Miss Manners (9 page)

Back outside I s
potted Henry waving and wheeled towards him. Except, I don’t have a clue what happened next. All I remember is that it hurt – a lot. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor.

I looked up to find a guy with mussed
blond hair standing over me. As my eyes shifted back into focus, I realised it was Henry.

‘
Are you okay? How are you feeling?’ He ran his hand through the back of his hair, making his curls flop forward into his ocean-blue eyes. Not that I was noticing his eyes. Or his curls.

‘
Brain damaged,’ I replied, feeling dazed and confused. ‘What happened?’

‘
You just wheeled into a glass door,’ he said.

I noticed Sophie in the background smirking at me as I lay spaced out on the floor. She walked over conspiratorially, looking like one of those talking germs in a bleach advert, clicked her Dictaphone
and said, ‘Time: twelve thirty-seven p.m. Event: Passé has just slammed into a glass door.’ She clicked her Dictaphone again, gestured the letter ‘L’ with her thumb and index finger, then walked off.

‘
Ignore her,’ said Henry. ‘She’s just jealous.’

Perhaps heels
were
more functional after all?

Once I had semi-recovered, I stood up and walked past a group of sneering Plastics. I headed into the cafeteria with Henry and
we sat down together.

‘
So, how’s your first day been? Have you been set an assignment yet?’ Henry asked.

‘
I have to win the Miss Manners
contest. According to Romilly, if I don’t win the contest, then I can’t write the article: Miss Nobody wins Miss Manners. And apparently, I have to attend the Miss Manners Academy if I want to enter the contest.’

‘
Really?’ he asked, intrigued.

‘
Really,’ I confirmed. ‘But it’s only for five days.’

‘
Where?’

‘
The Dorchester,’ I said, chewing on a chocolate bar. ‘Anyway, enough about me. How about you? What’s your assignment?’

‘
Assignment?’ Henry thought for a moment. ‘Oh, sure. Um, I’m writing an article about the life of Brian Fairfax.’

‘
Brian Fairfax? You mean, the heir to Fairfax Publications?’

‘
That’s the one,’ said Henry, his eyes dancing uncomfortably. ‘In fact, I’m interviewing him at two o’clock tomorrow at Fairfax Manor. Why don’t you come along?’

‘
I’ve heard he’s a spoilt playboy who spends his time frittering away his parents’ money jet-setting and playing the field.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Okay, I’ll come. But only to see if all those rumours are true. What time and where shall we meet?’

Henry ra
cked his brains for a moment. ‘I can come pick you up at your place at one?’

‘
Sure.’

‘
Except, I don’t know where you live.’

‘
Oh, yeah. Sorry.’ I grabbed a napkin, scribbled my address, then handed it over to Henry.

As I took another bite into my chocolate,
Danko appeared.

‘
Hello, darling,’ he said, wafting his arms. ‘I heard about your assignment. But, just to let you know, you’re not going to win Miss Manners looking like that.’

I looked up at him,
my mouth full.

‘
Listen, darling. My style team are on standby. So, once you’ve finished lunch meet me at the studio. Then we can transform you from a colourless caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly.’

Man, if there was anyone who could make me feel self-conscious, it was Danko.

‘Sure,’ I said.

Danko twisted his beard, clapped his hands,
then skipped away.

I
’d been a bit of a Yes Girl lately, saying yes to just about every opportunity that came my way. If I hadn’t, I’d probably be waitressing right now.

‘
Mission impossible, right?’ I asked worriedly.

‘
No, not really. As long as you remember to stay true to yourself, you’ll be fine,’ Henry said encouragingly.

‘
Do you know, you’re the third person who’s said that to me lately. “Stay true to yourself.” The first was a comedian; the second a fortune teller. I guess it’s a sign,’ I said with a smile.

9

Fairy Godfather

Once I’d finished lunch I wheeled over to the studio with Henry. But Danko and his style team were nowhere to be found. As I turned to leave, I heard a knock at the door.

‘
Come in,’ I said.

There was another knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ I repeated slightly louder.

A few moments later, a short, podgy, familiar-looking man in a toupee sauntered in.

‘Sorry to bother you. Are you Anna Borgström?’ he asked, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

‘
Yes. Why?’

Uh
-oh. Was I in trouble?

‘
You can come in now, Ahmed,’ he called towards the exit.

A dark-skinned, weedy young man ran in, camera held up to his face. A few seconds later, flashbulbs popped like firew
orks, snapping as he made a 360-degree turn of my body.

‘
No, no, no! Not yet, Ahmed! Can’t you see, she’s not ready?’

Ahmed nodded his head apologetically,
then stood by the door.

The familiar face turned towards me, extending a chubby, sausage-fingered hand.
‘Murphy Richards.’

Murphy Richards? Wasn
’t that a brand of kettle?

