‘Stickers are for babies! I don’t want your stickers.’
When is it acceptable to drop kick a child? This one is about eight. I don’t think I’d be able to kick him very far but he stands in front of me, pigeon puff to his chest, hands on his hips and a look on his face that you know he’s had since birth. I don’t understand why I’m on this planet? It’s cold. It was warmer in my mum, put me back. I bet he stares at broccoli like this or when he opens a Christmas present with the wrong price tag. This isn’t real Lego, Mother! You can tell he’s a reluctant party guest too. This woman before me is also not a real princess. She is an imposter. She told me her dress was sewn by woodland creatures and fairyland magic. It’s quite blatantly from Amazon. His mum is the slim one in the sports gear and the Louis Vuitton tote bag who showed up with a green smoothie. Look at her, waving her arms about, animatedly talking about their next trip to Mustique, and how they had to fire the nanny because they caught her drinking the San Pellegrino when she should have been drinking water from the tap. I hope that smoothie gives her the squits.
‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all I have. Stickers or fairy dust…’ I say, throwing a handful of glitter into the air. I use the glitter because it will make the clear-up harder and that’s not in my job description.
‘That’s rubbish. Where are the sweets?’ the kid asks. ‘You lot always have sweets.’
‘There are no sweets, little boy. Now jog on to the face painting,’ I say, breaking with character, my tone loaded with a bit too much sarcasm.
‘You can’t talk like that to me.’
‘I can. It’s not your birthday and I ate all the sweets. All the Haribo and they were bloody delish, I tell you.’
He glares at me. This could go two ways now. He could be one of those clever kids who’ll fake tears and run to his mum, and I’ll get the sack. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll have taught this little toad a lesson.
‘I’m going to have your job,’ he whispers into me. Oh, he’s a mini sociopath. This gets better. I put a hand to his shoulder.
‘What are you going to do? Write to my boss in crayon?’ I say in sing-song tones, best party smile on.
His eyes narrow. I really hope he’s not an important child, a politician’s son or European royalty. A figure approaches us from behind his back.
‘No one even cares about you anyway. Cinderella? None of the girls like you. They’re all going to Belle and Snow White. You don’t even look like a princess, you’re really ugly.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want a sticker?’ I say, my head cocked to one side.
‘I told you to keep your stickers. Bitch.’
‘CHRISTIAN!’
The look on Christian’s little face drops. Ha. Got you. The voice comes from Estelle. Estelle’s daughter is Ophelia and it’s Ophelia’s birthday today. Estelle is rocking a midi dress and Alice band vibe today and looks immediately perturbed. Too right, Estelle. Drop kick him, go for it.
‘That is no way to talk to Cinderella.’
Estelle hasn’t used my real name all day. I’m Cinderella and Hayley (who works in a sex club on Thursday evenings, has a nice side hustle on Twitch and whose black hair is completely out of a box) is Snow White.
‘But she was being mean?’
I fake shock and put on my best Disney tones. ‘Oh, I think Christian was disappointed by the stickers. They weren’t quite what he was expecting.’
Estelle shakes her head at him.
Face it, Christian. You have nothing on me. I’m a fair princess and take Les Mills fitness classes twice a week. I will have you.
‘You can come with me, young man, and we will talk to your mother,’ she says, taking him by the hand. ‘Cinders…’
Oh, that’s me. The level of familiarity has reached abbreviations now.
‘Could you help me look for Ophelia? The photographer wants to get some pictures of her with the bubble machine and I can’t find her anywhere…’
‘Of course. Bye, Christian!’ I say, waving, my best party princess rictus grin on view. He looks over his shoulder. He then sticks his middle finger up at me.
Oh, London kids’ parties. They really are quite the thing now. I was the youngest of five sisters and Mum sometimes didn’t even do parties. You have all these sisters, there is no room for any more people in the house. So she’d make a cake and we’d play pass-the-parcel except the parcel was my gift and she’d always time the music so the gift landed on me. They were efficient parties. There were always sausage rolls and jam in the sandwiches and my mum would pop on her kids’ party CD that kicked off with the Ghostbusters theme tune.
