled out a rainforest of paperwork, paid the
two hundred pounds fine and retrieved my car. Then, seeing as the starter motor had been fixed since the breakdown, I drove it to the nearest car dealership.

Like the car pound, the dealership was filled with all kinds of cars. Except the ones in the car pound were owned and the ones in the dealership were pre-owned.

As I walked into the white, minimalistic office, I was approached by a short, football-shaped general manager whose suit was visibly too small for him – his wrists were on display and his trousers were ankle swingers, which made him look like a child who’d outgrown its clothes.

‘
Good afternoon. Welcome to Deals on Wheels. I’m Lincoln Grobble. How may I be of assistance?’ he sang at the speed of a tortoise.

Lincoln Grobble? Seriously, what were his parents thinking?

‘Hiya. I, erm, I have a car I’m looking to sell. A blue 1974 Mini Cooper.’

The man looked out of
the office window at my car. ‘Ah, yes. Is that it over there?’ he asked, slavering and pointing with his sausage finger.

‘
Yes,’ I replied.

‘
I will need to take a closer look. Is that okay?’

I nodded impatiently.
What an odd man
, I thought.

‘
Would you like me to get you a tea or coffee while you wait?’

‘
Earl Grey, please,’ I said, a tad over-eagerly.

‘
Sure thing.’ He trotted off, then sashayed back unsteadily holding a polystyrene cup, which he handed over to me, flashing his best business smile. He wandered off towards the Mini. I took a sip of the tea, but it was thin and watery so I decided to abandon it.

Five
minutes later, the man returned with his report.

‘
Yes, it’s an interesting specimen,’ he said. ‘A classic. The body paint is in good condition, the beige leather interior is in good condition, the engine is in good condition, the chassis is in good condition, the rubber wheels are in good condition–’

I was starting to get impatient. He was treating the Mini as if it were a scientific ex
periment. ‘Look,’ I interrupted, ‘is there anything that isn’t in good condition?’

‘
Nope,’ he said. ‘It’s all in good condition.’

‘
So, how much will you offer for it?’

‘
In its current condition and for a classic model, I’d say around the two thousand six-fifty margin.’

‘
Sold,’ I said briskly, then shook his hand, signed the documents and finished the deal.

Brilliant.
Except, now that I was £2,650 better off, I was beginning to have second thoughts. I was extremely tempted to abandon Miss Manners after seeing all that cash in my hand! I mean, look at it this way, the chances of me winning were very slim and the odds were completely against me. I was completely at a crossroads as to what I should do next. Should I follow my heart and enter Miss Manners? Or should I follow my head and get a job? After all, like Tara said, ‘No bees, no honey. No work, no money.’

FRIDAY, 22nd APRIL

I was dreaming of shopping malls that had flumes in place of escalators. Just before I was about to go down a shoot, a phone shrilled from somewhere. As I made the transition from dream mode to reality, the ringing grew louder. I cleared my throat, glancing at the clock and seeing that it was 8.30 a.m.

Who would call so early?

‘Hello?’ I mumbled, trying hard to sound as though I’d spent the past few hours working hard at something respectable rather than passed out dreaming about flumes in shopping malls.

‘
Good morning, is this Anna Blogstrom?’ a woman sang at the other end of the line, her voice full of sunshine.

‘
Borgström,’ I corrected in a deep, raspy, just-woke-up voice.

‘
Apologies. Sarah Bentley speaking. I’m just calling to let you know that Romilly was really impressed with your article and said she’s very much looking forward to working with you on the spring/summer internship programme at
Couture
. Congratulations. Are you able to come in at ten this morning?’

Internship? Couture?

I suddenly felt as if I were having an out-of-body experience. Wow, that was two bits of good news in the space of just twenty-four hours!

Was I still dreaming?

‘Sure,’ I said without thinking, as my heart flip-flopped in my chest.

‘
Fantastic. I look forward to meeting you.’

The phone was still glued to my ear hole in shock. I didn
’t blink out of my hypnosis until I heard the dial tone.

Well, this was a turn-up for the books.

I flopped back down on the bed. I couldn’t believe it. I had actually been accepted onto an internship at a magazine! Except, I had no idea about magazine publishing. I always thought fashion and lifestyle magazines contained hungry-looking models and glossy ads, not articles. What was I going to do? Bluff my way through the internship? Maybe this was all a big mix-up?

I stopped thinking for a moment,
then laughed out loud. I dragged my limp body out of bed, then stood up like a boneless chicken. I blacked out for a second as I was consumed by a rush of blood to the head. My head felt like it was about to explode.