‘
Pinkie’s publicist,’ he explained.

It was then I
recognised him from Riverstones on the day I got fired.

‘
Of course, I’m not just a publicist, you know,’ he continued. ‘I’m also a life coach, a talent agent, an event planner and a press agent (also known as a flack),’ he said, handing me a business card as he announced each profession.

I looked at Henry questioningly.

‘Now,’ he continued, ‘I’ve heard that you’re one of the twelve contestants taking part in this year’s Miss Manners contest. Each year, I represent the contestants, providing them with media exposure during the two weeks leading up to the contest. But this year will be slightly different. You see, at the moment, there’s a media storm brewing around who stole Pinkie’s diary.’

I shuddered nervously.

‘Now,’ he continued, ‘there’s a popular online blog called the Secret Diary of a Socialite that’s taken the whole media by storm. Why? Because the author of the blog, who refers to herself only as Blogstrom–’ he eyed me suspiciously ‘–has revealed she will be one of this year’s twelve contestants. She’s also spilled some dirty little social secrets that are causing a bit of a stir in the hall of fame, particularly with Pinkie.’

Oh, no!
Did Murphy know? Did he know that I was the diary thief? That I was Blogstrom?

‘
So,’ Murphy continued, beetling his brows, ‘this year, I thought I’d do something a little different. A Sherlock Holmes-inspired whodunnit, where each contestant will be profiled as a suspect for a TV documentary,’ he said, outlining the shape of a box with his index fingers. ‘So, whatcha think? Genius, huh?’ He looked over at Ahmed expectantly, who nodded in agreement.

I didn
’t know what to say. So, I said nothing.

‘
It’s okay if you’re slightly taken aback by it all. But don’t worry. I’m a professional. Just think of me as your fairy godfather. A single wave of my magic wand and Cinderella
will
go to the ball.’

I looked down at my palm, which was now filled with an array of business cards he had handed me earlier. They were all different colours with a different logo on each
one.

‘
Well, I’d better be off,’ he announced. ‘I’ll let you have a little think about it. Oh, and don’t forget to call me. Come on, Ahmed. Let’s make shapes.’ Murphy left the room, trailed closely by Ahmed.

I turned to Henry. But just as I was about to say something, Murphy re-entered the room.

‘www.murphyrichards.com,’ he said, then looped back out on himself.

‘
Strange,’ I said, puzzled.

‘
Did you write it?’ asked Henry.

‘
Write what?’

‘
The blog.’

There was a silence.

Suddenly, a shrill voice came from out of nowhere.

‘
Hello, darling,’ crooned Danko as he sashayed into the room with his style team. ‘
Désolé
for the delay. My Jimmy Choo heel snapped on the way. Crisis!’ he breathed. ‘
Alors
, it’s time for your manky to spanky makeover!’

Danko
looked over at Henry.

‘
I’ll call you back in once we’re finished,’ he announced.

‘
Sure. I’ll just wait outside, then,’ said Henry, smiling awkwardly as he stood up to leave.

Once he
’d left the room, Danko clapped his hands. ‘Hair, ready?’

Hair shouted,
‘Yes.’

‘
Make-up, ready?’

Make
-up shouted, ‘Yes.’

‘
Costume, ready?’

Costume shouted,
‘Yes.’

‘
Three, two, one. Let the makeover commence,’ Danko announced, eager to get started.

In no time at all, I found myself immediately enveloped by
Danko’s style team. I felt like I no longer belonged to myself. I felt like a product. It was very strange. I’d never had a makeover before in my life. It reminded me of school girls experimenting on Barbie dolls; shaving their heads and drawing circles on their cheeks with their mum’s favourite red lipstick. I really hoped I wasn’t going to end up like one of those Barbie dolls that looked like something out of a horror movie.

But once I
’d managed to put my mind to rest, the makeover was actually quite a relaxing experience; having my hair played with, soft make-up sponges caressing my face. In fact, I almost fell asleep. That is, until the style team began to whistle a tune from
Snow White and the Seven Dwarves
: ‘Whistle While You Work’.

Approximately twenty-five
minutes later, Danko span me around in my chair to face the full-length mirror.

I stared at my
reflection for a while, unable to recognise myself. My hair was straightened and styled in a bouffant, with hair extensions that made it look fuller and healthier. My make-up was glamorous, and false lashes made my eyelids flutter like butterflies.

I felt a hidden smile wash over my face. But no sooner had I
batted my lashes than the moment was interrupted.

‘
Costume!’ Danko chanted, clapping his hands as he escorted me into the
Couture
closet. He picked out a black silk Armani suit, a pair of black Jimmy Choo heels and a Chanel shoulder bag, then handed them to me to try on.

Five
minutes later, I emerged from the dressing room feeling really expensive, greeted by a mass of shocked faces.

