‘Veronika will be here somewhere,’ says Sophie. ‘But I don’t know where. Are you sure I can’t offer you any fairy floss?’

‘If you see her, will you tell her I’m looking for her?’ says the Kook. He turns and glares down at a little girl who is sighing loudly and elaborately behind him.

‘Well, you’re taking too long!’ says the little girl, unperturbed. ‘People are waiting for their fairy floss!’

‘Where are your manners?’ asks the Kook, suddenly looking just like a baffled grandparent, and he wanders back into the crowd, clutching his vase.

Grace is already painting her tenth child with a blue and silver face inspired by Gublet McDublet. She’s painting the boys, while beside her Aunt Rose gives the girls pink and gold ‘Melly the Music Box Dancer’ faces.

It had been Rose’s idea to give the children Gublet and Melly faces this year, in honour of Grace’s books. Grace had pretended to think it was a wonderful idea. No need to mention that Gublet hadn’t been himself lately.

Grace always paints the boys because it’s harder work keeping them still. She keeps a firm hand clamped on their heads and whispers that they need to sit very still or else she’s liable to accidentally poke out their eyeballs. The boys like this sort of talk and give her respectful, masculine looks.

‘There you go! All done!’ Grace holds up a mirror in front of a grumpy six-year-old. His eyes widen as he sees his own transformed face in the mirror. ‘But I want to be a scary lion!’

‘Next please,’ says Grace, ignoring the child’s mother, who is smiling fondly under the mistaken impression that Grace finds her child as adorable as she does.

Grace can see that Aunt Rose is already drooping. She’s painting much slower than usual, even with the standard ‘fast-track’ design. The face-painting queue is snaking all the way down the road. Dozens and dozens of squirmy, whiny, often quite remarkably snotty children. ‘Why don’t we ask Mummy to blow that nose?’ shudders Grace as the next little boy takes the stool in front of her.

At least Grandma Enigma doesn’t seem to be having any trouble minding the baby. She is sitting right next to one of the gas heaters in a comfy chair with the baby on her lap, under a sign that says ‘MEET THE MUNRO BABY–SCRIBBLY GUM’S “ENIGMA”!’, graciously signing autographs and allowing people to be photographed with her. When Grace had gone over to check on them, Grandma Enigma was using Jake as a handy prop for her performances, telling people that this was her great-grandson and isn’t it amazing that she was a baby just like this little darling when her parents vanished into thin air seventy-three years ago today.

‘Are you OK, Aunt Rose?’ says Grace, as her little boy gives a horrendously loud sniff. ‘Shall I get one of the girls to bring you another cup of tea?’

‘I’m fine, darling,’ says Rose. ‘My back hurts a bit. Next year I think we should employ other people to do the face-painting and we’ll just supervise. Sophie says that’s called “source out” or something like that, and it’s very fashionable and fun. Are you OK, Grace? Happy?’

‘I’m happy.’

She is happy, she realises. She has that euphoric feeling you get at the airport after you’ve checked in your luggage. Nothing can stop your journey. You’ve started sliding down the slippery dip. You’re going away and leaving all your problems far, far behind. There’s nothing more to do.

49

Every now and then there is a flurry of demand, but for the most part being the Fairy Floss Fairy doesn’t require much effort. Sophie smiles at the people walking by, waves her wand in what she hopes is an authentically magical manner and enjoys the entertainment–the stalking stilt-walkers, the leaping-about jugglers, the garishly grinning clowns. She can see Rick the Gorgeous Gardener doing his fire-eating performance from where she stands, and it’s all very primeval and arousing. He’s wearing a sort of Aladdin’s Cave–style vest over a bare chest and his muscly arms look impressive in the firelight as he throws back his head and lowers the flaming stick into his mouth. The watching crowd roars with approval, but Sophie wants to call out, ‘Oh stop that, you’ll burn yourself!’

It’s much more relaxing to watch Callum’s band. They’re very good: three tall guys, one playing saxophone (who strongly reminds her of somebody but she can’t be bothered working out who), one playing drums, and Callum on double bass. The music is sexy and mellow and Sophie has to keep dragging her eyes away from Callum.

It’s just that it’s more appealing to watch a man play an instrument than shove fire down his throat.

It’s just that she has a terrible crush, which won’t go away.

What would have happened if she’d just kissed him in that steamy bathroom last night? Would he have reeled back in disgust? Excuse me, why would I want to kiss a hobbit like you with my beautiful wife in another room? Yes, but honey, sweetheart, darling, your beautiful wife is going to leave you any day now. And I sort of love you. Oh stop it. You do NOT. You do not, you do not. Not even close. She swirls her fairy floss and feels a bit sick. Think about your potential new boyfriends, unencumbered by wives and children. She looks back to Rick the Gardener, his teeth white in the firelight. He is, truth be told, the sexiest man she has ever dated. That kiss on the picnic! It was extraordinary! And of course, kissing Ian the Solicitor in his plush, new-car-smelling Lexus, breathing in his expensive aftershave, had been very enjoyable too. Both of them are much more eligible–and, in fact, better looking–than big, messy Callum. Oh, but it’s Callum she wants to kiss. She wants to kiss him very, very, very badly. She needs to kiss him. It’s a need, not a want.

She is thirty-nine years old, wearing a fairy costume and thinking about kissing boys. She has definitely regressed. It is imperative that she has proper, grown-up sex in a bed, with a sensible-brand condom and a nice, friendly, middle-aged man, very soon. She was thinking more mature thoughts when she was twenty.

‘Sophie!’

It’s Veronika. Sophie feels her muscles flex involuntarily. ‘Hi!’

But Veronika looks different. Her hair seems fluffier, her face softer and rounder, less manic. She’s with an attractive dark-haired girl wearing a cream-coloured jumper. They’re holding hands.

They’re holding hands.