Today, we’re in Somerset House in Central London so this is a next-level kids’ party, not a pink wafer or plastic banner in sight. Oh no, they’ve got hand-sewn bunting, pink macaroons that have initials hand-pressed into them, proper teacups and an actual horse called Frou-Frou who plaited his mane for the event. My job is to mill around, pose for photos and occasionally burst into song and teach all these little girls how to be the perfect princess. The poofy dress action and ringlets are strong in this courtyard.
There are also boys. The boys are being taught how to be knights by my mate, Darren, whose sword skills were learnt from his time as an extra on The Witcher. Except the swords are made of balloons. I’ve had to open jars of pickle for Darren before because he has such weedy forearms. So, kids, you should be looking at me if you want to know how to fight.
The excess today kills me, as does the gender stereotyping. I do hope one of these girls nabs a sword and goes on the run. I hope a boy comes over and asks me to put some lipstick on him. But then this is the job and the job is paying me ridiculous amounts of money to occasionally go over to Darren, break into a waltz, swoon at how handsome he is (he’s not; his wig gives him long hair like spaniels’ ears) and curtsey like I might mean it.
‘Mate, have you seen Ophelia?’ Belle asks me.
Belle is Cass. I live with her, and see her regularly eat baked beans cold out of the tin and fart with wild abandon so she’s maybe not the best person to teach these kids about regal flair and etiquette.
‘No. If she’s clever, she’s run away,’ I reply. Cass tries to stifle her giggles. ‘Are those crumbs on your bosom, Belle?’ The joy of these princess dresses is that they also hoik up our boobs so the dads in attendance can grab an eyeful.
‘Oh, shit!’ she says, dusting them off with her satin-gloved hand. ‘Mate, have you seen the bloody smoked salmon in the catering? I tell you, when the kiddywinks have cleared this place, I am going in for the doggy bags.’
Cass has always been very driven by where her next meal is coming from but she says all of this in a delightful Disney voice. She’d sing it if she could. They really haven’t written enough Disney ballads about bloody smoked salmon. Belle swishes her dress at me. It’s all part of the role play. This is what princesses do.
‘The dad at four o’clock with the jeans and the dress shoes offered me sex before,’ Cass tells me.
I put a hand to my chest and chortle. ‘The one with the cap and the boat shoes?’
‘Why yes, Cinderella. He’s even asked me to keep the dress on…’
‘Oh my. Is that his wife in the jumpsuit?’
‘But of course…’ she says. ‘I bid ye farewell, my fellow maiden. I am going to steal some scones.’
We both curtsey, Cass burping under her breath as she does. From the corner of my eye, I can still see Christian being told off by his mother. I curtsey in his direction too. If looks could kill… But hey, he’s eight and I am twenty-nine. I will but brush them away with a twirl of my princess hand.
‘Can I have a picture?’ says a tiny Rapunzel, tugging at my skirt.
‘Why, of course you can. What’s your name?’
‘Hero Beaufort-Charles.’
Of course it is, little lovely. Have you seen Ophelia? You two could start a Shakespearean pop duo. That’s the problem when you get further into Central London: the names become posher and the children look like they regularly book in for spa days. It’s a world apart from what I knew as a kid and the children in my family. All my nieces and nephews feel like normal kids – ones who don’t mind a chicken nugget and who don’t spend the weekend learning Latin and the cello.
‘Oh, there’s a photographer – how marvellous,’ exclaims Hero’s mum. ‘Now remember, Hero, lean and smile, no teeth. Chin, find your angles.’
Oh, she’s a stage mum. That’s why this girl’s teeth look like they’re coated with gloss paint. I lean my head into Hero’s as Mum huddles into the photographer to see if she approves of the images.
‘Oh, that’s lovely. I must get that one off Estelle for her portfolio. Thank you both so much.’