‘
You can come in now, Intern Number Two!’ Danko shouted towards the door with a smile on his face. ‘Oh, and a final touch spritz of Cerruti 1881 and Body Shop White Musk to complete the look.’ He turned towards me, dousing me in perfume.

Henry entered
and stopped in his tracks. His face lit up like an incandescent light bulb.

‘
What are you staring at?’ I asked, wondering why no one was saying anything.

‘
You look awesome,’ he said.

I felt myself blushing like a sun-ripened tomato. It felt as if I could probably fry an egg on my face. I wasn
’t used to being complimented. Normally, compliments were criticisms. I didn’t have a clue how to respond to a compliment. So, like an Essex girl, I said, ‘Shut up.’

Henry raised his eyebrows, smiling.
‘It’s true.’

I felt an uncontrollable smile wash over my face.

‘
Alors
, you are now spanky,
n’est-ce pas
?’ Danko crooned, clapping his hands. ‘Therefore, my job here is done.’

‘
So, are you saying I get to keep this entire outfit?’

‘
The fashion closet is not our personal closet. But, on this occasion (seeing as it is last season), I think I can make an exception.’

B
efore I had chance to say a word, Danko summoned his style team, placed one hand on his hip, then strutted out of the room.

I turned towards Henry, who still seemed to be daydreaming.
‘What time is it?’

‘
Almost twenty to two.’

‘
Already? We’d better make our way back to work, then.’

As I stepped forward, I lost
my balance and tripped on my heel. Before I had the chance to fall, Henry caught me.

‘
Thank you,’ I sniffed awkwardly.

But,
once in Henry’s arms, for some reason I felt the sudden urge to pout and flutter my lashes like Betty Boop.

As I struggled back onto my four-inch high feet, holding a
Couture
bag, I attempted to make my way back through the corridors one step at a time. I probably looked like a drunken penguin, but I didn’t care.

As I
trundled along, I felt all eyes burning a hole into me and heard sniggers and whispers from a gaggle of
Couture
Plastics walking past whose hobbies probably included self-help books and bulimia. Seriously, who invented heels? Now I understood why men never wore heels. They’re so impractical! I stopped, momentarily, only to look up and find a smirking face. It was Dictaphone-wielding Sophie.

‘
Time: one forty-six p.m. Event: Passé walks like a man in heels,’ she said, speaking into the machine, before smugly walking away.

Great, I was now the laughing stock of
Couture.

So, without a moment
’s hesitation, I threw off the Jimmys then continued towards the fashion department barefoot. I flopped down at my desk at the back of the office, burying my hands in my face. As I drifted into a daydream, a silky-smooth voice interrupted my thoughts.

‘
Here. You forgot these.’

I swivelled around in my chair to find Henry wearing the pair of
Jimmys I’d just thrown off in a fit of rage.

‘
Do you think I walk like a man in heels?’ he joked.

I laughed. He looked like that French guy from the Stella Artois advert.

‘They might come in handy for Miss Manners. How do I look?’ Henry paced up and down, his pert bottom sticking out awkwardly.

‘
You look like Danko,’ I said, smiling.

Once Henry left, I decided it would be a good opportunity to check my
blog. After logging in, I scrolled down the page and gasped at what the screen was telling me.

1,134 followers!

No way! I couldn’t believe people had actually read my blog, let alone 1,134! It had only been five days since I’d started one and I’d already accrued over a thousand followers. As I scrolled down the page, I read the most recent comment under my latest Thursday post. I gaped at the screen, agog as two agogs, then, shaking my head in disbelief, read it aloud to myself.

Hi Blogstrom, I really enjoyed reading your post. I can’t believe you have access to all of Pinkie’s dirty little secrets! And you’re a Miss Manners contestant! As a fan of Guess Who, I’m looking forward to guessing Who Stole Pinkie’s Diary once the contestants’ names are published.

PS: Keep the juicy goss coming! Thanks! :-)

I felt overcome. People I have never even met had read my blog and taken the time to write to me.

Once I
’d calmed down a bit, I decided to google Secret Diary of a Socialite to see what came up. When I hit the search button, a long list of articles appeared. I clicked the top one entitled ‘Who Stole Pinkie’s Diary?’ from the
Daily Mail
.

A popular online blog entitled Secret Diary of a Socialite has caused quite a stir in the celebrity world. The anonymous author, known only as Blogstrom, has published the blog on the same day as Pinkie Mortimer’s diary went missing. Since Monday, the contents of the diary have been leaked in the blog, which, as a result, have upset a number of celebrities. Since the blogger has revealed she will be taking part in this year’s Miss Manners contest, a campaign, aptly named Who Stole Pinkie’s Diary?, has been set in motion, which holds all twelve Miss Manners contestants suspect. The names of the suspects will be published and broadcast on Monday, 25th April.

Word was spreading fast on all the news and gossip websites. I never imagined my blog would be this popular!