Miss Manners (22 page)

Wow, Miss Manners was actually a reincarnation of the
Generation Game
. But in a society saturated with talent shows, reality TV and gossip columns, it fitted right in. Miss Manners was basically
Ladette to Lady
,
The X Factor
,
Britain’s Got Talent
and
Miss World
all rolled into one.

‘
But that’s not all,’ Brie added. ‘There’s more.’

Everyone
’s end-of-day excitement was suddenly cut short. What else could they possibly fit into a contest?

‘
At the end of the contest, there will be a Q and A round where you will be asked a series of questions. For more information, please turn to page two of your booklets.’

So, I did.

Q
& A – Stage 9

Man, this was tougher than GCSEs, A
levels and a degree all put together.

‘
Now,’ Brie continued, ‘you will, of course, have the rest of today and tomorrow to plan for both your free talent and Q and A round. The free talent round may consist of any talent of your choosing, and the Q and A round will cover the questions I have provided you with.’

A
free talent and Q & A round!? Firstly, I can’t think of anything to do for the free talent round, and secondly, I can’t think of anything to say for the Q & A round.

I decided I
’d leave all the thinking to one side for the time being. Because right now, I was due for another photo shoot with Murphy outside.

A
s I walked out to the front of The Dorchester, I found Pinkie kissing Brian.

‘
Now!’ Murphy shouted to Ahmed beside him, who began flashing away mercilessly at my face.

‘
What’s going on?’ I asked angrily.

‘
Tomorrow’s headline,’ Murphy replied, a satisfied grin sweeping across his face.

‘
What headline?’ I felt as if I had been taken advantage of. I was not a happy Bunny Simpkins.

‘
I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait and see,’ he replied.

‘
You do realise Brian isn’t my boyfriend, right? He’s just my dance partner,’ I clarified, my brow furrowing like an Andrex puppy. ‘Therefore, I don’t care who he’s kissing.’

Murphy flashed me a look.
‘Not when money is involved. Business is business.’

‘
And to think I was about to give you a much juicier story, too,’ I added tantalisingly.

There was no way I wanted Murphy printing anything about Brian being my cheating boyfriend. So I fed him the story of the day, like Britain
’s fattest man to a pride of hungry lions.

Murphy flashed me an expectant look.
‘Are you going to tell me, then?’

‘
Fine. As long as you promise not to print the one about me and Brian, here’s one about Pinkie,’ I agreed. ‘“Shakespeare?’ Isn’t he the one who wrote
Four Weddings and a Funeral?
”

There was a moment of silence.

‘Nice. I think I’ll use them both,’ he decided, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

Oh, great. How could I have been so naive?

‘But–’ I objected.

‘
I never agreed to anything,’ he said with a smirk, cutting me off.

You know what, I
’m going to post it on my blog as soon as I get back home
, I thought to myself.
At least that way, by the time the story does get printed, it’ll be yesterday’s news!

‘
Nice outfit. Who are you wearing today?’ Murphy asked, eyeing my attire greedily.

‘
None of your business,’ I said, then walked back inside.

If he thinks he
’s getting anymore free media space out of me, then he’s barking up the wrong tree.

24

The Clock Strikes Midnight

I had never been to a ball before, or ‘proms’ as they’re called in Hollywood teen flicks. You know, the sort where the girls steal each other’s boyfriends and battle it out to be prom queen. I remember always wanting to go to a prom so I could get one of those flower corsages that boys are supposed to give you. Seeing as it had never happened, I decided to pretend that the masquerade ball was the school prom I never had.

The Dorchester
ballroom was filled with all the girls getting ready, their hair and fashion stylists at the ready. Meanwhile, Pinkie and Genevieve each had an entourage the size of Monaco, primping and pampering them as if they were a species threatened with extinction. As I glanced around the room, it felt as if I’d stepped into a time machine and back into the eighteenth century.

Everywhere I looked were ghoulishly white powdered faces, pencilled-in beauty spots, garish Marge Simpson-esque white wigs and
eighteenth-century costumes. It was like being behind the scenes at a Jean Paul Gaultier catwalk show.

Felicity was
busy doing my make-up.

‘
Et voilà,’
she chirped, popping the mascara wand back into its sheath.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like Marie Antoinette after her beheading. I couldn
’t imagine why this look was ever considered fashionable. The red lips were a funny shape, too. They made me look as if I were saying ‘Oh’ in a really posh voice whilst flaring my nostrils.

‘
Oh,’ I said in a posh voice to the mirror, pursing my lips.

‘
Now for the dress,’ Felicity announced, pulling the garment from its protective plastic covering. ‘The Antoinette.’

I felt like Charlie stepping into the
chocolate factory for the very first time. First the Aphrodite, and now the Antoinette.