It’s the sort of thanks I always get, through gritted teeth because they have to communicate with the hired help. We both nod in reply and the photographer comes over.
‘Did she just say portfolio…?’ he asks.
‘She did.’
Photographer man is dressed like a bargain Simon Cowell. He’s not ugly, though the beard is a little sculpted for my liking, but seriously, do up the shirt buttons.
‘I’ll take it this is your first children’s party gig?’ I ask him.
‘I normally do weddings. This is genuine weirdness.’
‘Oh, I’ve done worse. I’ve done this on ice before. A child went face first into the ice and broke their nose and there was a lawsuit. Fake snow though. And Slush Puppies.’
He chuckles under his breath but I see his eyes scan down to my décolletage.
‘I’m Reuben,’ he says, not offering out a hand.
‘Cinderella. Close friends call me Cinders,’ I say, curtseying.
He pauses for a moment. ‘I noticed a room out the back if you wanted to take a break,’ he whispers in gentle tones, leaning into me, his breath on the side of my neck.
Oh, Reuben. Is this his trademark move at weddings too? A nice-looking bridesmaid, guest or band singer? I know that prolonged gaze and raised eyebrow. And it’s not like I’ve not hooked up with single dads at parties before. I have. It’s one of the perks of the job. But I’ve always been professional. We did the do after the party end time on the invite and never within the vicinity of children. I mean, that’s just wildly inappropriate. Reuben thinks he has charm. He has a bare chest, that’s about it. He also has a wedding ring, which means any charm vaporises into the breeze and is replaced by sleazy smarm factor.
‘I don’t take breaks, Mr Photographer Man.’
‘Well, what about when the clock strikes twelve? We could go somewhere. I could show you my pumpkin,’ he says.
There are many ways I could respond to this: fear, disgust, worry. But no, he’s just compared his manhood to a pumpkin. If his penis is round, swollen and orange then I am definitely not going near it. So I laugh.
‘Mine’s the Tesla out the front. See you after?’ he replies, mistaking my laughter for flirting.
‘Or how about after this, you jump in your Tesla and go back to your wife.’
‘I’m not married.’
‘And I’m not a virgin princess. Go and take some photos or I’ll shove your long lens up your piss pipe.’
He scowls at me and wanders off through the party.
‘Trouble, young maiden?’ says Darren, strolling up next to me.
‘Yeah, some crap knight you are. You’re not fending away the monsters.’
He makes a tactical turn to shield himself from the group and pulls a wedgie out of his arse. I told him to go with the leather trousers but he was worried about getting too warm. Now he has the problem that my tights are getting stuck up his crack. He can keep those.
Darren and I have been on the books for this talent agency for the longest of times. We once did a very cool Aladdin party where I had to paint him blue as a genie. I may have used the wrong sort of paint though and he had to spend a weekend indoors because people were calling him Papa Smurf in the street.
‘Have you had any mums come on to you yet?’ I ask him.
‘I’ve had a number slipped into my sheath.’
‘Oo-er.’
‘My sword sheath.’
‘I knew what you meant.’
‘Is the photographer a sleazebag then?’ he asks, his eyes following him around the courtyard.
‘The worst sort. Also, the birthday girl seems to have done a runner. We’ve all been told to keep an eye out.’
‘Like, out of the venue?’ he asks, a little worried. ‘Do I need to find my noble steed and gallop through the streets of London to find her?’
‘Last time I saw, you have a Fiat, mate.’
We both smile at each other, still in character of course, him bowing and me curtseying while I wander through the courtyard trying to find Ophelia. I wave to all the children, nodding to Belle as she sits at one of the tables pretending to teach little girls how to hold a teacup but, in fact, getting herself in position to scoff the petits fours. I also see a child with the latest iPhone. As my phone has a cracked screen and is held together by tit tape, I do not like this child. Who the hell are you calling at eight years old? And don’t say your Pilates instructor.
