Page 5 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘You can’t talk like that to me.’
‘I can. It’s notyourbirthday 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 theGhostbusterstheme 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 onThe 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.
