Miss Manners (25 page)

‘
Stage two,’ the compère beamed into the microphone, ‘is voice, where we shall test each contestant’s vocabulary.’

Oh
, great! My vocabulary was about as extensive as a dodo’s. And, what made matters worse was the fact that I hadn’t memorised any of the words and meanings on the list. I was going to have to bluff my way through this round.

‘
Phoenix,’ the compère said, turning to face me, ‘what is the meaning of “faux pas”, and in what context may it be used?’

Faux
pas? Oh, wait, wasn’t that the word Pinkie used to describe Genevieve in her diary? All I knew was that the literal translation from French would be
false
. But false what? False hair? False nails? False teeth? My mind went blank; there was a thudding heartbeat in my ears and my face probably looked like a Japanese flag.

‘
False,’ I answered finally.

The
compère raised an eyebrow and proceeded to the next question.

I went on to guess the meanings for several words
of French origin, including à la mode, blasé, coup de foudre and amour propre. I felt like a dyslexic competing at a spelling bee.

‘
And now,’ the compère announced, ‘allow us to move on to stage three: cookery, where the girls will be making sushi in sixty seconds. Once the time is up, each of the judges will come up onto the stage to taste each plate.’

Suddenly, a never-ending table
that looked like the one from the Mad Hatter’s tea party appeared. In front of each of us was a sushi kit, along with all the ingredients.

Before I had the chance to mentally prepare myself, the
compère raised a stopwatch. ‘Ready, set, go!’

Whilst the rest of the girls raced
to make elaborately decorated sushi, I stared blankly at the table for a moment, trying hard to remember the flowery sushi art from cookery class. But it was no use. I couldn’t remember a thing. So, I picked up a sheet of seaweed and began to improvise.

‘
And stop!’ the compère commanded after what seemed like ten seconds, making me jump.

I looked down at my pathetic attempt to find
half a sushi roll sitting on my bamboo mat. All the other girls seemed to have completed at least two. I had to redeem myself somehow. I needed something that would boost my point score, something extravagant.

As
each of the judges in turn climbed onto the stage to examine the sushi platters, um-ing and ah-ing, I tried hard not to have a nervous breakdown.

‘
Next, stage four: etiquette,’ the compère announced, ‘which shall consist of two rounds: tea serving and table setting.’

As the stagehands prepared the tables for the next stage, I tried to spot Tara and Felicity in the audience
but failed to find them.

‘
Now,’ the compère continued, ‘the requirement of the tea serving round is to mix tea blends into each of your teapots, then pour the brew into the teacups provided. And, as I’m sure you are already aware, you shall be judged on flavour, bouquet, creativity and mannerisms. You have sixty seconds to make the perfect brew, starting from... now!’

Well, at least I knew
never
to blend all the leaves together at once. Especially after causing Steve to regurgitate my dishwater- and BO-flavoured Tea Tang. This time, I was going by the book. Earl Grey, rose bud, jasmine and lavender. At least there was no risk of any of the judges fainting live on air. So what if I lost points on creativity?

Once I
’d scooped and added the leaves to the teapot, which had already been filled with hot water, I gently stirred the leaves then closed the lid. Next, I added a hint of milk, then placed a tea strainer over the teacup. Then, placing a tea cosy over the teapot, I shakily poured the tea through the strainer and into the cup.

Once again, the judges were
um-ing and ah-ing as they tasted each of our creations whilst the TV cameras zoomed into each of our faces for a reaction shot. I probably looked like the Queen attempting to disguise a warm fart, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get through the rest of the contest in one piece.

‘
Next, round five of etiquette, the final round,’ announced the compère, ‘is table setting, where the contestants will be required to set the table for three-, four- and five-course menus. Of course, the judges will arbitrate each set according to their criteria. But first up, the three-course menu.’

In front of each of us was a plate with an array of utens
ils sitting in the middle, reminding me of a word search in
The Times
. All I remembered was that soup required a spoon and anything else, a knife and fork. I was never a fan of non-verbal reasoning, hence why I never won a place at grammar school.

I started off by placing the fork (which I accidentally dropped
on the floor, then had to pick up in as lady-like fashion as possible) to the left of the plate. As for the knife, I couldn’t remember whether the cutting edge should be turned towards or away from the plate, so I just guessed towards.

Next, the spoon; a flashback unfolded of
the tea-breath scolding I received from Brie for placing the spoon ‘on top of the plate’ as opposed to on the right of the knife. But if I thought the round wasn’t going to get any tougher, then I might as well have believed in the Easter Bunny. Because next came the four- and five-course menus, which were giving me pre-menopause palpitations.

After each course, the judges frowned cartoonishly when they examined the badly
placed cutlery around my plate.

Although the rest of the girls didn
’t seem at all fazed, I was beginning to feel declarations of World War III take place in my stomach. I mean, come on, does anybody need to know how to eat oysters, lobsters, snails and asparagus? I just hoped I’d be able to redeem myself in the next rounds.

‘
Next, stage five: floristry, which moves us on to round six: flower arranging, where the contestants shall be arranging flowers based on an Easter theme,’ the compère announced, turning to the row of perma-smiles and temp-tans. ‘This is the final
timed
event, where you will have sixty seconds to complete the arrangement.’ Raising a stopwatch in the air, he breathed in as if he were about to dive into the deep end. ‘Three, two, one, go!’

Gladiators
, ready? Contenders, ready? Thanks to John Anderson, every time I hear the three-two-one countdown, it always has to be in a northern accent.

