Miss manners, p.18
Miss Manners, page 18
‘Liar! YOU stole my diary! And YOU wrote the blog!’ Pinkie yelled.
Suddenly, Pinkie grabbed Genevieve’s hair extension and yanked it right off. Both girls launched into a frenzy, emitting a series of high-pitched piglet squeals.
‘E-nough, you two!’ Brie roared, her voice raising the roof. ‘I’ve already warned you once before, I shan’t warn you again! One more word and you’re both out! Now grow up and stop behaving like a pair of toddlers – this isn’t pre-school!’
And with that, Pinkie and Genevieve fell silent, staring wildly at each other.
That was the first time I’d properly heard Brie shout. It reminded me of the time when a calm and composed supply teacher had been reduced to a quivering wreck by unruly students back at school. And for a student to hear a timid teacher shout was a bit of a shock back then.
I couldn’t help sniggering to myself. My plan had actually worked! Now that I had diverted any potential press attention from myself, I was in with more of a chance of winning the contest.
‘I do apologise, Judith,’ Brie added, her face flushing like a sun-ripened tomato.
‘Don’t worry. Please, let’s continue,’ Judith replied uneasily.
After about an hour of flower arranging, Judith inspected each of our arrangements. Mine looked more like a jungle than a flowerbed.
‘There’s too much going on here,’ Judith pointed out, her hands dancing. ‘It’s less an arrangement and more of a derangement. Think minimalism, not maximisation. Four out of ten.’
Four out of ten? Come on, I deserved at least an eight! Especially considering I’d actually made an effort!
‘Well, at least it smells nice,’ I said in an attempt to salvage my work.
After flower arranging, we moved on to painting. In particular, flowers. We each put on a white apron, sat down behind an easel with a view of Judith’s perfect flower arrangement, then familiarised ourselves with the watercolours and oils.
‘Good morning, girls. I’m Coral Guest and I’m a botanical painter specialising in painting flowers.’
Coral was a chirpy woman in the upper end of her fifties, who wore lots of jangly jewellery, a long, baggy jumper and looked like she’d had her Weetabix.
‘Now,’ she continued, ‘many well-known artists have painted flowers, a few of the most prominent being Vincent Van Gogh, Claude Monet, Georgia O’Keeffe and Andy Warhol.’
Coral proceeded to show us a collection of famous paintings on the projector, then discussed a range of techniques.
‘Art, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. How do we start? Well, you can simply pick the plant up, put it in front of you and say, “All right, that’ll do.” Or, you can look and turn and experiment and sketch and find within that flower an arrangement that has a kind of naturalistic appeal, that says something about the real character, the real personality, real demeanour of that subject. But first, you need to find your own individual style.’
Considering the fact that I have never been any good at naturalism, I decided to focus on cubism, à la Picasso.
I loved the idea of painting (berets, YSL/Picasso-inspired Breton stripes, paintbrushes and easels) but not so much painting itself. I’d done collages before by cutting out pictures from magazines then sticking them on card, but I’d never actually painted.
I started by sketching a deformed version of the flowers in front of me, trying to make it as Picasso-like as possible. I felt rather proud of myself. I was a painter!
I felt like a heroine in a romantic tragedy set in Paris. I imagined I was a French flower girl in love with an American painter in the forties and the painter would ride his bike and buy a single flower from me each day. Ah, it was so romantic.
‘What is this meant to be?’ Coral asked, a bewildered look sweeping across her face.
I snapped out of my romantic daydream and looked up at Coral. ‘Er... cubism?’
‘Cubism?’ Coral repeated, staring at me as if I were an overflowing washing basket. ‘Picasso learned to create perfect life-drawings before he dared to fracture the human image with his cubist paintings. Your painting is neither lifelike nor cubist. It looks more like a bunch of clumsily placed squares, triangles and circles to me. Art isn’t about drawing an entire collection of randomly placed shapes. It is about information-gathering and transcribing the beauty of the subject.’
‘But I thought you said, “Art is in the eye of the beholder?”’ I remarked.
‘I did,’ she sniffed. ‘Except, in this case, the beholder has been blinded.’ Coral blinked, then proceeded to criticise the next girl’s painting.
