Free Miss Manners by Iman Sid Page A

something wasn’t quite right. Like something was missing.
    I searched my backpack to make sure I had everything I needed. Glasses. Check. Phone. Check. House keys. Check. Purse. Check.
    I paused to think for a moment, then looked down at my feet. I was still wearing my slippers!
    Seriously, I might as well check myself into a retirement home right now.
    Once I’d sorted out that little blunder, I made my way to Oxford Circus.
    Stepping out onto Oxford Street, I was immediately overwhelmed by the sea of people stampeding towards me from all directions. But a few more minutes of making my way through a waking city eventually landed me at the front door of the Fairfax Publications building.
    Above the main entrance of the 1950s building was etched ‘Couture House’ in gold. But to be honest, the place looked like nothing special from the outside.
    I pushed the hallowed revolving doors to enter, although a little too hard. As a result, the glass door whipped around, hitting me from behind and forcing me to trip over.
    A woman behind the security desk laughed. ‘First day?’
    ‘ How did you guess?’ I said, feeling slightly annoyed at being laughed at.
    ‘ Don’t worry, it happens quite often,’ she chortled. ‘Last week, Kate Moss tripped over and cracked her heel.’
    I suddenly wondered what Kate Moss must have done with those heels.
    ‘ Do you know where I can find Couture ?’ I asked.
    ‘ Sixth floor. Suite six thousand and one,’ she said as she picked up a sign-in book. ‘Just fill out this information here, and I’ll give you a temporary pass to go upstairs. Tell them you need a card.’

8
     
    Couture
     
     
     
     
    Although the building looked pretty boring from the outside, it was all very la-di-da on the inside. I walked towards the lift, pressed the up button and waited. The lift pinged as it arrived. ‘Dinner’s ready,’ I whispered, unable to help myself. As the doors opened, I shuffled onboard.
    Inside the lift was a flat-screen television showcasing catwalk shows, art exhibitions and celebrity photo shoots, to name a few. I allowed myself to relax for a moment during that swift, quiet ride. Deep, pouty perfumes mixed with the smell of fresh leather filled my nostrils – definitely better than the smelly Tube.
    Once I’d arrived at my floor, the lift yawned open. ‘Level six,’ came the velvety voice of a disembodied woman.
    I entered a stark white reception area, where classy furniture dared people to sit down. The magazines’ names were displayed in bold, black typeface along the walls that bordered the lobby.
    I shuffled o ver to the reception desk.
    A haughty woman in her early forties was speaking frivolously on the phon e, fiddling with the name plate (Sandra Langford) on her desk.
     
    So, I waited. And waited. And waited.
     
    Having had enough of waiting, I decided to go for a wee. It was an excuse to check out the toilets – a promise I made to myself whenever I found myself anywhere posh and plush.
    As I entered the potty palace, my eyeballs panned the room. It looked more like a hotel room than a toilet. There were delicious smelling hand washes and creams, a batch of clean, carefully rolled white hand towels and an array of top range fragrances – Gucci, Armani, Versace, Chanel, to name a few. An added benefit was the fact that there was no one there to ask for tips to use any of the items, like the time at an East London nightclub where a middle-aged African woman offered the use of her perfumes and hair straighteners for a price. She also sold chewing gum and lollipops. ‘Lollipop! Freshen up!’ she would sing whenever someone walked out of a toilet cubicle.
    After answering the call of nature I washed my hands, then sprayed myself with each of the perfume samples in copious amounts, scanning the room for cameras. I couldn’t spot any so I stuffed a couple of half-finished bottles into my rucksack, then sauntered out of the toilets, feeling my belly back-flipping.
    S