The Valentines: Happy Girl Lucky
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2019
Published in this ebook edition in 2019
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
HarperCollins Publishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is www.harpercollins.co.uk
Text copyright © Holly Smale 2019
Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Holly Smale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008254148
Ebook Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008254155
Version: 2018-12-18
For Autumn.
It will always be a doggy-dog world.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Books by Holly Smale
About the Publisher
FADE IN: REGENT’S PARK, LONDON, A SPRING MORNING
HOPE, fifteen, stands with her back to the sunshine, blue silk dress fluttering in the breeze. Her hair glistens, her posture is excellent and you can tell right away that she is the star of this film. In front of her is A HANDSOME BOY.
BOY
(entranced)
We’ve never met before,
but somehow it feels like we know each other already.
HOPE
You feel instantly familiar to
me too.
BOY
(even more entranced)
Do you believe in fate,
beautiful stranger?
HOPE
(shyly)
Of course I do. Everything
happens for a reason.
BOY
Then … perhaps you are my
reason?
BOY holds out his hand. ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic’ music starts playing.
HOPE
This is all happening so BEEP fast …
BOY
And yet we’ve waited our whole lives. Now BEEP take my hand
and together we will – BEEP
BEEP BEEP-BEEP—
BEEEEEEPPPPP
Blinking, I stare at the hand reaching towards me.
‘You want toppings on this?’ the BOY continues, yawning through his nostrils. ‘We got chocolate sauce and chocolate sprinkles. Strawberry sauce and nuts, but that’s extra. Or butterscotch sauce or toffee sauce. Chocolate flakes are extra too, so are toffee pieces and –’
I sigh. He’s getting this script all wrong.
A few seconds ago, I was the romantic heroine poised to run away with my true soulmate – now I appear to be in a meeting with Willy Wonka’s accountant. As usual, I infinitely prefer my version.
‘Yes, please –’ I smile sweetly as the car behind me starts beeping its horn again. ‘Actually … never mind. Plain is just fine.’
‘That’s one pound thirty, then.’
Smiling harder so my dimples show, I hand the money across while gazing over the counter as intensely as possible, using all my advanced actressing skills to communicate complex, award-winning emotions.
The BOY stares back. ‘You’re ten pence short.’
‘Whoops!’ My eyelashes must have been fluttering too fast to see properly. ‘Here you go.’
Our fingertips touch lightly and I stare at them, waiting for a flash of light, a few sparkles, maybe a bit of casual levitation. Up close, his fingernails have a thin line of black under each one, there are bright red spots marking his cheeks and his apron has melted chocolate smeared on it. Although I’m actually in black jeans and a neon cropped jumper – and it looks like it’s about to start raining – so reality isn’t exactly doing either of us a favour.
But there’s definitely Potential. I just need to harness this new cinematic direction – fast.
‘So,’ I say as the car horn starts blaring again, ‘what’s your star si—’
‘HOPE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE LOOKING FOR A TOILET! DO YOU HAVE CONSTIPATION OR WHAT? GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW OR WE’RE GOING WITHOUT YOU!’
OK, the word toilet is absolutely not going in my big opening scene; I am also editing out constipation immediately.
The BOY’s eyes slide over my shoulder, then widen as he spots the huge luxury car parked behind me.
‘Whoa,’ he says, abruptly waking up. ‘Is that—’
‘Yep.’ I take a step backwards. ‘Thank you so much for this ice cream, kind stranger. I shall treasure it forever and ever, until it melts or gets eaten.’
Quickly – while he’s still watching – I take my hair out of its tangled knot and give my black curls a quick, charming shake.
Then I glance adorably back over my shoulder.
HOPE
I’m afraid I must leave you
here, but this moment will be
engraved upon my heart for the
rest of time.
‘Bye, then!’ I call brightly, waving.
BOY
Goodbye, my dream girl. I will
never serve ice cream in the
same way again.
Ice Cream Boy stares at me for a few seconds with a deep furrow between his eyebrows. ‘Bye?’
I feel an abrupt whoosh of pleasure.
Next time I visit, he’s going to recognise me and ask my name and declare his eternal love for me and everything.
This One is almost definitely The One.
‘HOPE, YOU TOTAL MUPPET!’ my sister screams helpfully. ‘GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!’
‘Coming!’ I call back.
Then – delighted with how the morning is going – I skip towards the car with the blue dress I’m not wearing fluttering behind me.
