Page 3 of Midnight Kisses (Spicy Fat Cinderella Retelling)

It didn’t matter if I didn’t have a glamorous job at the fancy party, I was a glamorous girl and nothing could stop that fact from fact-ing.

Spirits renewed, I was reaching for my keys when I thought of something important.

“Tala?” I leaned in the doorway to our lounge. “Can I use your printer?”

“Go for it.” She was on the couch watching Derry Girls, the one with the hot poetry teacher. When she turned to look at me, I saw she’d slathered on one of my facemasks, which made me smile.

“If it jams, hit it on the left side.”

It didn’t jam, so I was able to print a hasty sign before driving back into the centre of the city.

The Sky Tower was one of Aotearoa, New Zealand’s most iconic built landmarks.

I'd only ever visited on school trips before, but I remembered Toby Walker jumping up and down on the glass floor of the viewing deck, trying to scare us that it was going to break.

This was the tallest building in the country—which was not a competitive field, given the whole country was on a faultline and most buildings were under ten stories.

Not that earthquakes were the main problem in Tāmaki-makau-rau, Auckland, where I lived.

We had other problems. The entire city straddled a volcanic field, so it was more logical to fear getting blown into the sky than sinking into the earth.

My mum was a volcanologist before she retired, so I knew more than was normal about volcanic fields and caldera volcanoes, like the one under the famous lake three hours south of here.

But it wasn’t a good idea to think about natural disasters before taking a lift over 200 metres into the sky.

Traffic was bad, but I'd factored in time for that so I was still the first staff member to arrive at the Sky Tower. I strolled around the circular observation deck where the party would be held. It felt like being inside a pool doughnut, but more fun. Windows lined the entire circle, offering 360 degrees views over Auckland. I stood for five minutes and watched the sun sink deeper into the sky. While guests were watching it dip below the skyline, I’d be staring at sinks and toilet doors.

But I shouldn’t mope. I was glad to have this job. I needed every penny I could get for Perry Skin.

Ginger found me and made small talk at me as she showed me around.

She and her husband were going to spend January in Rarotonga, which was their summer tradition.

She was flying out tomorrow and had spent all afternoon trying to find a swimsuit, and as she showed me where to stash my bags, she moaned about having trouble finding one she liked.

I didn’t say anything about the multitude of options she had as a straight-sized person—because I totally understood that it sucked when there was pressure on and you couldn’t find what you wanted.

But it was a little insensitive of her to complain about this to me.

They barely made swimwear that fit an E cup—I had to order online, and usually my options were black one pieces, or things with weird skirts attached.

Last minute shopping wasn’t an option for everyone—fat girls had to plan .

“Remember to clock off at midnight,” Ginger said, switching topics rapidly. “We’re not paying time and a half on the Public Holiday for anyone but essential staff.”

I said I understood. At Tala’s urging, I’d promised to meet her outside at midnight. She said if a company was so stingy as to enforce a midnight clock off, then I wasn’t to give them a single second of free labour.

When I took off my coat and folded it into a locker Ginger gasped loudly.

“What are you wearing ?”

When I turned back, Ginger’s mouth was agape, her heavily mascaraed lashes flared wide.

A nervous kind of exhilaration bloomed in my chest. “A dress? You told me I had to wear my own clothes, remember?”

“Yes!” Ginger looked flustered. “Because we didn't have a uniform shirt that would—” she stumbled for words.

“Fit a fat person.” I smiled. “It’s okay to say fat, it’s not a bad word. It’s a factual word, like short, or tall. I am fat.”

I was also hot and brilliant and hard working, with a face card that never declined, a concerning credit card balance, and a fledgling business that was going to shake up the skincare industry.

I was so much more than just my hot, fat body.

I knew that. I just wished people like Ginger would stop making their issues mine.

“The only requirement you gave me was black,” I reminded her.

“This is completely inappropriate, Pae-regrine.”

Memories of getting dress-coded at school for wearing the exact same tops as thin girls, but being the only one sent home flashed before my eyes. I was tired of being punished for the unavoidable transgression of having amazing boobs.

So instead of apologising, I lifted my chin. “Why?”

Ginger couldn’t answer. She knew as well as I did that her issue wasn’t with what I was wearing. Rather, it was with the body wearing it. But she wasn’t going to say that. She would just neg me and judge me and try to make me feel—and this was ironic—small.

“I’d best go and set up my station,” I said politely but firmly.

I was wearing black, like she had asked. If she wanted to make this into a big problem, my brother was a lawyer and unlike me, loved conflict and sending passive aggressive emails. If Ginger was going to be my problem, I would make my little brother hers .

