‘Hands up who liiiiikes… elephants!’ shouts Nena, who has eight children sitting on the carpet in front of her, hanging on to her every word.
‘Meeeeee!’ shout eight big mouths as sixteen hands reach as high as the sky.
‘Well I heard that Arlo LOVES elephants, so as it’s his birthday, let’s make an elephant for Arlo, and then the rest of you can choose your favourite animal. Sound good? We might even have enough for a zoo!’
‘Hurraaaay!!!’ bellow the four boys and four girls.
As quick as lightning, Nena twists a long blue tubular balloon into the shape of an elephant. Look closely and stars might shoot out of her fingers as she skilfully turns and ties. Separated parents stand separately on either side of an arch in a grandiose living room, united by wonder, over how this small woman with a clown’s face and flowers in her hair has tamed their birthday boy and his best friends.
‘Where did you get her?’ the father mouths.
The mother smiles, bittersweetly. This has been a success.
A little boy, with a shiny light brown bowl-cut, beams a proud smile as he clutches his special birthday balloon. His friends patiently wait in uncharacteristic silence for one of their own: a tiger for Ollie; a dog for William; a cat for Luca; a giraffe for Eva; a lion for Florence; a parrot for Tabitha and, well, Bella wanted an anteater but Nena fudges it by doing a second elephant and bending the trunk the other way.
A pirate cake is brought in. Arlo’s mother’s face glows as three candles soften lines carved by lies and guilt, and her new boyfriend puts his hands on her shoulders, marking his place at this landmark moment. Nena watches as Arlo’s dad looks on, leaning against the arch, lost in mourning for a second before he sees Arlo’s face, and his in turn lights up.
‘Happy birthday to youuuuu…’ The dad starts boldly before Arlo’s mum and her boyfriend and Nena all join in. Seven lispy bumbling versions follow suit. Everyone claps, a doorbell rings, and parents start to climb the steps of this impressive townhouse, a home Arlo’s dad loved, saved for, decorated and now can’t live in. He can’t smell Arlo’s morning breath or read him a bedtime story, or help him pull up his pants when he proudly does a wee all by ‘hiththelf’. Despite his breaking heart, Arlo’s dad stands tall, smiling, convivial and welcoming, to answer the front door, his old front door, to the mums and dads coming to see how their little darlings have behaved. Impeccably under Nena’s watch. One mum walks over to say hi.
‘Ah Kate said she was going to book you, you did such a good job at Ollie’s party!’
‘Well Ollie’s had fun again today,’ Nena motions to a tired blond boy clutching a balloon tiger. ‘I am wondering if I’ll get a bit passé for them and they’ll say “not you again!” next time I rock up at a party.’ Spoken with the confidence of a woman who knows she will be booked again.
At two hundred pounds for two hours’ work, the Islington mummies and daddies are Nena’s bread and butter. In the West End you never know how long your run will last. Shows open and close, the chorus line can be replaced at the drop of a top hat, but there is a constant conveyor belt of preschoolers whose parents want good old-fashioned balloon modelling, dancing and face painting, and Nincompoop Nena is the best clown in town.
Nena starts packing up her things. Arlo’s mum comes over.
‘Thanks so much, Nena, you were every bit as brilliant as Elaine said and it was JUST what Arlo needed.’ She squeezes Nena’s arm and gives her an envelope full of cash.
‘No problem, Kate, Arlo is adorable, it’s been a pleasure.’ Nena always says the kids are adorable, even the less than adorable ones, but in this case the child was sweeter than many of Nena’s birthday boys and girls.
Arlo runs over to give Nena a cuddle and little cupid’s bow lips kiss the white paint on her brown skin as she scoops him up.
‘Ahhhh happy birthday, Arlo! I hope you have your best year yet,’ Nena says with a big warm hug, before he slides the short distance down her body to the floor and runs back to his elephant.
Nena heads to the toilet with some baby wipes – she can walk from Canonbury to Camden but she doesn’t want to do it dressed as a clown.
Eight minutes later, as she’s leaving the house with a heavy Ikea bag full of tricks, Arlo’s dad comes rushing to the door.
‘Wait!’ he says.
Nena turns around, colourful fake flowers still in her hair, blue Ikea bag hauled over her shoulder, and looks up the steps towards the tall man standing at the top. His head is mostly bald, the remaining hair shaved short. He is handsome and has deep-set but piercing eyes and a huge smile. Nena can imagine why Arlo’s mum fell for him, and wonders why she’s now with the awkward-looking guy wearing a bad jumper inside the house.
‘Oh, do you need a hand with that?’ Arlo’s dad says, seeing the bag must weigh as much as Nena does.
‘No I’m fine thanks, you go back to Arlo,’ Nena smiles. She can tell this is a precious moment and she doesn’t want him to waste it outside with her.
‘I just wanted to give you this.’
He hands her a card.
Tom Vernon, Commissioner, Children’s. The BBC logo shines brightly in monogrammed raised letters on reassuringly thick paper stock. Nena is confused, bag weighing heavy on her cold bare shoulder, but makes light of it with her usual sparkle.
‘Wow. “Tom Vernon, Commissioner” is way more impressive than “Nincompoop Nena, clown” on my business card.’ They both laugh and stop.
Tom sees the whites of Nena’s eyes as she looks up and takes a deep breath.
‘I thought you were brilliant and I can so see you working in my field, if you’re interested.’
‘I don’t know anything about television, I’m afraid, although I am good at watching it.’ This time neither laugh.
‘Just have a think. I’m looking for a vibrant, camera-friendly, kid-friendly face and you’re… you’re perfect,’ he says, eyes gleaming.
‘I’ll call you,’ Nena purrs, as she swings the bag onto her other, covered shoulder, and slopes off into the teatime tussle, gliding like a panther in black off-duty-dancer attire.