FADE OUT.
Your natural gift is in connecting with others, Cancer. Today Mercury and Venus are in your fourth house, which emphasises home, family, roots and parents.
Use your talents to bring those bonds even closer.
I’m Hope, your new leading lady.
Nearly sixteen years ago, my parents took one look at my beaming, newborn face and thought: There’s a girl who’ll embody rainbows, sunrises and the kiss at the end of a film. There’s a girl who’ll skip when everybody else is walking, and try to see the best in all things; who’ll never need to look for a silver lining because for her there’ll be no clouds.
And you know what? It totally worked.
Hope is somehow buried inside me, planted deep in the middle of who I am, like the pip of a cherry or the stone of an avocado. My eldest sister, on the other hand, shoved her name into the ground and then tried to get as far away from it, as fast as physically possible.
A bit like a … potato.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Mercy snaps as I climb carefully into the back of the limo, precious ice cream held reverently in front of me. (His ice cream! The Ice Cream Created By Him!) ‘Seriously. It’s not a rhetorical question, Poodle. I’m looking for a clinical diagnosis.’
Twisting, I stare longingly out of the window at the ice-cream van retreating slowly behind us, my fingertips pressed up against the glass. Saying goodbye is so hard sometimes.
HOPE
Until next time, my
chocolate-covered paramour.
Music swells.
END SCENE.
‘Don’t call me Poodle,’ I object, turning to face my sister and licking my ice cream. ‘You know I don’t like it.’
‘How about Poo, then?’ Mer sighs, propping her high-heeled boots on the seat next to me. ‘Smelly, inappropriate in public and constantly disrupting plans.’
‘I am not.’
‘Are.’
‘Am not.’
I stick my tongue out and she pretends not to notice. Mercy’s seventeen and permanently glamorous; today her hair is in a tight black bun, her lipstick’s red, her silk T-shirt is black, her hooded coat is black and her trousers are black leather.
The car seats are black leather too, so every time she moves there’s a loud squeaking sound. Maybe it’s the souls of the poor cows greeting each other in another format.
Without warning, I start giggling.
‘Do you have brain freeze?’ Mer snaps, picking at a perfect red nail. ‘Or are random hysterics yet another side effect of having literally nothing in your head?’
‘Mercy,’ Effie says, looking up from her fitness tracker. ‘Would you please leave Hope alone? Does it matter if we get there a little late?’
Because, if I grew with my name inside me, and Mercy grew without any of hers, then sixteen-year-old Faith holds hers up like a flower: always gentle, always adored, always sweet.
She’s also always beautiful.
And yes, I know that’s not a character trait, but if my middle sister was being cast in a movie that’s exactly what would be written on the script. Effie’s perfect face is always the first thing the rest of the world notices, yet somehow the last thing she does.
Which makes no sense because, when my visage eventually decides to blossom into hers some time over the next year, I’m totally going to make the most of it.
Broken hearts everywhere.
‘Yes,’ Mercy snaps, glaring at me pointedly. ‘Because I’ve got better things to do on a Sunday than watch my irritating kid sister making cow eyes yet again at the zitty ice-cream boy.’
‘First off,’ I explain patiently, ‘they were not cow eyes. They were mysterious eyes designed to woo and captivate. And second off his acne is clearly healing because he has a lot of scabs, so ha.’
I fold my arms in triumph.
‘We’re coming up to the gates,’ Effie says as Mercy smacks a palm against her forehead. ‘Please stop squabbling for, like, forty-five seconds? Be nice. And game faces at the r—’
The car screeches to a stop.
‘Yo, yo, yo,’ Max shouts, swinging a door open and poking his close-shaved head into the back of the car with a grin. ‘I see the three witches eschewed their broomsticks for the day. How’s tricks, my hubble bubblers?’
All I need to say about my nineteen-year-old brother is that he takes his name very literally.
‘For the love of—’
‘Language, Mermaid,’ Max laughs, shoving our sister over and clambering to the other side of the car, brown knees poking out of his ripped jeans. ‘Aren’t you happy to see me, sister-face? You are. I can tell you are. Look how incandescent my mere presence makes you.’
He leans forward and uses his fingers to stretch Mercy’s mouth into a scary, red-lipped, horror-film smile.
She immediately punches him. ‘How are you so annoying?’
