Miss Manners (12 page)

11

Diamond in the Rough

SUNDAY, 24th APRIL

I awoke to the sounds of singing at around nine in the morning.

Great, s
o much for a long, luxurious Sunday lie-in
.

I stood up too quickly and, as a result,
almost blacked out. As I sat down on the edge of the bed, my head felt like an iPod shuffle, my skin felt like sandpaper and thoughts were circling round my brain like socks in a tumble dryer. I eventually dragged myself out of bed and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. I looked like something out of Crufts.

After washing, I went to check out whe
re the singing was coming from. As I schlepped, bleary-eyed, into the living room in my pyjamas, I had to rub my eyes to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. The living room looked more like an Indian festival. It was filled with tailor’s dummies, a selection of multicoloured fabrics and clothes rails packed with colourful costumes. On the coffee table was an old black hand-operated sewing machine. And spread out along the back wall were various sketches of different looks.

‘
Welcome to Felicity Diamond’s cache of couture,’ Felicity announced as she sauntered into the living room with her arms outstretched. Although it was early, Felicity looked neat and pristine, her hair perfectly coiffured; she always seemed to have a Julie Andrews look about her.

‘
What’s happening?’

‘
I’m giving you a fitting.’

‘
A fitting?’

‘
I’m entering the Alexander McQueen competition and I need to create a three-piece collection by Sunday the first of May. I’ve just checked out the costume section at the V&A and, right now, I’m feeling really inspired.’

‘
So, what’s the prize?’

‘
Well, if I win, my designs will appear in the catwalk show at London Fashion Week and I’ll receive a contract with a Parisian fashion house next year.’

‘
Check
you
out! Felicity Diamond, fashion student, soon to be famous fashion designer,’ I said with apple-cheeked optimism.

I soon learned that the Alexander McQueen Award was the most coveted award in the fashion industry, given every two years to the most promising young designer in honour of Alexander McQueen, who passed away in 2010. Apparently, winning the award made a young designer
’s career, catapulting him or her into the spotlight.

‘
But I need a model to wear and publicise the designs,’ she said with a mysterious twinkle in her eye. ‘And, seeing as you’re going to be in the public eye for the next few weeks,’ she continued, ‘that model is going to be you.’

‘
Me? Model? Don’t be silly. I–’

But, before I could finish, Felicity twirled me around, pulled out a tape measure, then started measuring me. The last time I was measured was at the doctor
’s when I was fourteen years old, where I stood on tiptoes to appear taller.

‘
What are you doing?’ I asked, dazed and confused.

‘
I’m measuring you. You’re my project. Here.’ Felicity handed me a notebook full of designs. ‘Let me know what you think.’ Then, she began padding out her tailor’s dummy to my precise measurements and started fitting pieces of material whilst I flicked through her notebook.

The designs were really impressive. The notebook was full of sketches, including asterisked ones of the
‘Aphrodite’, a white silk Grecian column dress, and the ‘Antoinette’, a colourful Venetian dress.

‘
But... but I don’t do dresses.’

‘
Well, you do now. Remember, you’re the
new
Anna Borgström: socialite, party animal and trendsetter in a world of fashion magazines, customised clothing and celebrity watching.’

I laughed.
‘Yeah, only for, like, a week. Then I go back to being me.’

‘
That’s if you remember to stay true to yourself.’

‘
Why does everyone keep saying that? “Stay true to yourself.” So far, I’ve had a comedian, a fortune teller, Henry, and now
you
say that. I mean, seriously, it’s like something out of a French art house movie.’

‘
Personally, I think they’re onto something,’ Felicity said with a warm smile. ‘Anyway,’ she added, gesturing towards the back wall, ‘I’ve put together a few looks I thought would be perfect for all your events this week. So, for the dinner on Thursday, I thought about a variation on the vintage Jean Patou Grecian column dress by using white silk, then accessorising it with a gold belt at waist level. Here,’ she added, handing me a piece of silk. ‘Have a feel of this and tell me what you think?’

I was completely lost for words. I mean, the dress was absolutely gorgeous and the silk literally melted in my hands like chocolate.

‘Then,’ Felicity went on excitedly, handing me another piece of material, ‘for the masquerade ball on Friday, I thought about a Christian Lacroix chiné-printed silk taffeta dress meets Renaissance. And for the contest itself… Well, I haven’t quite decided yet.’

‘
Wow,’ I said in wonder, walking over to all the designs plastered on the wall. ‘These are incredible. How long did it take you to design all these outfits?’

‘
All morning.’ She smiled, as if that were a normal response.

Wow. I never realised just how productive a single morning could be. Maybe I should be taking notes from Felicity
’s schedule and waking up early, too?

