Miss Manners Read Free Page A

whispered something to her PA, handing the diary over to her, who in turn vanished from the room.
    She had barely been away for one minute.
    ‘Joy, where’s my l’eau minérale ?’ Pinkie demanded like a diva. ‘Joy? Joy! JOY!’
    ‘ Coming.’ Joy charged over to Pinkie with a bottle of Clarendon mineral water.
    Does Joy wipe Pinkie ’s bottom, too ? I thought to myself, then quickly tried to erase the disgusting vision from my mind. She’ll probably be asking for a glass of Moët & Chandon next.
    Seriously, the world doesn ’t make any sense.
    Once Joy had handed the mineral water over to Pinkie, she turned to walk towards Pinkie ’s publicist. A David Brent-lookalike in his late forties, wearing a blue suit and a headset in his ear, he stood beside the row of waiting journalists delivering press hits and pitching items to the gossip columnists.
    A good publicist can make anyone seem more important and more desirable than they really are , I thought.
    But before Joy had the chance to speak to him, Pinkie interrupted.
    ‘ Joy? Joy! JOY! This isn’t Bling H 2 O. It’s Clarendon. I specifically asked for Bling H 2 O. Tinkerbell hates anything else,’ she said in a whiny, nasal, Daddy’s-little-girl voice.
    Poor Joy. Why did she put herself through all the trouble? Money? I mean, was it really worth it? All the stress and sleepless nights. Joy was literally her surrogate mummy – minus the unconditional love, of course.
    I turned to a shop assistant at Riverstones whom I had never seen before; he seemed hypnotised and in awe of Pinkie. He was a spotty, over-confident teen, wearing a standard uniform. His name tag read ‘Lloyd Moseley, Sales Assistant’.
    ‘ Who is she?’ I asked Lloyd, whose gaze was transfixed on Pinkie as if he had just been turned to stone by Medusa.
    There was no response.
    But just when I was beginning to think he hadn’t heard me, his head swished around as if he were auditioning for a L’Oréal advert. He looked straight at me with glaring eyes, evidently angered at my lack of pop culture knowledge.
    ‘ Who is she?’ Lloyd repeated mockingly, his brow furrowing furiously.
    The flock of waiting fans became eerily silent and turned to gaze at me as if I had just entered the room dressed as Hitler in a tutu.
    ‘Who is she?’ Lloyd said again, but in a louder voice. ‘OMG, kill yourself! She’s an angel sent unto us to deliver unto us her awesomeness.’ He turned to face the crowd, like a proud parent at a graduation ceremony. ‘She accidentally accepted my friend request on Facebook, you know.’
    ‘ No, I meant why is she famous?’ I rephrased, trying hard to stay composed.
    The starry-eyed boy, who  was about eighteen years old and immersed in a world of airbrushed celebrities, pondered for a brief moment before answering, as if considering the meaning of life.
    ‘ It doesn’t matter what she’s famous for. She’s amazing! She’s an inspiration! A goddess! And I love her. L-O-V-E LOVE HER!’ 
    Having finished his  spelling bee warm-up, Lloyd turned towards Pinkie, kissing then holding up a pink book above his tiny little peanut-shaped head. ‘Love ya, Pinkie!’ he blasted deafeningly, his thumb and index finger flashing an L shape.
 
    Obviously, I had asked the wrong person.
     
    Seriously, why is it people worship celebrities like gods? I thought, resigning myself to the idea that their attraction probably lies in the fact that they lack any resemblance to reality.
    I made sure to ask another shop assistant who didn ’t seem to be affected by Pinkie Mortimer’s presence.
    As I scanned the room, I noticed a girl standing behind the till wearing a look of sheer boredom on her face and staring into space.
    As I approached, she looked up at me with a smile that seemed to say ‘Poor you’.
    ‘ You’re Pinkie’s mascot, right?’ she asked, her lips curling into a crisp smile. ‘Bunny Simpkins?’
    ‘ Only for today. I’m usually Anna Borgström,