‘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.’
