Miss Manners Read Free

stairs like a drunken penguin.
    William Weisman, more commonly known to the level -four Harrolds staff as Bill, was short, round and fat, like a football with legs, whose face looked as though it had been made with plasticine and then squashed by something angry. He was a sweaty, umbrella-haired man in his late fifties who hated his life and everyone in it, and who acquired a sense of empowerment by treating his staff like servants. Although I felt a little sorry for him, I hated him more. I mean, Bill was definitely one of those people you loved to hate.
    I walked into the loos with a bunny costume in one arm and a script in the other, remembering how my mum would always advise me to ‘Do your best and forget about the rest’ whenever I was faced with a challenge.
    As I battled my way into the smelly costume and finally zipped it up at the back, I looked at myself in the full -length mirror.
    I looked like a Teletubby.
    Seriously, what was this? A Jerry Hall promo video?
    Next, I looked at the lines and attempted to memorise them as quickly as possible. It reminded me of all those school play auditions and how I had only ever been given small, non-speaking part s, like a flailing tree or a glove. Although, I do remember once being given a line that went something like, ‘I have a message for you, Sire.’
    M y phone buzzed. It was none other than Bill.
    Man, was I popular.
    ‘What’s taking you so long!? Pinkie’s entourage is here!’ he spat down the phone.
    Why don ’t you go and suck on a lemon , sour face? I thought to myself. What I actually ended up saying was, ‘Sorry, Bill. Just on my way now. But I haven’t managed to memorise all the–’
    Beep beep beep. The phone went dead.
    ‘ Charming,’ I said to myself.
     
    As I arrived at Riverstones dressed as a pink Easter bunny holding a basket of chocolate eggs, I was immediately swamped by children who decided it would be a good idea to pet, stroke, yank and poke me.
     
    I hate kids .
     
    I looked around the room, noticing a horde of paparazzi, columnists, children (mostly young girls) waiting for an autograph and Pinkie’s PA, who looked panicked, her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry, no doubt making sure everything was running according to schedule.
    She was a short , stout woman in her mid thirties with short brown hair, who looked like everyone’s mother. It seemed she had little or no time to herself, that her life revolved around making Pinkie Mortimer happy. She reminded me of a stage manager at the theatre, ensuring that all departments were on standby and everything was running smoothly before each show. In fact, there wasn’t really much difference between a celebrity circus and a West End show. Pinkie’s entourage was the production team: her publicist was the director, her PA was the stage manager and Pinkie was, well, who would have guessed it, the star of the show.
    ‘ Okay, okay. Here she comes. Pinkie’s a VIP, so you’d better be on your best behaviour,’ Bill half whispered, half choked.
    VIP? I ’ve never even been an IP. I’m just a P.
    Anyway, cue Pinkie Mortimer strutting into the room with one hand on her hip and posing for the cameras as if she were on a Milan catwalk, walking in a way that advertised her fertility.
    Pinkie was a peroxide blonde, size zero twenty-something with eyes like a pair of long-legged spiders, a bum like an eight-year-old boy’s, and a fake-bake the colour of an Oompa Loompa. She was wearing a tacky tiara, a Hubba Bubba pink, skimpy little dress and an accessory under her right arm – a shivery, frail-looking chihuahua called Tinkerbell (according to its jewel-encrusted name tag) with a matching outfit. A deep, pouty perfume mixed with the smell of dog immediately enveloped the entire room. Under her left arm, Pinkie was carrying a book with a retina-frying pink cover and the words PINKIE’S DIARY written across it in bold letters, which was lined with tacky glitter-fluff-trimmed edges. She then