As I turned to face Felicity, I noticed Tara standing in the doorway in her cat pyjamas, looking as if she
’d just seen the ghost of Chanel.

‘
Wooooow!’ Tara squealed excitedly, stroking a few fabrics sprawled out on the sofa. ‘I feel like I’m in fashion wonderland! Tara and the Trend Factory!’ She then turned to face Felicity, eyeing her up as if she were about to crack a code. ‘So, this is what you’ve been getting up to whilst I’ve been dreaming about giant baboons and Teletubbies. What’s it all for?’

‘
She’s entering the Alexander McQueen competition and needs to design three outfits by the deadline next week,’ I said, trying to figure out how that would actually be possible.

‘
Plus, I’ll be able to use them for my final year grad show,’ Felicity added. ‘But, I’ve still got about three weeks till then.’

Tara stared at me for a moment
; I was dressed in nothing but a toile, which Felicity explained was the cotton practice version of the dress that created the pattern.

‘
So, what are you doing then?’ Tara enquired.

‘
Fi’s giving me a fitting,’ I replied coolly.

‘
Really?’ No way, that is sooo cool! This means you can, like, practise model moves and stuff!’

‘
I am
not
a model.’

Tara pouted exaggeratedly, struck a pose,
then fluttered her lashes, which looked a bit silly considering she was still in her jammies.

‘
So, are you all ready for tomorrow, then?’ Tara asked.

‘
Tomorrow?’ I wondered.

Oh, crap!
I almost forgot all about it. Tomorrow was to be my first day at the Miss Manners Academy learning all things posh and proper like drinking tea and walking in heels. I was already pretty good at drinking tea. It was just the walking in heels part that I still needed to get my head around.

‘
No. I think I’ll try and get myself used to wearing and walking in heels. Otherwise, I’ll trip over again and look like a right berk.’

So, after spending an entire Sunday being measured and costumed, catwalking and posing, that
’s exactly what I did for about ten minutes before I got bored of tripping, falling and spraining.

Afterwards, I decided to check my emails and write a checklist of everything I needed for
the next day:

1.
            
Smart outfit

2.
           
Heels (in case Pinkie ticks me off)

3.
           
Make-up

4.
           
Earl Grey teabags (in case they serve Tetley)

5.
           
Tissues (in case I have a snotty nose from all the late running)

‘So, what else do you think I’ll need?’ I asked Tara and Felicity.

‘
An open mind,’ Tara replied, her lips curving into a smile.

Well, my mind was more open than Pandora
’s box right now. Although, who knew what might come out of it tomorrow. But tomorrow, as they say, is another day.

12

Fool
’s Academy

MONDAY
, 25th APRIL

You know when you wake up and know something’s not quite right? Well, I’d overslept. I’d completely forgotten to set my alarm! It was almost nine in the morning and I needed to be at The Dorchester by ten.

Soon after waking, I realised what I
’d forgotten to check off my checklist yesterday (in fact, I didn’t even put it on my checklist). Location. I didn’t have the foggiest where The Dorchester was. But, seeing as I had no time to check and plan my journey, I got dressed in record time, threw my heels into my bag, then slipped on my trainers in preparation for my morning marathon.

As so
on as I arrived at Camden Town, I googled the nearest Tube station to The Dorchester on my knackered phone (Hyde Park Corner), then legged it. The next time I checked the clock, I panicked. It was 10 a.m. and I was only at Leicester Square. It felt like the day I got fired all over again.

When I eventually arrived at
The Dorchester, I instantly felt out of place as I walked past the Bentleys, Jaguars, Mercedes and Aston Martins (none of which had registration plates, probably to stop people from tracking down their owners), languishing by the immaculately manicured hedges that bordered the car park.

As I walked inside breathlessly, I tried really hard to keep my mouth closed
. I was in awe of the lavish art deco promenade, which included potted palms, plush couches, marble columns, a line of hanging lanterns and life-sized turbaned blackamoor figurines standing guard. Only the sounds of clinking china, quiet chatter, popping corks and live jazz piano music could be heard. But then I noticed a pristine, besuited man with a retro quiff standing behind a podium at the reception, scanning me from head to toe as if I were contagious.

‘
May I help you, young lady?’ he sniffed, as if to clear any nasal blockages.

‘
Yes, I’m here for the Miss Manners Academy.’

‘
Go straight ahead, through the doors, turn left, on into the Orchid, then go right through to the Orangery and you’ll eventually find yourself in the ballroom.’ Retro Quiff spoke so quickly, it was as if someone had pressed fast forward.

