Page 7 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘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, agroupof 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.’