I scan the area. Ophelia definitely is not here. Damn. Maybe we should be making more of a fuss? Like, she could be on a train at Waterloo by now. I try to think where I would go if I was eight. I used to hide under tables. I was the youngest of five so it was the best way to bite ankles and annoy sisters older and stronger than me. Or maybe, just maybe…
I slip past catering staff, through the corridors of one of the buildings. It’s silver service so it looks like they’ve been shipped in from Downton Abbey and, through the cracks of the kitchen door, I see a group, yes, a group of people trying to work out how to get the cake through the doors. That’s not just cake. That is mammoth, obscene amounts of confectionery. Good luck trying to wrap a slice of that in a napkin and send it home. You’ll need a chainsaw to buzz through it.
Past the kitchen, I notice the toilets themselves have been themed as Princesses and Knights. The Knights one has a portcullis and a dragon at the door. Not a real dragon, obviously, but I kick it just to be sure and a puff of smoke comes out of his nostrils. Or is that air freshener? I enter the Princesses and get on all fours to scan under the stalls. At the end, glittery ballet shoes dangle off a toilet.
‘Hi… Ophelia?’ I say in my friendliest tones. The shoes withdraw themselves. ‘I just saw your feet, honey. It’s all good. It’s just me here.’
‘Who’s me?’ a voice whispers.
I get up to my feet. A door swings open behind me and a mother and daughter appear. Christ in heaven, they match and not in a good way. I don’t know in what kingdom princesses would wear matching Burberry like that.
‘I’m afraid you can’t use these toilets,’ I say swiftly, blocking the entrance.
‘Why ever not?’ the lady says, the tone putting me, Cinders, in my place.
‘I…I…’ She tries to push past me but I stand my ground. ‘I didn’t get to the toilet in time. There’s a huge puddle of wee in the middle of the floor.’
Both mother and daughter look completely horrified, the mum glancing down to my skirt. That was one of my worst excuses ever but, hey, I’m not sure I care. I can be that anecdote she tells others at the school gate: the pissing princess.
‘The Knights toilets are open. Fare ye princesses across the way.’
The mother turns, unimpressed, grabbing her daughter's hand. Good riddance. I barricade the door with a chair and head to the cubicle where Ophelia is hiding. As I approach, I knock tentatively.
‘It’s me, Cinderella.’
‘Did you really pee in the middle of the floor?’ a voice whispers, half laughing, half trying to catch her breath.
‘No. Was that an awful lie?’
‘You could have said the toilets were broken.’
‘Right? I’m just not as smart as you. You OK?’
The door unlocks but doesn’t open. I push it slightly ajar. She looks a little how Cinderella looked when she was told she couldn’t go to the ball. What’s worse is that I know she’s been crying, thanks to the puffiness, the ruddiness in her cheeks. Oh, you poor fair Ophelia. She pops herself back on the closed toilet and I lower myself onto the floor, making a note to dry-clean this outfit later.
‘It’s your birthday, you’re supposed to be having the most fun that any girl could ever have in the whole entire world.’
She gives me a puzzled expression in reply.
‘Did I overdo the princess there?’
‘Yeah. Do you have a real name?’
I smile. She’s seen through all of this: the extra blusher, the decent bra, the synthetic dress that warns me I shouldn’t stand too close to naked flames.
‘Lucy,’ I say, holding out my hand.
‘Pleased to meet you, Lucy.’
I pull some loo roll out of the holder, bunch it up and wipe down my pits. This triggers more of a laugh from her to see a glimpse of me out of character.
‘It’s tiring lugging this dress about.’
‘Is it heavy?’
‘Kinda but I once did a medieval fair and had to be Anne Boleyn. The dress was made out of curtains and had hoops and everything, that was heavy.’
‘Did they cut off your head at the end?’
I chuckle, impressed that this girl knows her history. I went out with Henry VIII from that gig for a month. His name was Jay, he was authentically ginger and had a thing for golden showers. She doesn’t need to know that though.
‘They did. It stung but they reattached it with superglue. Doctors can do marvellous things these days.’