I panicked, realising I had an hour and a half to get washed, dressed and make my way from my
flat in Camden to Couture House in Oxford Circus. This meant I had to allot an hour for travel and half an hour to get ready.

But w
hat was I going to wear?

I sat on my bed and scoured the
floordrobe with my foot for something formal.

Although it looked like I
’d been burgled, the mess in my bedroom was organised. Everything I owned was strewn across my room so that I could see it and knew exactly where it was. Sometimes, my knickers somehow ended up perched on top of the bookshelves.

T
he best I could find amidst the ‘organised mess’ was a faded black shirt, plain black hoodie, baggy black trousers with a hole in the crotch and a pair of scuffed black trainers.

That
’ll just have to do
.

I got myself washed, dressed
and was out the door in twenty minutes – a record. But as I slammed the door behind me and stood on the front doorstep, I felt something wasn’t quite right. Like something was missing.

I searched my backpack to make sure I had everything I needed. Glasses. Check. Phone. Check. House keys. Check. Purse. Check.

I paused to think for a moment, then looked down at my feet. I was still wearing my slippers!

Seriously, I might as well check myself into a retirement home right now.

Once I’d sorted out that little blunder, I made my way to Oxford Circus.

Stepping
out onto Oxford Street, I was immediately overwhelmed by the sea of people stampeding towards me from all directions. But a few more minutes of making my way through a waking city eventually landed me at the front door of the Fairfax Publications building.

Above the main entrance of the 1950s building was etched
‘Couture House’ in gold. But to be honest, the place looked like nothing special from the outside.

I pushed the hallowed revolving doors to enter,
although a little too hard. As a result, the glass door whipped around, hitting me from behind and forcing me to trip over.

A woman behind the security desk
laughed. ‘First day?’

‘
How did you guess?’ I said, feeling slightly annoyed at being laughed at.

‘
Don’t worry, it happens quite often,’ she chortled. ‘Last week, Kate Moss tripped over and cracked her heel.’

I suddenly wondered what Kate Moss
must have done with those heels.

‘
Do you know where I can find
Couture
?’ I asked.

‘
Sixth floor. Suite six thousand and one,’ she said as she picked up a sign-in book. ‘Just fill out this information here, and I’ll give you a temporary pass to go upstairs. Tell them you need a card.’

8

Couture

Although the building looked pretty boring from the outside, it was all very la-di-da on the inside. I walked towards the lift, pressed the up button and waited. The lift pinged as it arrived. ‘Dinner’s ready,’ I whispered, unable to help myself. As the doors opened, I shuffled onboard.

Inside the lift was a flat-screen television showcasing catwalk shows, art exhibitions
and celebrity photo shoots, to name a few. I allowed myself to relax for a moment during that swift, quiet ride. Deep, pouty perfumes mixed with the smell of fresh leather filled my nostrils – definitely better than the smelly Tube.

Once
I’d arrived at my floor, the lift yawned open. ‘Level six,’ came the velvety voice of a disembodied woman.

I entered
a stark white reception area, where classy furniture dared people to sit down. The magazines’ names were displayed in bold, black typeface along the walls that bordered the lobby.

I shuffled o
ver to the reception desk.

A haughty woman in her early forties was speaking frivolously on the phon
e, fiddling with the name plate (Sandra Langford) on her desk.

So, I waited. And waited. And waited.

Having had enough of waiting, I decided to go for a wee. It was an excuse to check out the toilets – a promise I made to myself whenever I found myself anywhere posh and plush.

As I entered the potty palace, my eyeballs panned the room. It looked more like a hotel room than a toilet. There were delicious smelling hand washes and creams, a batch of clean,
carefully rolled white hand towels and an array of top range fragrances – Gucci, Armani, Versace, Chanel, to name a few. An added benefit was the fact that there was no one there to ask for tips to use any of the items, like the time at an East London nightclub where a middle-aged African woman offered the use of her perfumes and hair straighteners for a price. She also sold chewing gum and lollipops. ‘Lollipop! Freshen up!’ she would sing whenever someone walked out of a toilet cubicle.

After answering the call of nature
I washed my hands, then sprayed myself with each of the perfume samples in copious amounts, scanning the room for cameras. I couldn’t spot any so I stuffed a couple of half-finished bottles into my rucksack, then sauntered out of the toilets, feeling my belly back-flipping.

S
urely no one would notice?

But
, as I stood outside the toilets for a moment, I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and wrongdoing.