I
held it up in front of my body and stared, hypnotised, at it in the mirror, before slipping it on. I realised the room had suddenly fallen deathly silent. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and were staring, eagle-eyed, at my dress through the mirrors. I wasn’t surprised. I mean, Felicity had shown me the original Christian Lacroix dress that had inspired her, but this was a hundred times better. I was living with a fashion genius.

‘
So, what do you think?’ Felicity asked, smiling.

I couldn
’t find the words to do her justice. I was too engrossed in the beautiful colours, intricate designs, shimmering jewels and luxurious fabrics. The dress looked as if it demanded to be drenched in expensive perfume and taken out to dance.

Standing in the Antoinette was bliss, but walking in it felt as if I were swimming through Galaxy milk chocolate.

‘It’s... it’s incredible,’ I said without averting my gaze from the dress, my fingers caressing the patterns. But my trance was soon disturbed by Pinkie and Genevieve, who approached me like a pair of curious kittens.

‘
Who are you wearing?’ Pinkie asked, her cheeks flushing.

‘
Yes,’ Genevieve added, ‘who are you wearing? I have never seen this design before.’

I looked at Felicity, then ba
ck at Pinkie and Genevieve. But just as I was about to answer, Murphy walked into the room.

‘
Right, girls,’ Murphy announced, followed closely by his minion, Ahmed. ‘It’s time to make our way to the venue. I want you all to meet me outside in ten minutes, where your carriages will be waiting.’

A ball? A carriage? I was beginning to feel more and more like Cinderella. Even the Ugly Sisters were present.
But what about Prince Charming? Where was
he
? Why couldn’t Henry have been my dance partner instead of Brian? Then the fairytale would have been complete.

Anyway, you know when Murphy said there
’d be a carriage waiting for us outside? Well, he wasn’t joking.

As I stepped outside, I found myself in front of a
sixteen-seater horse-drawn carriage of gigantic proportions. I was so entranced by the spectacle, I didn’t notice the hoards of paparazzi taking photos of us.

One by one, as each of us exited The Dorchester, we were swamped by cameras, Dictaphones and curious faces. But before we had the chance to answer any questions, we were spirited away towards the carriage and driven to the ball. Also on the carriage were Brie, Murphy and Duke. Murphy was giving us a
brief history lesson of the venue, Lancaster House.

‘
Lancaster House,’ Murphy started, ‘was initially known as York House, then Stafford House for almost a century between 1840 and 1912, and was assessed as the most valuable private house in London. During a visit, Queen Victoria is said to have remarked, “I have come from my House to your Palace.”’

I
’d never been to Lancaster House. In fact, I was probably more of a tourist than an
actual
tourist. And I’m a Londoner, born and bred.

Murphy went on like a history teacher,
but I was busy staring at the excited tourists taking pictures of us as the horses trotted down Park Lane. As the carriage approached the gates at Lancaster House, I felt as if I were stepping into a Jane Austen novel. Stone steps led up to the pillared entrance of the temple-like structure, where footman opened our doors for us, as though we were incapacitated.

As soon as
I set foot out of the carriage, I found myself engulfed by a swarm of paparazzi once again. This time, they weren’t leaving without their press hits.

The
lady with the Dictaphone from last night skipped towards me.

‘
Good evening, Phoenix,’ she breathed. ‘Might I just say, you look enchanted tonight.’

I looked at her.
‘Don’t you mean enchanting?’ I corrected.

Dictaphone Lady looked bashful, but quickly shrugged it off.
‘So, who are you wearing?’

‘
Antoinette by Felicity Diamond,’ I said proudly.

‘
Antoinette. I like that. It’s very wow, very off-the-catwalk. I’m sure retailers are going to go crazy for it. I very much look forward to seeing more from Felicity Diamond.’ Dictaphone Lady sauntered off to the next girl, an excited grin spreading across her face.

As the other girls were being papped, I
made my way inside the building; I held up my dress as I tiptoed up the stairs and into the mansion, which was something I have always wanted to do ever since I was a little girl.

Once inside the Grand Hall,
I could imagine a dramatic high-angle establishing camera shot hovering above me, taking in the ornate Louis XIV decoration and sweeping staircase. The next shot would probably be a close-up of my face looking as if I had just been slapped by a monkey,
Night at the Museum
-style. I don’t know why, but I regularly seem to live my life through a camera lens.

As everyone was wearing a mask, I wasn
’t able to recognise anyone. So, I walked over to the nearest buffet cart. But before I had a chance to eat anything, Murphy tapped a champagne glass with a silver spoon, waking up the half-asleep atmosphere that pervaded the place like a mild anaesthetic.

‘
Good evening, ladies and gentleman,’ he crooned. ‘Welcome to the Miss Manners Masquerade Ball. Later tonight we have a treat for you; the contestants will be dancing the waltz, followed by the minuet. But first, please do help yourselves to the buffet and make yourselves acquainted with one another.’

