Page 12 of Am I Allergic to Men?
I’m studying the message, while Cass and Hayley look to me. I know why. Elsa is my speciality. I can let it go like no one you’ve ever seen. I’d like to say I’ve won awards but no. Kids tell me I’m great and sometimes I get tips and extra cake for my time. Today, they’re paying double to get someone down straight away and I think about my very overdrawn bank account.
‘I can help. I got ready here – I can do your hair?’ Hayley says, rooting through her bags. That’s the thing about princesses – the costumes are interchangeable. Cass is already taking her Belle gloves off for me in case I touch stuff and it turns to ice. Hayley whips off her white cape. All I need is a French plait and I’m pretty much good to go.
‘Two parties in a day, that’s pretty much your forte,’ Darren says, winking at me.
‘You want to come along and be Hans?’ I ask. ‘We can ask the kitchen here if they could give us some ice.’
‘I’d say yes but these tights are making my balls sweat buckets,’ he says, pulling at the gusset. ‘You’d better hustle. How are you going to get over there? There are those roadworks right outside,’ he reminds me.
‘I’ll run?’ I tell him, slipping off my glass slippers and changing into my Converse. It’ll add to the drama, me running across the Thames, my skirt and cape billowing in the river breeze. It’ll be nice for the tourists.
He smiles, knowing last minute is my life. ‘I’ll text Dick and let him know you’re coming.’
‘Bring it on,’ I reply, gloving up and going through Hayley’s make-up. We will need glitter, all the goddamn glitter.
When I get outside, I realise Darren wasn’t joking. London is famous for this – traffic that not only weaves its way through three different lanes but also is governed by traffic lights that make little sense and usually end in couriers being where they shouldn’t and black cabs swearing at them with added hand gestures. It’s early June and a midsummer heatwave means the warmth simmers up from the pavements, thick and unrelenting. Whoever’s booked aFrozenparty in this weather is feeling the full force of irony today.
‘Y’all right, Elsa?’ says a man in a black cab, winding down his window.
‘How long have you been sat there then?’ I ask him.
‘Days, mate. I’ve had kidney stones that have left my system quicker than this shitshow. Where do you need to go?’
‘South Bank,’ I tell him.
He sucks air sharply through his mouth. ‘Bridges are rammed too. Can you get on the Tube like that?’
I could but running feels like the better option. I salute him and escape down a staircase to try and tackle Waterloo Bridge. I’ll be hot and sweaty Elsa but at least I won’t be drunk and vomity Elsa. As I look down the bridge, black cab man wasn’t far wrong. It’s also the weekend and the tourist vibe is strong. I stand here wondering what to do.
‘Hello, thank you, please?’
I turn and a group of European tourists are grinning and pushing their kids towards me. Oh. I’m not one of those street artist people. But the kids look up at me, wide-eyed with excitement. I guess… I bend down and smile next to a boy in a Union Jack T-shirt. This better make the DVD photo reel they show Grandma. The dad, in a figure-hugging lemon yellow polo shirt, then gives me a pound. I won’t be able to get a can of Coke for that around here? They all wave at me.Danke, merci, gracias.
Are you on your way?
It’s a text from the Dickweasel.
Yep.
Make sure the mother comes through on the paying you extra in cash. She also wants some singing. Be a love and belt out a couple of favourites?
If we were singing my favourites then it would be numbers from the Cardi B back catalogue.Come on, kids, let’s be bad bitches and beat up them piñatas!I don’t reply. I’ll do a stand-up job because I care.
I lean against a railing as I bring up the address again on my phone. Shit. I’ll need Usain Bolt speed to get there in time. I could jump on the Tube. Sometimes the Tube is quick, sometimes it’s a bloody lottery.
‘Excuse me? May I?’ a young man suddenly asks me.
I look down and realise I’m propped next to a line of rental bicycles and he is trying to return one. There’s a young twenty-something casual vibe about him, like he’s just been on a tour of London to buy sourdough bread and marvel at the architecture, and I immediately resent how relaxed he looks. He’s even had time to turn up his jeans. The young man looks at me curiously.It’s Elsa with a rucksack.And his point is? Where else is she going to put her stuff if her dress doesn’t have pockets?
‘You look lost?’ he says quizzically.
‘Not lost, just trying to work out the best way to get over the river.’
His face says it all.I don’t think you’re dressed for a bike, love. But seriously, I’ve ridden these before (usually at night, drunk). Tourists ride them with selfie sticks and go live on their YouTube travel vlogs. Sourdough boy’s look aggrieves me, like he doesn’t think it even possible that I could get on a bicycle. Only one thing happens when someone does that to me, it’s a challenge. I get out my phone and book a bike.
‘I’d jump in a taxi,’ he suggests.
‘Party is in half an hour, too much traffic.’