‘Dunno.’ Max slumps in the seat and stretches his hands lazily over his head while he thinks about it. ‘I’d like to say it was a gift from the gods, but I won’t lie – I’ve been taking a few night classes. Really honing those skills.’
Then he yawns widely, showing all his back teeth, his tonsils and a single string of saliva, yet still managing to look handsome.
‘What does eschewed mean?’ I ask, leaning forward.
‘It’s a sneeze in the past tense, baby bear,’ my brother grins, fluffing my curls with his hand. ‘And I should warn you there are paps and journos everywhere. But don’t fret, sibs, I got here early and gave them a few choice nuggets. How we’re all being strong for each other, pulling together in our time of need and so on and so forth …’
He grins wickedly and Faith glances at Mercy.
That explains the mirrored sunglasses Max is wearing, even though it’s now fully raining. (My hair wasn’t really glistening in the sunshine earlier, either: that was done in my brain’s fully staffed Special-effects Department.)
‘God, Max,’ Mercy hisses, clearly livid she didn’t think of this first. ‘Attention-seeker much?’
‘God, Mer,’ he laughs brightly. ‘Jealous much?’
The car turns a final bend.
Excitement starts bubbling in my stomach. It’s very important to make the best out of every single situation.
With a practised hand, I quickly tidy my hair and reapply my lipstick. If only somebody had told me the paparazzi would be here today, I’d have contoured much more carefully – really made sure my bone structure can be seen through a tinted window.
The car glides to a stop. My siblings and I stare at each other, united briefly by what’s waiting for us outside.
‘Ready?’ Faith says, biting her lip.
‘Steady,’ I agree, trying not to look too exhilarated. ‘Rock steady. Or whatever’s steadier than a rock. Stone. Cement?’
Mercy rolls her eyes, pulls up the hood of her black coat and nods in silence.
Max pops his sunglasses down. ‘AND … GO!’
Simultaneously, we swing open the back doors of the massive black limousine.
There’s a flurry of lights and clicks.
‘Valentines! VALENTINES!’
Click. Flash.
‘This way! Faith! Max! Mercy! Look over here!’
Flash click flash click flash.
‘Talk to us! Can you tell us what happened? What’s the news? How’s Juliet?’
‘What can you tell us, kids? This way, turn this way!’
Flash.
‘Talk to us! Faith! Faith! Look sad for the cameras, ladies!’
Flash flash flash flash flash
Because there’s a couple of tiny things I forgot to mention.
Mum’s in rehab.
And we’re one of the most famous families on the planet. A dynasty of movie stars stretching back four generations.
So, when I was introducing us a minute ago, it was probably our surname I should have started with. Aka the one name the entire world knows us by.
We are the Valentines.
You didn’t recognise me, right?
It’s OK, you’re not supposed to. I’m not quite sixteen, which means I’m not allowed any of the fame or money or acting jobs or awards or parties or swanky restaurants or designer clothes and shoes, etc. for another four months: it’s a Family Rule.
And that means I have time to practise.
When I’m finally unleashed on my adoring, impatient public, I’ll be so talented and glamorous that my world-renowned siblings will collapse with jealousy. They’ll beg me to explain my wondrous movie-star ways so they can copy me exactly.
I’ll be the heroine you’ve all been waiting for – the kind that gets the lead in every romance without even auditioning – and every boy who co-stars will fall madly in love with me before the end of the first read-through.
In the meantime, I’ve just had a jumper put over my head.
‘Can I come out now, please?’ I think I’m being led by the hand through the giant electronic metal gate – I can hear the beeps. ‘My nose tickles.’
‘Stop snotting on my Burberry cashmere.’ Mercy pokes my waist. ‘Have you ever considered gluing a layer of fluff straight on to your face, Poodle? Then we wouldn’t have to do this every single time.’
Effie gently takes my covering off and the world reappears: a cute little cottage with a muted grey-green front door, pretty flowers, neat hedges, tiny trees and an enormous six-metre-high steel fence shutting everyone else out.
‘You won’t have to do it much longer,’ I remind them as we crunch up the soggy gravel path. ‘In just over a third of a year, I’ll be so famous you’ll be able to sell my snot on eBay for millions and then some creepy boy, who’s totally obsessed, will buy it and grow a mini snot version of me in a test tube to keep forever.’
Mercy checks her jumper in horror before stuffing it into her Fendi handbag and Faith laughs.