She laughs and the sound breaks the sadness hanging in the air. I hear someone try and push the door open.
‘DON’T COME IN! CLEANING IN PROGRESS!’ I shout over the cubicle. This makes her smile again.
‘That was Penelope Stanton before,’ she says. ‘That woman you stopped from coming in here.’
‘Queen Burberry?’ This induces a bigger laugh. ‘What’s Princess Burberry’s name?’
‘Saskia.’
‘Sassy Stanton. I think I know what sort of girl she is… Not a fan?’
She takes a little pause before answering that. ‘She’s not very nice to me. She calls me Boffy Offy and a sad case. Mum doesn’t see it. She thinks this is one big party so she can show off to the other mums. I didn’t even want this. I’ve not watched a princess film in years.’
‘What did you want?’
‘Trampoline park.’
‘Oooh, they’re mega fun.’
‘Right?’
‘I took two of my nieces once. We went on the night that they turn off the lights and your teeth glow.’ Trampoline parks are handed to me as most of my sisters’ pelvic floors can’t take it.
‘How many nieces do you have?’
‘Seven and two nephews.’
‘That’s a lot. Are you the fun aunt?’
Like I said, super smart, this girl. ‘I like to think so.’
‘That’s cool.’ Ophelia goes quiet for a moment and my heart bleeds for her. You can almost feel the sadness radiating off her. Tell me everything, I want to say. But there’s only so long I can stay in this cubicle, lovely. I can’t make this better for you, not here. That thought alone makes me a bit upset.
‘I could trip Saskia up? Throw a cupcake at her like a baseball? I’ve got good pitch.’
She cups her hands to her mouth at the thought.
‘I’m sorry she’s such a cow. Is her mum a cow? Usually they come in pairs.’
‘Her mum was the first female vice president at JP Morgan. She recently split up from her husband because she was sleeping with her barre teacher and they had to sell their holiday home in Marbella.’
‘Oh, so a primo cow then?’
She giggles again. I shift into a crouching position and take her hands in mine.
‘Ophelia, you will come across women like that sometimes. Ones who are not very nice at all. I will never get them, ever. But you can’t let them bring you down, you just can’t.’
‘I heard her mum make fun of my teeth before. I know they’re a bit wonky but she told me that a princess would never have teeth like mine.’
I see her tongue scooping at the inside of her mouth, young, self-conscious shoulders slumping down.
‘A grown woman said that about you? So she’s not a cow, she’s a different sort of animal.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Like a female dog?’
‘I never said that. Don’t repeat that.’
She shakes her head in what I think is awe and wonder.
‘Next time she says that, you reply with “Well, I can fix my teeth, it’s a shame they can’t fix your personality.”’
I say that cocking my head to one side. There’s a little spark in her eye. That’s not even my best retort, I have lockers of the things. Thank the sisters for that. My wit is as razor sharp as they come, literally like a new razor, out of the box. If she wants, I can go out there and take this girl and her mum down for her. I wouldn’t even charge extra on top of my normal fee.
‘Can you talk to your mum about this?’ I ask.
‘My mum and Penelope play tennis together.’
Of course they do. I bet they play a light match where they don’t break out in a sweat and then sit in a sauna together and end the date with a Caesar salad. Without the dressing or the bacon.
‘I think you are more important to your mum than Penelope Stanton.’ The look she returns makes my heart break a little. Oh, Ophelia. ‘It can’t hurt to at least say what’s been happening?’
‘Maybe. I just need to get through this circus first,’ she says calmly.
Who is this child? I like her. I wish I could take her to a trampoline park. We could go dressed like this, imagine how high our skirts could fly up.
‘What about sisters? Brothers?’ I ask.
‘My brother, Lysander, is in boarding school. He got in on a chess scholarship. We don’t see him much.’
I don’t know how to respond to that. Does Lysander play his chess in a velveteen feathered cap, write with a quill and own a very small beard? Instead, I extend my hands and pull her up.
‘Well, let’s get through the next hour or so. You are very welcome to stand by me and tag along. I’ll look after you.’