At the end of my lesson I stared at my painting, feeling an overwhelming sense of pride wash over me.
I could be the next Picasso, I thought to myself, imagining how impressive it would look hanging on my bedroom wall, despite the fact that Coral thought I was more suited to teaching a bunch of pre-schoolers.
I took a peek at Pinkie’s painting, which was a badly sketched mess. She had used every imaginable shade of pink. Genevieve’s painting wasn’t any better. It looked like a bunch of worms with petals for heads. And I swear Diamanté’s flower power arrangement was a tribute to the Spice Girls.
‘What a treat that was,’ Brie said. ‘Thank you, Coral. Next, we will be learning how to play an instrument. And, as I am sure you have already noticed, Michael Longhorn, resident pianist here at The Dorchester, has kindly brought in his piano and offered to teach you to play a piece. For those of you who already know how to play the piano, you will need to learn a new instrument. You may choose between a flute, violin or harp. Michael will be able to summon a few players if necessary. We have until two, before Michael begins his shift at two-thirty in The Promenade. So, without further ado, I hand you over to Michael.’
Michael, a tall gangly man in his thirties, was wearing a tailored suit and looked very smart. I remembered hearing him play the day before and being really impressed.
I’d had a few piano lessons myself when I was a kid, but never really got the hang of sight-reading, so I never really progressed beyond Grade Two. Although I’d had a relative amount of experience in playing piano before, I wasn’t about to admit to that anytime soon, otherwise I’d be forced to play the harp, which looked about as easy as carpet-weaving. Besides, I wanted to be in with as much of a chance of winning the contest as possible. So what if I told a few lies along the way?
It turned out that none of the girls had played the piano before, so we were only going to be taught how to play the first few bars from Für Elise.
Why can’t we play chopsticks instead? I wondered. I’d ace it!
‘Let’s start with the basics. First of all, there are simple mnemonic devices that can be used to remember the names of notes. For the treble clef, starting from the bottom, a rhyme for notes on the lines is “Every Good Boy Does Fine” and for notes in the spaces is “FACE”. For the bass clef, a rhyme for notes on the lines is “Good Boys Don’t Fight Anyone” and for notes in the spaces is “All Cows Eat Grass”.’
‘What about Never Eat Shredded Wheat. What was that one for?’ I asked.
‘North East South West,’ Michael replied, unimpressed.
I never did manage to get the hang of those memory devices. The one device I did get the hang of, the planetary one, was rendered useless when it was recently discovered that Pluto wasn’t actually a planet at all.
‘Next,’ he continued, ‘you’ll need to focus on fluidity, tone, rhythm and pace. And remember, practice makes perfect. So, if you have access to a piano, or even a keyboard, then all the better.’
We gathered around Michael, who first taught us the basics of sight-reading and location of notes on the piano, before tinkling away at the piano keys to show us how the piece was properly played.
Watching someone else play the piano was so hypnotic.
Although not conventionally good-looking, Michael’s X-factor had raised dramatically through his sheer skill and talent. He had what you’d call ‘piano fingers’ whereas I had short stubby sausage fingers that struggled to reach far-away notes (partly the reason I stopped playing the piano in the first place). But in truth the main reason was quite simply ineptitude.
‘Can anyone tell me what note this is?’ Michael asked, pressing on a key in the middle of the piano.
‘Middle C,’ I answered, feeling quite pleased with myself (although it was cheating and I should have instead been playing the harp like a dead Looney Tunes cartoon character).
‘Correct,’ Michael said with a nod. ‘Are you sure you’ve never played the piano before?’
I hesitated before answering. ‘Yes.’
Pinkie sniffed at me, whilst Genevieve looked up to the ceiling. Frunella was the only girl who actually genuinely smiled at me, impressed.
But I was more concerned with selling the story of Pinkie and Genevieve’s fight, which I secretly managed to record on my phone, to Murphy. Revenge was sweet, but being paid for it was much sweeter.
22
Tone Deaf
After what felt like the longest morning of my life, it was finally lunchtime.