W
hat was I thinking? I was a thief
!

Once I
’d used as many diversion tactics as possible to silence my conscience, I slowly walked up to the reception desk. Behind the desk sat Sandra with a face like an angry bee. Her long fingernails made a clinking noise against the keyboard. As I stood there, she stopped whatever it was she was doing and stared at me suspiciously, accusingly, even, her large brown eyes fixated on my now perspiring face.

Oh, crap
! Did she know what I had just done? Were there hidden cameras in the toilets I failed to notice?

Before I could continue my attempts at telepathy, my thoughts were interrupted.

‘May I be of assistance?’ she asked.

‘
I’m here for the internship at
Couture
,’ I said, trying to remain calm and collected.

‘
Just a moment.’ The receptionist took a long sip of her glass of water, then expelled a loud mouthful of air. ‘Now, who was it you were after?’

‘
Sarah Bentley.’

‘
Sarah Bentley,’ she parroted. ‘Just a moment.’ The receptionist began typing on her computer for what seemed like eternity, then picked up the phone receiver. ‘Good morning, Sarah, I have a...’ She turned to me expectantly.

‘
Anna. Anna Borgström.’

‘
Anna Borg – Blog – yes, that’s the one,’ she said before hanging up the phone. She popped a wad of gum into her mouth and started to chew. ‘She’ll see you in a few minutes. Meanwhile, please take a seat in the waiting area.’

As I looked around the waiting area, I noticed a
very serious-looking girl with John Lennon glasses in beatnik black sitting cross-legged opposite me, holding a Dictaphone in one hand and a notepad in the other. To my right was a scruffy blonde boy with a writer’s shave who looked like someone out of
Waiting for Godot
. He was wearing a brown corduroy blazer and plimsolls.

As I went to sit down, he pulled his
flat cap out of his eyes and smiled.

‘
You here to see Romilly?’ he said in a thick American accent.

‘
Yeah,’ I sniffed. ‘They don’t half like to keep you waiting here, do they?’ I scanned the room for a vending machine, but couldn’t find one. ‘I don’t like waiting.’

The boy laughed.
‘I know. I noticed you at the reception desk. Your name’s Anna, right?’

‘
Yeah. You?’

‘
Bri– Henry. Henry Biggins,’ he said hesitantly, as if he’d forgotten his own name.

As I looked over at the girl, she
narrowed her eyes, lowered her head, then put her pen to her pad and began writing furiously.

‘
You waiting for Romilly as well, then?’ I asked, despite her being about as sociable as a butterfly in a chrysalis. There was no response.

‘
Don’t worry, I’ve already tried,’ said Henry with a lopsided smile.

‘
In that case, I won’t bother.’

The girl flashed me a brief look of disgust, th
en resumed her writing. I could tell we were going to be BFFs.

At that moment, a tall, well
-groomed woman in her forties walked towards us holding a clipboard.

‘
Good morning, interns. My name is Sarah Bentley, deputy editor here at
Couture
. Firstly, I would like to congratulate you all on being selected for the spring/summer
Couture
internship programme. Thousands applied, so you should be very proud of your achievement. But, unfortunately, there is only one job available at the end of the programme. So, you really need to get your game on.’

Only one job?
I thought, feeling slightly disheartened.

‘
Now, each of you has been allocated a time slot in which to meet Romilly this morning,’ she continued. ‘Sophie Brown, your time is ten; Henry Biggins, your time is ten fifteen; and Anna Bog-Blog–’

‘
Borgström,’ I corrected, beginning to feel fed up with everyone’s inability to pronounce my name. I mean, come on, it wasn’t exactly rocket science.

‘
Yes,’ she continued dismissively. ‘Your time is ten thirty. After the meeting Olivia Hartley, Romilly’s senior assistant, will show you around all the
Couture
departments, then escort each of you to your allocated departments as per Romilly’s request. Now, I know this all sounds very prescribed, but don’t worry, the first day always seems a little scary. You’ll be fine. Oh, and most important of all, have fun!’ Sarah flashed a light bulb smile, then left.

So, Screwface
’s name was Sophie Brown and Scruffy’s was Henry Biggins. Considering I was going to spend an entire season working in close proximity with these people, I decided it would be a good idea to give them nicknames to feel a little more acquainted.

One by one, the interns left to their meetings with Romilly, until I was the only one left, like the fat kid at a school team-picking session.

At 10.30 a.m. I walked through the corridors, plastered with previous
Couture
magazine issues, until I reached the room with a plaque inscribed with Romilly’s name. I knocked twice.

