Page 7 of Midnight Kisses (Spicy Fat Cinderella Retelling)

PERRY

I got ready for the masquerade party in the same bathroom I’d helped other people with their dresses and miscellaneous personal needs a few weeks ago. It was a satisfying symmetry.

Since it was a masquerade, I’d gone for all the trimmings.

I had a slinky blue dress designed by a friend of mine, which was made from a luxurious satin that skimmed my curves, and I placed an elegant mask over my nose to cover my eyes.

It wouldn’t be enough to stop someone like Ginger recognizing me, she wasn’t unobservant and my figure was very recognizable—but Ginger was living it up in Rarotonga right now.

If any of tonight’s event staff had also worked New Year’s, they might recognise me, but they didn’t know I didn’t have a real ticket and I doubted they’d care if they did.

Still, my guilt over using the misappropriated access card nearly led me to chicken out multiple times. My friends—especially Tala, who saw this as a strike of retaliation on behalf of the working class—psyched me back up.

I arrived before any of the other guests and took my time primping in the bathroom, so the doughnut-shaped event room would be packed with people when I joined their fold.

Once again, the temptation to leave my Perry Skin hand cream on the counter proved too much for me to resist. I told myself this was guerrilla marketing and it was what the professionals did, so I didn’t get an ulcer over distributing beauty products without the venue’s express consent.

One day, when Perry Skin was on lists of Kiwi brands doing amazing things, the Sky Tower and Momentum Events would be thrilled to be part of our origin story.

As the rising sound of party chatter and clinking glasses drifted through the door, guests began to frequent the bathroom. That was my cue.

The event layout was similar to New Year’s Eve.

The main difference was that some people wore masquerade masks, although many had skipped this.

The lights were low and coloured LEDs flicked around the room, bouncing off the glass and spinning silver disco balls.

The music was loud, as chosen by a DJ with comically large headphones.

Per person tickets started in the hundreds, but I knew from working events like this that rich people felt little compunction about buying them and being a no show—they’d already spent their money, what did they care?

—while other people bought blocks of tickets they never filled. There would definitely be space for me.

I assuaged my remaining guilt by donating half of my check from the New Year’s Party to the animal shelter tonight’s event was in aid of.

It was a tiny donation in the scheme of the evening, but it was literally as much as I could afford and still make rent.

True generosity was measured in proportion not number, and I wanted to do my best.

Once I was mixing and mingling, I expected to have to work hard to find people to talk to, but the moment I swept a glass of champagne from a proffered tray, a white woman with lacquered honey hair pulled me into conversation.

“Look at you, you gorgeous thing, where did you get that dress?”

“Thank you! My friend Georgia made it. She does sizes 8 to 28 and just opened a boutique uptown.”

“How fabulous!” This woman wasn’t lean, but she was still straight-sized, so when she patted her hips, I braced myself for her to incorrectly equate our experiences. Instead, she said, “In my opinion, inclusive designers construct well and use good fabrics. I’ll have to stop by.”

“Absolutely! Georgia is amazing and her store is beautiful.”

We swapped introductions. Her name was Helen. She was friendly and talkative, but unfortunately my confession I was here in the hope of meeting an investor for Perry Skin met a dead end.

“I’m sorry darling, I’m up to my neck with my existing commitments. I couldn’t possibly add another.”

However, I soon discovered Helen was pretty much the human wikipedia of the social scene in Tāmaki-makau-rau, Auckland.

She knew everything about everyone. Looping her arm through mine, she pulled me along on a guided tour of the cocktail masquerade, whispering names and stopping to make introductions when she thought someone might be open to hearing more about my skincare business.

“Not him,” she said, when I asked about a wiry, grey-haired white man with large ears, wearing jaunty striped pants and a bow tie. He looked how I’d imagined the BFG when my teacher had read it to us in primary school—except rich.

“Why?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him.”

“Noted. Who’s that?” I nodded towards a glamorous brunette with glowing brown skin, laughing at something her companion had said.

“Lara Savea? She’s the head of Beauty at Phillys and Roller.”

One of the biggest beauty and home product distributors in the world.

My eyes lit up.

Helen shook her head. “She’ll be an excellent connection for you in due course, but you can’t start with Lara.

You need an investor first—someone loaded enough that they’ll write you a big cheque and leave you to your own devices, but not so loaded that you have to worry it’s blood money.

You have to be strategic, darling. Business is not about the moves you make but the order in which you make them. ”

For Helen to so completely get my vision, and be so generous with her expertise, made me want to fall at her feet. For her to tuck me under her wing and walk me around a party making introductions felt like she was a gift from heaven.