After stuffing my face with the delicious selection of sandwiches and canapés, I looked up to see if anyone had noticed. Nope. I continued stuffing myself like a roast turkey. I
’d never had that much free food before. It was basically like afternoon tea, but way better.

Just then,
Frunella walked over towards me, stroking her lip. ‘Your lip,’ she said.

‘
What?’ I asked, putting my hand to my mouth.

‘
It’s… it’s swollen,’ she pointed out.

‘
WHAT!?’ I almost screamed.

Oh
, no! I checked the labels on the buffet cart, then realised it must have been the chicken pâté garnished with pistachios. I’d totally forgotten about my nut allergy!

I raced over to the toilets to check the extent of the damage. As I looked into the mirror, I noticed how swollen my lips were. I looked like Buddy Love turning back into Sherman Klump in
The
Nutty Professor
. Now, you’re probably thinking, ‘Why worry? You’re at a masquerade ball – just wear a mask.’ The problem was, I had a half-mask that only covered the top half of my face, which was pretty useless. The only thing I could do now was to drink plenty of water and cover my face with a fan in the hope that the swelling would soon die down. Damn pistachios!

I looked around at
the washrooms. It was as if Midas had passed through – everything was smothered in gold. Gold and marble. This was now my favourite toilet so far. Forget Couture House. Forget The Dorchester. This was now my number one. In fact, I should submit the list to the Toilet Appreciation Society.

It was a good job
the paps weren’t allowed inside the building. Otherwise, I would have had the entire nation gawking at a picture of me attempting to do an impression of Angelina Jolie after an angry wasp invasion.

L
uckily, after a few hours of drinking glass after glass of water, the swelling did eventually die down. So I was finally able to ditch the fan along with the demure look and focus on admiring the lavish interiors, which I would probably never get the opportunity to do ever again.

I scanned the room filled with magicians, circus acts and tarot readers,
pausing on a group of performers who looked like rejects from a
Mad Max
casting. One of them was perched on the shoulders of another performer, extending a long prosthetic metal arm towards a group of middle-aged guests. Sitting on a table was a magician, performing to a small crowd of spectators. The magician, who was wearing a jewelled jacket, fake tan and eyeliner, fixed his gaze on a crowd member. He put both hands up to his head. ‘I am communing with your mind,’ he said, his voice low and mysterious.

M
y eyes eventually fell on a Viennese-style chiming wall clock at one end of the room, which had already chimed three times so far. I checked the time. It was 10.57 p.m.

Once the clock had chimed for the fourth time, Duke briskly walked towards me with a look of intent.

‘Good evening, Phoenix,’ he hummed. ‘Please could you line up with your partner in preparation for the first dance, the minuet, which will commence in a few minutes time, yes. Thank you, yes.’ Duke turned to leave, but then stopped suddenly in his tracks. ‘Oh, and please could you wear your mask, yes. Thank you, yes.’ And with that, he left as quickly as he’d arrived to alert the next girl.

Man, this mask was itchy. Even the white wig I was wearing wasn
’t as itchy. I looked around for Brian, but he was nowhere to be found. As all the girls lined up with their partners, I was the saddo resigned to sitting on a bench whilst they prepared to dance. It was like being sent to the subs bench in a netball match.

Where was Brian? Why was he not here?

No sooner had Duke left than Murphy tapped his champagne glass with a silver spoon again, which he ended up shattering this time. Murphy cleared his throat in an attempt to avert the audience’s attention from the broken glass.

‘
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ Murphy broadcasted. ‘It is my pleasure to announce that this year’s Miss Manners contestants will be dancing the minuet in a few moments, accompanied by the Queen’s Symphony Orchestra.’

Where was Brian
!? I swear, I was thinking up all the different ways to kill him once I’d found him. As the girls stood in their positions, I was busy scouring the room for signs of his presence.

Duke walked towards me, a panicked look sweeping across his pristine face.
‘Where is your partner? If your partner doesn’t show up within the next few seconds, then I am afraid you will not be able to take part in the minuet.’ As the live orchestra began warming up, Duke glided towards the girls.

Meanwhile, I walked to
wards the buffet cart. Once I’d filled my plate I went to sit at the nearest table, resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t be dancing. But no sooner had I taken the first bite of a salmon sandwich than a masked figure walked towards me, held out a hand and ushered me to the middle of the room. In that magical moment, I suddenly felt like the belle of the ball.

As I walked over to join the rest of the girls, all waiting in their starting positions, I made sure to suck my tummy and bottom in to make up for the lack of Spanx, which I had already mentally added to my Easter
wish list.

I stared at the
mystery man, and a surging heat spread across my entire body. For some reason, I felt as though I knew him.