‘I’d get one of those,’ she smiles, kissing my forehead. ‘To put in my pocket for when you’re not around, Po.’
‘Exactly how much is this ridiculous Privilodge of Mum’s anyway?’ Max asks as Effie punches yet another complicated passcode into a metal box embedded in the stone wall. ‘Twenty grand a month? Thirty? It’s insane.’
The cottage door swings silently open.
‘We shouldn’t use that word here,’ Effie objects as we’re beckoned down a shiny corridor.
‘Mum’s not,’ I say quickly. ‘She’s just really tired.’
‘Sure. Because it must be so hard doing nothing all day for twelve weeks solid. I’m sure our mother is absolutely exhausted, sitting in a steam room, getting facials and drinking green tea. She must be worn out, poor thing.’
I’m glad Mercy understands. Obviously, Mum wouldn’t be here if she didn’t need to be; she’d be at home with us, or on a film set, or maybe on an extended holiday in the Maldives like last summer.
‘Selfie!’ Max demands loudly as we cluster outside a familiar door, holding his phone in the air. ‘I’ll post GONE TO SEE THE MAD WOMAN IN THE ATTIC LOLZ hashtag sadface.’
Effie shakes her head at him, then clears her throat.
‘Mum?’ she says softly, knocking on the door. ‘Can you handle some visitors?’
There’s a very long silence.
A few rumbling sounds of furniture moving and bags unzipping; the snap of a mirror compact shutting. Then a weak voice says: ‘Oh yes, I think so. Please do come in, my darlings.’
We push into an enormous suite.
Everything is shiny monotone, as if we’re in an old black-and-white movie. Even the huge vases of flowers on every available surface are white and silver.
Mum’s lying on a chaise longue positioned artfully in a flattering ray of sunshine. She’s wearing loose white silk pyjamas and is fully made-up. Her platinum-blonde hair is perfectly smooth, her eyes are closed and one hand is held delicately against her forehead. I’m deeply impressed. My mother really knows how to command a scene.
‘Oh, you have got to be kidding me,’ Mercy sighs flatly.
‘My darlings.’ Mum opens her silvery eyes with a flicker and stares at the ceiling. ‘It’s so good of you to come. I’ve missed you all so very much. Right in my bones, in the very essence of – oof.’
I’ve lobbed myself on top of the chaise longue too.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I say, trying to wrap my arms round her. ‘We miss you too! How are you? Have you been for a walk in a field yet? You should, because you’re a Taurus so it would be an excellent health remedy for your pacific constitution.’
‘Would it?’ Mum says, patting me vaguely with three fingertips as I scooch over to give her more space. She struggles to her feet. ‘Goodness.’
Calmly, she smooths out the crumples I’ve made in her silk pyjamas. Then she looks down at me.
‘Hope, darling,’ she says with a tiny frown, ‘you must sit up straighter. You’re going to get a curved spine and that is so difficult to correct at your age.’
I immediately snap to attention. ‘Sorry.’
‘Faith.’ Mum glides over and takes Effie’s beautiful face between her hands. ‘My love, are you using that cream I gave you? Your pores are looking quite large. Don’t forget that those high-definition cameras will magnify each flaw.’
‘Every night, I promise, Mum.’
‘Good girl.’
Now it’s Max’s turn. ‘And how is the Barbican, my dear? I know the ghost doesn’t have any lines, but it’s a solid part. I did try to call in a few favours, but a lot of it is down to your own acting skills, I’m afraid.’
My brother’s left eye twitches. ‘It’s good. I mean, I’m dead before the curtain goes up. That’s the dream, right?’
Mum ignores him and turns to Mercy.
‘Those leather trousers are glorious on you, darling. But have you considered a size fourteen? They look uncomfortable in a twelve.’
A muscle in Mer’s jaw goes ping. ‘They fit perfectly, thanks.’
‘Of course they do.’ Mum smiles wanly. ‘I’m only thinking of you, darling.’
‘Are you? That makes a nice change.’
There’s a silence.
‘Mum,’ Faith says, stepping abruptly forward. ‘You might want to move away from the window. Max brought the paps and they’ve got long lenses.’
Mum’s back straightens immediately.
‘Ah,’ she nods, gliding nearer to the window and opening the curtains wide. ‘Such vultures. Is there no privacy any more? No respect for our personal space? Do these coyotes do nothing but take, take, take while we give, give, give?’