A specially prepared lunch had been brought to the ballroom every day since Monday, consisting of The Dorchester’s afternoon tea. There was a never-ending selection of five-finger sandwiches, my favourites being the seafood cocktail and salmon, washed down with a delicious tea, my preference being (apart from Earl Grey) the Parisian vanilla, caramel and bergamot blend. I was really starting to develop a taste for the high life and, although I didn’t like to admit it, I was really going to miss it once it was all over.
Once we’d guzzled all the tea and chomped all the sandwiches, it was time for the second half of the day. The final lessons at the academy. I was already starting to feel quite nostalgic. I was especially going to miss Brie clapping her hands at the start of each lesson, which always made me feel fifteen again.
Brie clapped her hands. ‘Girls, I hope you’ve finished digesting your sandwiches, because now it’s time I introduced you to the next lesson: acting. And who better to teach you than the wonderful Lala Binks, accomplished actress and drama tutor at RADA, who’s worked on a number of RSC productions.’
Lala Binks? What kind of a name was that? Was she related to Jar Jar Binks? Or a Teletubby?
Lala was in her mid fifties, tall and very, very skinny. If she were a piece of chicken, she would be disappointing to eat. She also used a lot of elaborate hand gestures, as if wafting a fart about – never a good look. She talked in the same sing-song cadences that air hostesses do. In fact, she’d probably be doing seat-belt demonstrations next.
‘Good afternoon, girls,’ she said. It sounded like she had a trapped bubble in her throat. ‘Firstly, I’d like to ask if any of you have studied acting before?’
Acting? The only time I can remember acting was that time I played a glove and a messenger. Oh, and of course, more recently, Bunny Simpkins (and you already know how that went). But there was no way I was going to mention this little fact to anyone, seeing as that would be the end of me.
Pinkie raised her hand. ‘I auditioned for a part in Legally Blonde: The Musical a few months ago.’
‘Fantastic.’ Lala raised her eyebrows. ‘How did it go?’
‘I didn’t get the part.’
That must have been the audition Sam had mentioned at Pinkie’s Couture photo shoot, where the casting director thought Tinkerbell was a better actor than Pinkie.
‘Never mind,’ Lala half-sympathised. ‘Climb a mountain and you shall reach the top. Onwards and upwards, I say. Let’s hope that after today’s acting lesson, you’ll feel confident enough to try out new things.’ Lala flitted past like a bird of paradise as she handed each of us a copy of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.
I really wasn’t in the mood for Shakespeare. The only part of Shakespeare class that I really ever paid any attention to were the insults, my favourites being ‘hugger-mugger’, ‘bum-bailey’, ‘puttock’, ‘foot-licker’ and ‘pignut’.
‘And, of course, I’m sure you are all familiar with the works of William Shakespeare,’ Lala trilled.
‘Isn’t he the one who wrote Four Weddings and a Funeral?’ Pinkie chimed confidently.
Thou elf-skinned hugger-mugger! Thou fool-born bum-bailey! Thou swag-bellied puttock! Thou common-kissing foot-licker! Thou dog-hearted pignut!
‘Non, you imbecile,’ Genevieve accented, her lips curling down like Bette Davis. ‘That was Molière.’
‘No, no, NO,’ Lala interjected, trying to remain as calm as possible under the circumstances, although she looked more horrified than if she’d heard the Queen fart loudly in a library. ‘That was Richard Curtis. NOT Shakespeare! And NOT Molière!’
Pinkie may as well have said that Britney Spears was the Queen of England. Seriously, she made Amy Childs look like Einstein! Obviously, she was suffering from a severe case of peroxide poisoning.
Choosing to ignore Pinkie’s comment, Lala decided it was best to move on as quickly as possible to prevent herself from pulling all her hair out.
‘Now,’ Lala continued, ‘I would like you to turn to Act Two, Scene Two of Twelfth Night. I want you to have a five-minute read of Viola’s monologue after Malvolio’s exit.’
As the girls all flicked over to the right page, I couldn’t get my head over just how ignorant Pinkie and Genevieve were. I mean, I always thought the most embarrassing question I’d ever asked was ‘Margaret, what’s your name?’ when I was five years old in the girls’ loos. But, of course, I don’t think this really compared. As long as I didn’t think William Shakespeare or Molière wrote Four Weddings and a Funeral, then I was in with more of a chance of winning. Plus, it didn’t hurt (too much) that I’d studied most of Shakespeare’s folio at university. Now I simply had to combine my acting experience as a glove, a messenger and a rabbit to perform the most sought-after role in the acting world.
