The Valentines: Happy Girl Lucky
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But – to aid my very busy casting team – she’s exactly the same now as she is in her fifty-six films: small, rigid, with grey eyes, platinum-blonde hair in a bun and a withering gaze. (Except in real life she gets to invent her own lines and facial expressions so they tend to be even less friendly.)
‘How are you?’ I ask, expertly air-kissing – mwah mwah – so I don’t stamp her with borrowed red lipstick. ‘It’s not Wednesday yet, is it? Don’t you normally come on Wednesdays? And hello, Genevieve! You’re here too! What a wonderful addition!’
My grandmother’s assistant nods silently from behind her.
‘Darling, you’re far too enthusiastic,’ Grandma snaps, leaning on her walking stick. ‘Try to attain a higher level of ennui, especially so early in the morning. This Americanised zeal for living is utterly exhausting.’
‘I’m half American,’ I point out cheerfully.
‘An unfortunate fact I remain painfully aware of.’ Grandma picks non-existent fluff off her brocade skirt and stares round our vast dark hallway with her nose wrinkled delicately.
I have to say it: her posture is excellent.
‘Are your wayward siblings here? Or can I assume that they’re currently running amok, as befits a colony of teenagers with no parental guidance?’
I glance up the stairs. Mercy pokes her tousled head over the bannister, widens her eyes and pulls it back again.
‘Umm,’ I say loyally, looking subtly in the opposite direction. ‘I’m … afraid … they’re … not … here … right now … so …’
‘Come down, please!’ Grandma calls without raising her eyes. ‘Mercy, I presume.’
There’s a short pause, then Mer thumps down the stairs.
‘FAITH!’ she yells over her shoulder. ‘MAX! NANNA VEE IS HERE.’
My grandmother flinches with one eyelid. Nanna Vee is not on her approved list of terms of endearment.
Seconds later, Faith appears. And I swear I’m not editing this, but a ray of sunshine appears at exactly the same moment, settling on her skin and hair as if it’s literally coming from inside her. Unfortunately, it’s also settling on her electric-blue leggings, orange sports bra strap and huge lime-green T-shirt, and those really didn’t need emphasis. She already looks like a bag of highlighters.
‘Oh!’ Eff says sweetly, skipping down the stairs. ‘Hello, Grandma! Have we moved our lesson to today? I was just about to go for a long run, but it’s not a problem! Shall I go and get my books instead?’
Mercy rolls her eyes.
Every Wednesday since she turned sixteen, Faith has been getting secretive lessons in How To Live Forever As An Immortal and Internationally Beloved Movie-star Goddess (we assume).
All we know for sure is that Mercy definitely didn’t get them.
I’m excited to find out if I will.
‘Not today, Faith,’ Grandma says curtly, using her walking stick to punctuate her words on the stone floor. ‘We have more preoccupying matters to discuss, such as how this family ended up splashed across the front pages of the tabloids this morning like marauding soap stars.’
She says soap as if she’s just eaten it, and Effie and I glance guiltily at each other.
Mer sticks her nose in the air. ‘It was Max,’ she states defiantly. ‘He told them we were going to be there. I was just—’
‘Yes,’ Grandma says, holding up a pale, ring-spangled hand. ‘I believe we know what you were doing, Mercy. Where is your brother?’
Now we all shrug: ranks closed.
‘Let me make something very clear.’ Our grandmother tightens her lips. ‘We are not reality-television celebrities or popular musicians. We are not Beauty Loggers or what they call Tubers. We do not air our dirty laundry in public for the entertainment of the masses.’
Now is probably not the time to tell her that Max started his own channel nine months ago: 600k+ followers watch him give loud opinions weekly, often with no top on. Also, Beauty Logger makes it sound like they’re using lipsticks to cut down trees.
‘We are actors,’ my grandmother clarifies in her small-theatre voice. ‘Artists. And, while I appear to be unable to prevent your mother from throwing her emotional toys out of the perambulator, I will not allow the Valentine name to be cheapened further.’
Eyes closed, Genevieve is nodding as if in prayer.
‘My mother did not build this dynasty a hundrrrrred years ago,’ Grandma projects beautifully, now in her big-theatre voice, ‘for her prrrrrogeny to destrrrroy it with unscrrrrripted doorrrrstep drrrrama. Am I making myself abunnndddaaaaannntly clear?
‘VALENTINES. ALWAYS. ACT. WITH. CLASS.’
And there’s the family motto, somehow spoken in a different font.
We are suitably chastened.
‘Sorry, Grandma,’ we chime together. ‘We won’t do it again, Grandma.’
I don’t know why I’m apologising – I had literally nothing to do with it – but it’s lovely pretending for a minute that I did.
‘So,’ my grandmother concludes, ‘I have taken the necessary steps.’ She gives the tiniest nod.
