went to start helping match children up with their shoes, coats and parents.
‘You’re not a nice clown,’ spat Maisie. ‘You’re an evil clown.’
Looking around to make sure no one was in earshot I bent down so that I was at eye level with Maisie and said in as menacing a tone as I could summon up, in order to really exude a ‘clown gone psycho’ sort of vibe, ‘And you’re a horrid, mean little girl, aren’t you?’
Immature I know, but worth it to see the stunned look on her face before she burst into tears. This time the tears were genuine.
With mums and dads arriving the timing wasn’t great. When it comes to bookings I pretty much depend on word of mouth so a child standing next to me wailing in distress isn’t exactly the best advertisement for my skills in entertaining. Then things suddenly took a dramatic turn for the worse, at which point Maisie’s histrionics became the least of my worries. For headed my way was someone who looked scarily identical to Simon.
What the hell?
The world seemed to tip on its head as my scrambled brain searched desperately for an explanation of any kind that might explain his presence. Maybe he had a twin? Or a clone? Maybe I was so dehydrated I was hallucinating? Swiftly however, I came to the horrific realisation that none of these things were true at all and that, of course, it was definitely him. Shortly after this revelation it also dawned upon me that I was dressed as a clown, and that I’d told him I was working on a glamorous advert today. Him seeing me dressed as Custard the freaking Clown was never the plan and what the hell was he even doing here? Panic started bubbling upwards.
Mortification flooded through my system and if I’d been capable of running in my comedy shoes I would have seriously considered fleeing the building. As it was I was trapped, fenced in by a ring of small people, so I turned around, hoping to blend into the background as much as possible. Not easy in a tailcoat and blue curly wig. Plus Maisie was still bleating on, hell-bent on creating a scene, so in desperation I bent down and buried my red nose into my bag of tricks, hoping to look like a busy clown. One who was too busy to say goodbye to any of the children. A clown who just didn’t give a shit.
Then, confirming my worst fear, I heard someone who sounded identical to the Simon I’d been flirting with last night. ‘Maisie darling, what’s wrong sweetie?’
And she said back. ‘That clown said I was a nasty little girl.’
Mind racing, I wished sincerely that the ground would open up, or that a shovel would appear so I could at least start digging and give it a helping hand. Was Simon her uncle? Of all the flipping brats he could be related to.
‘That clown there?’ he said and at this point I felt a sort of calm, defeated acceptance of the situation. I also thought his question was stupid. How many other bloody clowns could he see?
‘Yes Daddy.’
Daddy?
Suddenly I was filled with a new, quite horrid, sense of enlightenment that superseded any of the embarrassment I was suffering from. That one word had changed everything. Slowly, I turned around and without making eye contact demanded to know, ‘Is she your daughter?’ As I asked, I surreptitiously pulled my wig down a bit to obscure my face. My red nose had started to pinch a while back, but now I was grateful for it.
‘Yes,’ replied an aggrieved-looking Simon, clutching the revolting Maisie to him protectively. Knowing that ‘Daddy’ couldn’t see, she stuck her tongue out at me. ‘And I think you owe her an apology,’ Simon continued, totally unaware that I was me. ‘She said you upset her.’
I was just about to make up some bullshit excuse before making my escape when my gaze was drawn to something else. Simon was wearing a gold band on his left hand, which he certainly hadn’t been wearing in the club. And that did it. Prior to seeing that ring I had still been grappling with explanations for everything. Simon was divorced but remained devoted to his hideous daughter. Simon had adopted Maisie as a single father because her natural parents had rejected her for being so vile – let’s face it, this was a possibility. And yet that band of gold told me that this was all utter rubbish and that I had been well and truly bullshitted. What was it with these men?
I was furious and simultaneously found myself actually wanting to be recognised, at which point I slowly slipped off my wig, pulled off my nose, stared hard and waited patiently for his pea brain to compute. Seconds later it started to happen. His face was a picture of horror as slowly the penny dropped.
‘… Marianne?’ he eventually stuttered, his face growing almost as pale as my white one.
‘Yes,’ I answered defiantly, painted face held high.
‘What are you … doing here?’
‘What does it look like I’m …’ I swallowed down the ‘f’ word. ‘What does it look like I’m doing here? Entertaining your daughter and her friends is what I’m doing here,’ I hissed, my voice livid.
‘Right, well nice to see you again,’ he lied, looking longingly towards the exit.
‘You utter pig,’ I muttered.
‘Come on Maisie,’ Simon pleaded. ‘We’re going darling, now.’
‘Where’s Mummy?’
‘Waiting in the car,’ he whispered urgently, as if whispering would cancel out the reference to the cuckolded mother of his child. ‘Go and get your party bag from Jack’s mum.’
‘So, Mummy’s in the car is she?’ I blustered, once Maisie had charged off in search of more treats she didn’t deserve. ‘Maybe I should come outside and introduce myself to Mummy?’
Simon looked terrified.
‘What, you don’t like the idea of that? Why’s that then?’
‘Just stay away from my family,’ he sneered icily, his face contorted in rage.
‘Maybe I’d be doing her a favour?’ I added, enjoying watching him squirm, though admittedly my enjoyment would have been even greater had I been wearing something more standard.
‘Look, you crazy bitch, just keep away all right?’ was his charming riposte, after which he gulped, looked around and then pegged it.
It was awful, and as I stood there trying not to cry, feeling hurt and stung, not only by Simon’s actions but by his venomous tone of voice, I felt truly gutted and absolutely humiliated.
Half an hour later and it was a rather pathetic clown that left that party, worn out, upset and mortified. As soon as I’d been paid, I left almost as hastily as Simon and Maisie had, and only once back in the safe environs of Tina did I let the true extent of my horror catch up with me. The shame of it all. Then I caught a glimpse of my clown face in the rear view mirror and despite everything had to swallow back a laugh that was in grave danger of turning into a sob.
It wasn’t meant to be like this.
As I put the key in the lock, I felt fed up and dejected. My mood wasn’t improved when Mum’s voice immediately hollered through from the kitchen. ‘That you Marianne?’
