Page 10 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘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 isyourparty.’
‘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’.Thatis 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.
2
I remember a time when the after-party used to be a kebab, a spliff and a drunken snog in someone’s front room. That may come later but, for now, we’ve waved our hands and curtseyed to every damn person in this place so we’re rewarding ourselves by sprawling across the marble floors of an empty event room, enjoying a picnic of goodies that Cass stole from the kitchen. Naturally, this event was also not without alcohol so we have stolen a few pitchers of Pimm’s. Cass isn’t even using a glass but linked up some paper straws to one. I cast an eye over the finger sandwiches and tartlets but I don’t fancy any of it. I fancy crisps. But princesses don’t eat Pringles, do they? Hayley enters the room, looking like she may want to stab someone or something.