There
must have been a hole in my bucket, because none of that made any sense whatsoever. So, I did the only thing you should do when something doesn’t make any sense. I nodded. Then I walked in the direction he was pointing.

After asking a cleaner, a chef and a guest along the way, I eventually found myself in the Orangery, where I discovered a prim-looking receptionist sitting behind a small table in the middle of the room.

‘Good morning. May I help you?’ she said.

‘
I’m Anna Borgström. I’m here for the academy.’

‘
Borgström?’ she parroted with disdain as she looked me up and down through eyeglasses perched at the end of her large nose. ‘Allow me to check my list.’

T
he receptionist, who, I realised after reading the name tag on the table, was Janet Brown, PA to Brie Breckenbridge, checked her list of names, crossed off the only one left uncrossed, checked her watch, then looked up at me.

‘
It’s ten twenty-seven. You’re late. And Brie hates latecomers.’

‘
I know. I’m sorry.’

Janet then let me pass with a Susan Boyle-esque nod of her head.

As I stepped inside the ballroom, all eyes turned to me like birds of prey. But before I had a chance to absorb the colossal room edged with mirrored walls, I was interrupted.

‘
And rule number one, girls,’ came a clipped, pinched accent, just like in old black and white movies, ‘punctuality is the politeness of princesses.’

A
ll the girls were lined up in front of Brie Breckenbridge. Before me stood a tall, languid and elegantly dressed woman, wearing a sugar-pink cashmere ensemble. Her white hair was set like swirls of whipped cream around her doll-like face, beneath which a triple string of pearls balanced on a shelf-like bust. I’m bad at ages, but I reckoned she was an expensive sixty, where money and care had helped keep the face intact. She had startling blue eyes and used them to scrutinise me.

‘
And who do we have here?’ Brie surveyed me through her spectacles, eyeing me disdainfully.

I felt like I was being told off for trying to set fire to the school.

‘Anna Borgström. Sorry I’m late,’ I apologised, before briskly walking over to join the rest of the girls at the end of the line, who were all standing in front of a row of chairs.

‘
Well, there was never a throne which did not represent a crime,’ Brie said with a fiery, meaningful look in her eyes.

‘
Surely, lateness isn’t a crime?’ I said.

‘
Rule number two: speak when you’re spoken to,’ she ordered, flushing angrily.

Then, Brie looked me up and down
condescendingly, noticing my trainers. ‘Rule number three: no trainers.’ She swept over gracefully to the girl next to me, who was texting on her phone, snatched it off her, then said, ‘Rule number four: no phones. It may have escaped your attention that this is not a phone shop. Passive conversation is as annoying as second-hand smoke.’ She moved on to the next girl, who was wearing sunglasses. She snatched them off her head. ‘Rule number five: no sunglasses.’ To the next girl, who was looking in one of the room’s mirrored walls, she said, ‘Rule number six: no looking in mirrors. Once is sane, twice is vain.’ Another girl in the line was chewing gum. ‘Rule number seven: no chewing gum,’ Brie announced, holding out her hanky in front of the girl’s mouth, who spat it out.

It was then that I noticed Pinkie Mortimer at the other end of the line, who was dresse
d in the most disgusting bubble-gum pink suit, finished off with a tiara and Tinkerbell under one arm. The sight of her gave me indigestion.

Brie
approached Pinkie and said, ‘Rule number eight: no dogs,’ then snatched Tinkerbell from under her arm.

Poor
Tinkerbell just shivered and whimpered.

‘
Your items will be returned to you at the end of the day.’ And with that, Brie left the room. She re-entered moments later, empty-handed.

‘
Now, girls, my name is Brie Breckenbridge and I am delighted to welcome you officially to the Miss Manners Academy. Here with us today we have some very special guests,’ she said, gesturing towards a table where three people stared beadily at us.

‘
Name analyst, Maxwell Hilton; image director and stylist, Arabella Mears; and publicist, Murphy Richards, who will be joining us a little later on in the day. Now that we’ve all introduced ourselves, it’s time to take a look at this week’s schedule.’ Brie presented a prepared list on a portable whiteboard.

Day 1: Style (how to dress, image management)

Day 2: Posture (sitting, standing and movement)

Day 3: Voice (accent, diction, intonation and vocabulary)

Day 4: Etiquette (dining and social)

Day 5: Talent (acting, singing and dancing)

‘Now,’ she continued, ‘as I am sure you are already aware from your emails, we will be having a Miss Manners Dinner this Thursday evening and a Miss Manners Masquerade Ball on Friday evening, for both of which you should be prepared. Today we will be focusing on style, and, as Coco Chanel once put it, “There is nothing more personal than style.” But, of course, Coco Chanel was not her real name. Somehow, I don’t think her fashion label would have had the same pizzazz had it been called Gabrielle Bonheur, do you?’ Brie paced the length of the ballroom, one hand to her hip. ‘So, before we embark on our style odyssey, I shall hand you over to Britain’s one and only professional name analyst, Maxwell Hilton. Maxwell’s father came up with Marilyn Monroe, you know,’ she added proudly.