‘
Come in,’ came an ethereal voice from the other side.

I opened the door, but Romilly was nowhere to be seen. The office was an Aladdin
’s cave filled with all kinds of travel treasures; South American paintings, African masks, Maori figures, Native American Indian blankets, Indian elephants, Thai Buddhas and Venetian masks, to name a few. The smell was like I had walked into the world of
Arabian Nights
.

‘
Do shut the door behind you,’ said the voice.

I shut the door.
‘Where are you, if you don’t mind me asking?’ I asked, feeling a bit fanciful for talking to a disembodied voice.

‘
I’m in my office. Where do you think? Silly question.’

I walked further into the room, following the direction from which the voice was coming. But what I saw next stopped me in my tracks.

Behind the desk was a forty-something woman with her arms and legs outstretched, pert bottom stuck in the air, in a shiny leopard-print leotard.

‘
What… what are you doing?’ I asked, feeling slightly worried.

‘
What does it look like I’m doing? Yoga. Another silly question. Any more silly questions?’

‘
No, not really.’

‘
Good.’ Romilly closed her eyes, then resumed her trance-like state.

But after about a minute of awkward silence, I began to feel
like a fish out of water.

‘
Well, actually,’ I said, as if I were about to make up an excuse for not handing in my homework, ‘I’m wondering what I should be doing right now?’

‘
You can join in if you like.’

Was she for real? I thought editors were supposed to be all prim and proper, not hippy and trippy. I was worried that the woman with the frizzy bandana-tied hair was an extra for a swinging sixties movie. Maybe I was having another one of those flumes-in-shopping-malls dreams. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Join in? Walk away? Call a shrink?

Eventually, I decided to appease Romilly by joining in. In what seemed to be a bonding exercise, I attempted to get into the same position as Romilly, then half closed my eyes.

I felt like an idiot. But then it occurred to me that Sophie and Henry must have also been a part of this initiation process, which made me feel a little better.

‘Ah, that’s so Zen of you. Let’s just decompress for a moment,’ she breathed. ‘Now, let’s discuss matters at hand. Firstly, I was impressed with your zero-to-hero, ladette-to-lady article, Miss Manners. I think it would make for an interesting read in the features section of
Couture
. But, judging by your sense of style, I think you would benefit from working in the fashion department at the moment. How does that sound?’ Romilly half opened her eyes, examining me from head to toe.

Fashion?
I looked down at my baggy, gone-for-a-jog clothes. Touché. Great, there was going to have to be shopping.

I was terrified of shopping.

‘Great,’ I said, forcing a smile through gritted teeth.

‘
As for your assignment, I like the sound of Miss Minion winning Miss Manners. Like I said, it would make for an interesting read. But only if you win it. Are you going to win it?’ Romilly opened her eyes, waiting for a response.

I didn
’t know what to say. ‘Yes?’

‘
Good,’ she said, closing her eyes again. ‘Otherwise you can’t write the article. And if you can’t write the article, I can’t read the article. And if I can’t read the article, then I can’t offer you a position. There’s only one position available at the end of the internship, you know. So you’d better start learning how to run in heels. And fast.’ Romilly opened her eyes, then moved into another position. ‘But for now, I want you to meet Olivia at the reception area. She will show you around
Couture
, then take you to the fashion department. Then Lara Gold, our fashion editor, will brief you on what to do next.’

‘
Sure,’ I said, wriggling out of my awkward position, then flopping on the floor. I stood up and headed for the door. ‘Thanks,’ I said before exiting.

‘
Namaste,’ Romilly replied, pressing her palms together and nodding her head.

I walked over to the unnerving reception area to find Sophie and Henry silently waiting. As I went to sit down, a tall, flawless young woman stylishly dressed in flattering pastel shades, wearing a rose-coloured cashmere jumper that looked like it was spun from pink clouds and four-inch nude shoes to elongate her legs, walked gracefully towards us. She extended a milky-white hand with long, manicured fingers to each of us in turn.

‘Olivia Hartley, senior assistant to Romilly Winter. Pleased to meet you,’ she said, her voice melting into matter.

We followed our tour guide as she showed us around the building, providing a running commentary on who was who in all the departments:
health, beauty, fashion, features, events, web, art, pictures, subs and advertising. ‘So, you’re all looking to break into magazines, are you?’ she asked, as she led us past The Plastics; a string of model lookalikes, whose hair extensions were as long as their legs and micro-dresses as short as their attention span. ‘It’s tough.’