I stared at the colourful array of flowers lying on the table in front of me,
then peered over at the others, who thrashed around like a clutter
of drowning cats. Instead of following suit, I remembered Mum’s survival-guide mantra, which always seemed to help me out of sticky situations: ‘Do your best and forget about the rest.’

W
ith this in mind, I arranged, bunched, weaved, ribboned and garnished the flowers until I was completely out of time.

Afterwards, I stood back to take a proper look at my surprisingly impressive basket creation, reminding myself to take it home with me after the contest – at least as a consolation prize if I didn
’t win.

I looked over at Pinkie, who was wearing a headdress she
had weaved out of spare flowers and twigs. She looked like Bottom from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.

As the curtain fell, the
compère walked towards the front of the stage, then held the microphone close to his face. ‘Lords, ladies, gentlemen and Your Highnesses, we shall now take a ten-minute break before returning for the second half of the contest.’

F
inally! A break!

But, seeing as it was only
ten minutes, I had to prepare the outfits for a quick change then get changed into the first dress (the Aphrodite) as quickly as possible so I’d have enough time left over to get a drink.

I
n the dressing room, Pinkie was having one of her minions blow-dry underneath her armpits whilst Genevieve displayed her wig collection.

Once I
’d slipped into the Aphrodite, I poured myself a glass of tap water at the sink. But just as I was about to take a sip, I noticed Sophie hovering about in the corner of the room, her gaze fixed firmly on me.

What was she doing here? Surely this wasn
’t part of her assignment? Or was it?

I walked over to Sophie to find out.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, numerous possibilities running through my head.

‘
Sophie!’ Pinkie called, her gaze fixed on her reflection. ‘Can you hand me my first costume, please?’

Sophie glanced at me, a dress draped over her right arm and her mouth curving in a reminiscent smile, then proceeded towards Pinkie.

Why was Sophie working for Pinkie? What could there possibly be in it for her? Something was going on. I could feel it in my big bones.

An attendant walked into the room.
‘Time,’ he announced, as if he were an umpire at a tennis match, before hopping off.

According to the order I was last to go on, which made me feel about as privileged as a vertiginous sky diver.

I did a quick BLT check (buttons fastened; lipstick fresh; teeth clean), then pulled myself to full height, filled my lungs and tried to breathe out slowly.

Once I
’d made sure my hair, make-up, dress, shoes and jewellery were all in order, I walked to the wings and stood at the end of the line, awaiting my turn on the catwalk.

Frunella was the first to tread the boards; I couldn
’t help but sneak a peek at her through the curtains. At the front of the stage, a catwalk protruded into the auditorium, where before it had been an empty semi-circle. As Frunella catwalked down the runway in time with an upbeat soundtrack, camera flashes washed over the stage. One by one, the girls sashayed along the runway, whilst I tried hard not to bite my false nails.

Eventually, it was my turn.

‘Please welcome back to the stage, Phoenix Valentine,’ the compère announced, holding out a hand in my direction.

Although my knees were jellified, I bit the bullet and took to the stage. I was immediately blinded by the scorching lights from all directions and could only just make out the catwalk.

As long as I don’t trip, I’m fine
, I thought.

As I walked down the catwalk, I tried to mimic Audrey Hepburn
’s glide, which probably looked more like an attempt at skiing. The cameras flashed, the music blared and the lights melted my face.

Once I
’d reached the end of the catwalk, I looked out nervously into the whitewashed audience for a moment. As I went to turn on my heel, the one thing I dreaded most happened – I tripped.

The audience gasped, the cameras flashed and the
compère ran over to give me a hand. But before he had the chance to stand over me, I stood up as quickly as possible, regained composure, then glided off as if nothing had happened.

As I
stepped into the dressing room the moment was more alive than ever as Pinkie sniggered at me, which was only to be expected.

‘
Have a nice trip?’ she said snidely.

I looked at her, then silently walked past and grabbed the Antoinette. I wanted to say something
clever like, ‘Fall like Icarus, rise like the Phoenix.’ But I was too slow and the moment had passed, so I concentrated on getting changed into the next outfit as quickly as possible instead. Besides, I really didn’t have the time to stand around having Tarantino-esque discussions.

Once I
’d slipped out of the Aphrodite and into the Antoinette, I placed the white beehive wig on my head then applied an eighteenth-century-inspired beauty spot, followed by petal-shaped red lips.

Meanwhile, Sophie was helping Pinkie with her next dress, which made me feel almost as queasy as when she let on that Brian had asked her out.

I bet the moment Brian revealed his true identity, Pinkie and Genevieve, along with a swarm of other gold-diggers, would be all over him like a hive of hungry bees.

Now I understood why he had kept his identity a secret, although I didn
’t understand why he didn’t feel he could trust me enough to tell me the truth. Perhaps he’d been hurt in the past? Well, whatever the reason, it was yesterday’s news now and I was looking ahead to the future.

In what felt like no time at all, it was my turn to strut the stage
again. So, imagining myself in a corset, I attempted to replicate the perfect posture. It was exhausting; almost like jogging in a sauna, what with all the lights shrivelling me into a prune.

‘
I’m melting,
melting
,’ I felt like shouting. But it was neither the time nor the place.

Once we
’d all flaunted our femininity, the compère made an announcement. ‘Now, next up is stage seven, sewing, in which we will focus on each of the contestant’s dressmaking skills. Incredibly, they have managed to make a dress in less than twenty-four hours! Of course, this is no easy feat, not even for a professional couturier. So it’s a real test in not only creativity, but patience, willpower and dexterity. Please join me in welcoming the first creation onto the catwalk.’ He clapped his hands, an insincere smile plastered on his face as he brandished his microphone.