Belatedly, I began to question this.

“I don’t mean to monopolise your time, Helen. You must have other people to talk to.”

“Nonsense, darling. I already know all these people, and my son’s forbidden me from setting him up with any women tonight, which was the whole reason I came.

He’s heterosexual—which is unfortunate, because I could’ve easily found him the right man by now.

Women are proving harder, I think because he has too many options.

They’ve thrown themselves at him his entire life.

” Helen sighed, the universal sound of put-upon mothers everywhere.

“Is it too much to ask for my only son to stop playing the field, marry someone with good teeth, and give me grandbabies? Of course not. But he’s stubborn.

Yes, I’ll admit, Rose was a poor decision on my part, but how was I to know she was a fondler?

He’s very pissed at me over that. Still.

He wasn’t even going to tell me he had tickets for tonight’s event, can you believe that?

I had to hear about it from his assistant.

Thank goodness she called and invited me herself.

” Helen motioned to the nearest member of the waitstaff to bring her another champagne.

My eyes landed on the back of a tall man in a suit with mussed brown hair. “What about?—?”

Right then, Helen said, “Ah, there he is now!”

Immediately, I realised I’d made a horrible mistake. I couldn’t suggest Helen’s son as a possible investor—she’d think I was a mercenary wench.

Then he turned around and my problems multiplied by a thousand.

That handsome face with his perfectly tousled hair and cool grey eyes was intimately familiar.

He sighed heavily when he saw his mother towing a woman towards him, which made the dark circles under his eyes look even more pronounced. Then his gaze landed on me and my breath caught in my throat.

The last time we’d locked eyes, his face was framed by my knees.

I turned on my heel, thinking of the safety of my bathroom. But Helen was stronger than she looked with excellent reflexes. She yanked me back like I was a yoyo on the end of her string.

When I stumbled, a warm hand cupped the soft flesh of my arm and steadied me.

“Hello,” he said.

“Miles, this is Perry.” Finally, Helen released me, placing a proud hand upon her son’s chest instead. “Perry, this is my son, Miles. Perry’s a skincare entrepreneur, Miles. And a model. Her parents are scientists. Her genes are smart and beautiful.”

The pieces clicked into place.

Helen hadn’t tucked me under her wing for no reason.

She’d admitted her agenda readily: marriage, good teeth, grandbabies.

Foreboding twisted down my spine. Helen would probably murder me if she learned what her son and I had done in the bathroom on New Year’s Eve.

She’d either write me off as an easy trollop, or she’d insist I immediately redeem her son’s honour by marrying him and producing grandbabies.

I hadn’t known Helen very long, but I suspected the latter.

I pushed my tiny mask higher up my nose and thrust a hand towards him. “Nice to meet you Miles. I’m Perry.”

His eyes ran over me. “Hello Perry. I see my mother has found herself a new candidate.” He raised an eyebrow at his mother over my head. “Despite warnings.”

Helen pretended not to hear him. She looked around the room and mouthed hello at someone across the room.

“Oh, it’s not like that.” I felt awkward. “We met tonight. I’m just…” His eyes were so grey and I was flustered by memories of coming on his face. “…Perry.”

The orchestra struck up a waltz and Helen clapped her hands. “How wonderful, they’re playing the song I requested! Miles, why don’t you ask Perry to dance?”

I declined politely, keen to return to the safety of my bathroom.

There was no way he would want to dance with me here, at this fancy party.

Sex deeds in the bathroom because I was there and willing was one thing, but waltzing was entirely another.

The thought of his impending rejection was crushing—I had an itching urge to shed this glamorous dress and retreat to safety.

I belonged in my sweats, watching Derry Girls, not draped in satin while the mother of the man I’d trysted with tried to matchmake.

This is what you got for being brave and having lofty ideas: embarrassment and chaos.

To my enormous surprise, Miles offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Helen literally pushed me into her son’s arms and he swept me onto the dance floor. Escape wasn’t an option. At this point, I wouldn’t have put it past Helen to have bribed everyone in the building to stop me from leaving.

If I could avoid eye contact and remain aloof behind my mask, maybe he would stay in blissful ignorance about who I was.

Miles was the spoiled prince of this social set, clearly used to people throwing themselves at him, so there was no way he would remember me—a random girl he’d talked out of her clothes in the bathroom.

No, not even random. An employee in the most miserable, demeaning role imaginable.

All I had to do was survive the next three (ish) minutes of one dance, then I could run. He’d never know who I was, so while our shared memories were, in some lights, embarrassing, they weren’t lingering.

Everything would be okay. I had the protection of anonymity.