She looks up at me, almost as if no one has ever said those words to her before. I squeeze her hand that much tighter and reach into my purse, getting out a Mac lip gloss. I reapply and then reach over to give her a smidge. It’s glittery but that’s because I am a princess, I do this shit right. The moment is interrupted by hard knocking at the door of the room.
‘OPHELIA! ARE YOU IN THERE? WHO IS IN THERE WITH YOU? WHY IS THIS DOOR CLOSED? HELLO?’
Ophelia rolls her eyes at me, pushes past and moves the chair that was blocking the door. Behind it stands Estelle. Do not give me that look, Estelle. If you want to throw this down then I can take off these gloves and do it here. Game on.
‘What is going on here?’ she asks, condescension in her tone.
‘My hair came loose, Mummy, and Cinderella helped me fix it again. I was really embarrassed. I didn’t want anyone to see.’
Her mother examines it for loose bits of fringe. ‘Well, crisis averted. Thank you, Cinderella. Penny gave me a different version of events,’ she says, looking to my crotch. ‘You should be out there, darling. It is your party.’
‘It’s not though, is it?’ the girl replies. From the look of her mother’s face, you can tell that Ophelia doesn’t do this much: answer back, stand her ground. It makes me beam though, any time a girl finds her strength and it starts to beam out of her like sunshine.
‘Excuse me? We have spent a lot of money on today, we raised you to show gratitude, young lady.’
Ophelia side-eyes me. Keep going, honey. You got this. But I sense what we got was a little spark, a flicker of hope, that one day she’ll be able to tell her mother everything. Just not today.
‘Thank you, Mummy,’ she whispers and pushes past both of us to exit the room.
Estelle turns to the mirror to check her make-up is still in place. ‘Thank you, by the way, for finding her and sorting her hair. I told the hairdresser to use more hairspray.’
She slips a twenty-pound note onto the sink space in front of us. What would she like me to do now? Hand her a towel and a pump of hand lotion? I stare at the money. Then I look back to her.
‘She’s such a sensitive girl. Her eyes will be all blotchy now, maybe we can Photoshop that out.’
Never mind Christian outside, I’ve found a new person I want to drop kick. I remember a party my mother threw for Beth in a village hall once. I was tiny but there was a boy there who said Beth had ugly shoes (this was not incorrect, we did have a lot of hand-me-downs). This made Beth cry so my mother didn’t give him cake because ‘nasty little boys don’t deserve cake’. That is how you mother at parties.
‘I think she was crying because of something else, perhaps?’ I feed her the information hoping there is some sort of maternal instinct in there. But it’s not there, is it? Not even an iota of the stuff. I could leave this here. This is not my fight and certainly not a fight I want to start because my rent is due and I need somewhere to live. But I’m also Cinderella, I know how to get over evil villainous creatures. Someone hold my glass slipper.
‘Ophelia saw something before which was quite upsetting for her,’ I say, making it up as I go along. ‘The photographer and one of the mums were possibly doing something a little inappropriate in the bathrooms.’
This seems to pique her interest.
‘One of the mums?’
‘Yes.’ I am such a good actress when I need to be. ‘She was in Burberry?’
‘PENELOPE? She was having sex at my daughter’s party?’
‘I didn’t catch her name.’
‘The photographer is my brother and he is married.’
Oh. That took a turn. Still, he was a complete creep and that is not a lie. I nod in the mirror, feigning horror.
‘I know she’s single now but there are some people that are just off limits. How very dare she!’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause drama. Maybe the best thing is we carry on as normal and you can tackle this later? For Ophelia, at least.’
She studies my face in the mirror. I can’t quite tell if she thinks I’m lying but, Estelle, I’m a princess. We don’t shit stir. It’s all starlight, true love and musical numbers.
She nods. ‘You are so right. Thank you.’ Her eyes point to the money and she puffs her hair out one more time before exiting, stage left. I look down at the money. I leave it where it is.