“I hope everything goes well out on the floor tonight, Ginger.” I said. “You know where to find me if you need me.”

I left her there, gaping.

Let her look. The view from the back was just as good as from the front.

Tonight’s event was a celebration funded by Purkiss Media conglomerate for the purpose of impressing advertisers.

It was an elegant set up with a modest guest list—which meant most of the people here were extremely rich.

The women’s bathroom had two sections joined by one open archway.

One section had mirrors and a chaise and the other had tall wooden stall doors.

The mirrors all had bevelled glass edges, which cast rainbows when the light hit them right, and a well-polished black and white tiled floor.

I set up my toolbox and as the string instruments struck up, I taped my DIY sign under the Women’s plaque on the door . It read: All genders are safe here .

I didn’t bother asking for permission to do this. I didn’t want to run the risk of being told no. This defiance made me feel giddy, but Ginger could scold me later if she wanted. Some things were worth risking conflict for.

Then I sprayed the lavender room mist and set my rechargeable LED light to ‘Aurora Borealis,’ which sent soothing beams of pink and green streaking across the wall and ceiling.

I also connected my speaker, because the thick door muted the sounds of the string quartet in the main event space, and cued up my ‘ girls get hype! ’ playlist which I usually played before modelling jobs (no emo music allowed).

From my speaker, Marina rhymed about how patriarchy was a scourge and I hummed along.

Some visitors to my bathroom were surprised to find an attendant, but others took it in their stride. Every guest was dressed beautifully. I complimented outfits earnestly and enthusiastically, and people left my bathroom smiling.

The Michaela Stone came in at one point, her gorgeous velvet burgundy dress having split at the seam. She heaved a sigh of relief when I fished a needle and thread out of my kit and another woman held the sides together so I could tack it closed.

The woman was quite literally a walking fantasy—Tala’s in particular.

My flatmate had met Michaela a few weeks ago and immediately gone doe eyed for her.

I wanted to ask her questions, you know, to do recon for my girl, but I was a little intimidated by Michaela’s cool confidence, so instead I stayed quiet as she and the other lady, Sam, chatted.

As the evening wore on, visitors to my bathroom weren’t coming to primp so much as they were to find a moment of peace.

Some came to sit and let their alcohol sink in, some splashed tap water on their faces.

Some women asked me to take pics of them with their girls, and others held my hands and confessed everything they were thinking.

To my enormous surprise, I was enjoying this job.

I swapped compliments, gave out bandaids and bobbies, hairspray and blotting paper.

I laughed, I hyped people up—a natural role for me.

I loved to make people feel beautiful and confident, it was the whole reason I’d started Perry Skin .

Not to mention, lots of people were making liberal use of the hand cream and other products I’d planted, which made me giddy.

Yet, as the night wore on my triumph sunk a little. Watching people love my products and not being able to talk about it, or even pitch in the hope of catching an investor, hurt my feelings. I didn’t want to spend my life only being a hype girl; a side character in someone else’s story.

I wanted my own story.

The trickle of guests slowed after 11pm, when the speeches were scheduled to start.

After that, everyone would no doubt gather by the windows to watch New Year’s fireworks explode over the city.

Alone in the washroom, I took the opportunity to sink into the chaise lounge and rest my feet.

My shiny silver heels with the dainty ankle straps made my calves look long and elegant, but they were murder to stand in for such long periods.

I was unbuckling a shoe with the intent of massaging the aching balls of my feet, when the door flew open and a tall figure in a suit burst into my bathroom sanctuary.

My sign said all genders were safe here, and I usually tried not to make assumptions about someone’s identity, but some guys just screamed cishet and this was one of them.

Stunned, I stared at the man.

“What the fuck?” he demanded.

“Pardon?”

“I thought this was the men’s room,” he said.

After that, everything happened at warp speed.

We argued about his pants and he flirted like a freight train.

He burned his dick with stain remover and I eye banged him six ways from Sunday.

Not to be too crude, but the prominent outline in the front of his black briefs was very hard to ignore, and privately I thought it was a shame it had been subjected to so many abrasive substances this evening.

“If you asked, I’d be on my knees in a heartbeat, burying my face in your pussy and making you scream so loud your boss would know you were slacking off,” he said.

This melted my mind, but he wasn’t done.

“What do you say, blondie? Want to let a stranger eat you out while you’re supposed to be on the clock? Come on good girl, be bad with me.”

It was the way he was looking at me that pushed me into my decision. His eyes were hungry, laser-focused. I knew as surely as I knew my own name that he wasn’t the kind of guy to take a few licks then act like he deserved a medal of valour. That glint in his eyes called me, obsessed me.

Which is why the next words that came out of my mouth were, “We have to hurry.”