‘In this scene, there’s a bit of a love triangle,’ Lala explained. ‘Viola is masquerading under the name of Cesario. But Viola is in a bit of a dilemma, because Olivia, believing Viola to be a man, has fallen in love with her as Cesario. And Viola has fallen in love with Duke Orsino, who also believes Viola is a man.’
For some reason, I thought back to a Blackadder episode where Edmund goes back in time, punches Shakespeare square in the face, then says, “This is for every schoolboy and schoolgirl for the next four hundred years.” Oh, how I wished I could have done that right now.
‘So, does that mean Olivia is gay, then?’ Pinkie proffered.
Suddenly, I forgot all about sucker-punching Shakespeare. In fact, I take it back.
‘No, of course not,’ Lala snorted, staring at Pinkie in disbelief. ‘Olivia is NOT gay. She is in love with Cesario, who she believes to be a man,’ she simplified, as though addressing a toddler. ‘Except Cesario is not a man, but a woman, whose name is Viola.’
‘But she’s in love with a woman, which makes her gay,’ Pinkie insisted.
Why couldn’t I have just thrown a bucket of water over Pinkie and gotten rid of her, like the Wicked Witch of the West? I mean, she’d already wasted too much oxygen as it was.
‘So,’ Lala continued, abandoning her dead-end debate with Pinkie and addressing the rest of the class, ‘now that you have the back story, let’s move on to characterisation.’
Lala then asked each of the girls to take it in turns to act out the monologue.
Pinkie sounded like a hen laying an egg and Genevieve like a French drug addict. And then it was my turn. I just stared at the script, feeling about as confused as a goat chewing a dirty sock. It’s one thing talking, but it’s another thing reading Shakespeare and making it sound as casual as sharing the latest gossip.
As Lala’s woolly eyes bore into mine, I leaped into the abyss. ‘Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,’ I declared, gesturing wildly.
‘Hmm. That needs some work,’ Lala said, as if I were a bum muscle that needed firming. ‘Try it again. But this time, I want less anger and more reflection.’
I wasn’t even aware I was being angry. In fact, I thought I was being reflective. So, I tried it again, except this time I read it as if I were the greatest thinker on the planet.
‘Disguise,’ I pondered like a ponderer, then paused to ponder some more, ‘I see, thou art... a wickedness.’
‘Much better,’ Lala declared enthusiastically. ‘You just need to remember to feeeel every word.’ Lala squeezed an invisible ball as she sing-songed the word ‘feel’, her face looking as if she’d just been nipple-crippled.
Shakespeare, I see, thou art a wickedness, I thought to myself.
After our failed attempts at acting, Lala waltzed in front of us, looking like a vitamin C deficient monkey.
‘Acting isn’t easy,’ Lala intoned like a grandmother clock. ‘It’s an art. Anyway, what I want you to do is read Twelfth Night, ASAP. Oh, and I’ve also provided you with a few exercises you can practise between now and tomorrow.’
Homework never seems to grow old, no matter how old I am.
‘Oh, and Pinkie,’ Lala added gravely, ‘William Shakespeare did NOT write Four Weddings and a Funeral.’ Then she turned to Genevieve. ‘And neither did Molière, Genevieve.’ She paused for a moment before stating, ‘Ignorance is utterly inexcusable.’
As the girls eyed Pinkie and Genevieve like a couple of smelly feet, Pinkie lolled her head to one side, then sniffed out a half-embarrassed laugh that made me want to KO her. If only this were like Tron, except we’d just stepped into a game of Street Fighter instead.
‘Thank you, Lala,’ Brie said, ‘for what has been an incredibly insightful workshop.’ She stared disbelievingly at Pinkie and Genevieve. ‘Though for some more than others.’
The day was getting better and better in the potential tabloid headlines sense. So far, I’d managed to witness Pinkie and Genevieve tussling during a flower-arranging class, Pinkie claiming that William Shakespeare had written Four Weddings and a Funeral and Genevieve arguing that Molière had written it. What a classic! I doubted I could ever have come up with anything as good.