A moment later, a tall man in his mid fifties stood up from his chair and strode across the room
, stopping in front of us. He was wearing a tweed suit and brogues and holding a list, his white teeth flashing like light bulbs.

‘
Thank you, Brie,’ Maxwell said with an air of aristocracy before turning back to us. ‘Good morning, darlings. What you need to know is that your name is your virtue. After all, fame is in the name. So, based on an ancient technique, I have compiled a list of brand new stage names for each and every one of you, which shall be used instead of your real names from now on.’

‘
What, like Englebert Humperdinck?’ I said automatically.

Brie looked furious, her eyes narrowed and her teeth gritted.

‘I’m afraid not,’ he said patronisingly. ‘But believe me, by changing your name, you can change your life. So, without further ado,’ he said, handing out a card to each one of us, ‘here’s the list of all
necessary
name changes.’

Phoenix Valentine? You have got to be joking! Come on, what kind of a name is that? I am NOT changing my name.
And anyway, I like my Swedish surname (Borg means ‘Castle’ and Ström means ‘River’).

I could hear a hum of excited chatter coming from the other girls, but I wasn
’t having any of it.

‘
I am NOT changing my name to Phoenix Valentine,’ I said flatly, chewing my lip and folding my arms. ‘I’m not. I mean, it makes me sound like a p–’

‘
Mind your manners!’ Brie interrupted, her face like a smacked bottom. ‘It isn’t becoming of a young lady.’

All heads turned to
stare at me as if I’d just farted, waiting for the incriminating smell before reacting.

‘
It’s alright, Brie.’ Maxwell removed his half-spectacles and polished them on the hanky tucked up his sleeve, then edged a little closer to me. ‘I understand it may be slightly uncomfortable changing your name at first. But I am confident you will grow to like it in time.’

‘
How did you come up with those names?’ I asked.

‘
Ah, well,’ he puffed proudly. ‘You see, each name I have devised has been specifically tailored to suit its new owner. In your case,’ he continued, gesturing at me, ‘shedding your ethnic name for one with more, shall we say, panache. Phoenix represents
rebirth
and Valentine represents
love
.’

That was weird. I
could swear I’d heard that somewhere before. Suddenly, it hit me. Mojo! “Fall like Icarus, rise like the Phoenix,” she had said. Then she claimed that there was love on the cards. Maybe Maxwell was working in partnership with Mojo? Or, even freakier, maybe Mojo had shape-shifted into Maxwell?

‘
And, of course,’ Maxwell continued, ‘I have provided definitions for each of your names on the backs of the cards I’ve just given you.’

I noticed the only two people in the room who weren
’t holding cards were Pinkie Mortimer and a pristine-looking, rouge-lipped girl wearing a string of pearls and a little black dress, whose dark hair tumbled expensively down her back. It was Genevieve de la Croix. I was pretty sure they’d already had their names changed.

Whilst all the
other girls were checking their cards for their new names, Pinkie and Genevieve were giving each other the evils.

Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer
, I thought to myself.

‘
Plenty of time for that later. Thank you, Maxwell.’ Brie smiled painfully, raising a well-manicured hand. ‘Now, I want you to hold your name cards out in front of you so that I can familiarise myself with your new names. As of today, I shall only be addressing you by your new names.’ She examined my card, then drew a breath. ‘Next, we’re going to take a look at how we can improve your individual styles. I’m not mentioning any names,’ she said, staring directly at me, her gaze followed by the other girls’, ‘but if you cannot have the best, then make the best of what you have.’

Surely my appearance couldn
’t possibly have been worse than Pinkie’s? I mean, she looked like candyfloss!

As I checked myself out in the mirrors, I realised I was wearing joggers. No wonder I was getting all those weird, patronising stares earlier. In my half
-asleep state, I must’ve actually thought I’d put on the Armani suit.

I can
’t believe it. Now I’m going to have to walk in heels wearing a trackie
.

‘
I would now like to introduce you all to our image director and stylist, Arabella Mears!’ Brie clapped, arching one well-plucked eyebrow.

‘
Thank you, Brie. Right,’ Arabella addressed us, clapping her hands. She then sashayed over to stand directly in front of me, gesturing for me to step forward and face the group.