Outside, the other car doors start opening and dozens of people emerge: glamorous, expensively dressed men and women laden with huge bags, boxes, lights, cameras, hangers full of clothes. It’s like a signal only big brothers can hear.
‘Grandmother!’ Max calls, bounding down the stairs three at a time. ‘What a joy! I was just examining my lines for my big stage role – inspired by you, dear matriarch! – and thinking, What would Grandma do? And here you are!’
Mercy sticks a finger down her throat.
‘Yes.’ Grandma nods, unruffled by either of them. ‘I suspected you would appear around now, Maxwell.’
Together, my siblings and I spin towards what is clearly a crew. They look very official – a million miles away from the yelling and shoving and lying on the floor of the paparazzi camped outside the rehab centre yesterday.
‘But,’ I say blankly, ‘who are they?’
‘Variety magazine.’ Grandma looks at us sharply. ‘Otherwise known as Damage Control.’
Now this is more like it.
‘You may shoot the cover in the drawing room,’ Grandma announces as everyone troops in, filling the hallway with designer handbags and glossy shoes. ‘I grew up in this house, and it has the best light at this time of day.’
‘We thought maybe the garden, Dame Sylvia?’ a small lady in a beige trench coat murmurs nervously. ‘There’s such a pretty patch by the tr—’
‘Yes, the drawing room.’ Grandma nods as if in agreement. ‘By the purple silk chinoiserie wallpaper. That will work perfectly. And make sure you ask about their mixed heritage, please. This interview should focus on the diversity of the modern Valentines, should it not?’
Within seconds, our Least Used Room is rammed.
A rack of designer clothes is set up in the corner, antique dressers are piled high with make-up bags, the marble mantelpiece is crammed full of hair products and a circle of powerful lights is being propped up by our enormous leaded windows.
People are suddenly everywhere, holding up outfits against Faith, flattening Mercy’s already straightened hair with hairspray and complaining that it’s hard to find the right foundation shade for Max’s skin tone.
‘It’s a good thing I’m so comfortable with my masculinity,’ he tells them cheerfully. ‘Or I’d be outraged by the implication that I’m not already perfect.’
This is by far the most exciting, important thing that has ever happened to me, and just a small slice of the epic gloriosity of my wonderful life to come.
Maggie pops her head round the door and I wave cheerfully from where I’m sitting patiently in the corner, waiting for my turn.
‘We’re going to be cover stars!’ I explain in delight. ‘With an eight-page spread officially launching the new generation of Valentines! Grandma arranged it all! What a pleasurable surprise, wouldn’t you say? Isn’t that just the best-ever gift?’
‘I’d prefer a new casserole dish myself,’ Maggie says, wiping the top of a chair. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, I never dust in here.’
Mesmerised, I watch the chaos unfold. It’s extremely important for me to absorb each tiny detail because, in the near future, I’ll probably have to do a photo shoot every single morning and an interview every single lunchtime and—
Oooh, the photographer’s assistant is cute!
He’s fair and short, and is bending over a little black box with his blue underpants poking above the top of his trousers. Of course this is how I meet The One! In my very own house! In my very own drawing room! It’s a pleasurable surprise cosmic double whammy!
I’d better go and speak to him before my big glamorisation happens. I need to know he wants me for me.
BOY
(stunned)
I don’t know who you are, beautiful girl, but I have just looked up from whatever this box is and I am now deeply in love.
Shoulders back, I sidle up behind him.
Then I lean casually against the wall, toss my head back, straighten my I LOVE YOU A LATTE T-shirt and clear my throat. ‘Hello there, so … what’s your star si—’
‘H-hi,’ he stammers, sticking his hand out at Effie. ‘I-it’s meet to nice you. N-nice to mate you. Nice t-to— Dammit.’
My One goes bright red and leaves the room.
Yet another failed audition for my Romantic Leading Man. Honestly, you just can’t find the cast these days. Undaunted, I wander over to inspect the clothes rack for items I can borrow.
‘I read yesterday the mother is having the whole lot done,’ someone whispers from behind it. ‘Nose, boobs, eyes, cheeks, knees. That’s why nobody’s seen her: they’re replacing parts bit by bit like an old car.’
‘Knees?’ someone else breathes back. ‘Is that a thing?’
‘Totally a thing. Apparently, the hotty hubby wants younger, less saggy knees, if you know what I mean.’
‘So sad when natural beauty falls apart. Like watching an apple slowly rotting in a fruit bowl. The daughter we’ve put in gold certainly got the best of both worlds, didn’t she? What a face. Dull as a cabbage, though. Always the way.’
My cheeks have abruptly got very hot; my darling Effie is not a cabbage! She’s a rare, exquisite bloom of sweetness and beauty. Also Mum’s knees are super perky. I’ve seen both of them.
‘Actually,’ the other continues, apparently steaming a pair of trousers, ‘it’s the eldest girl I feel really sorry for. That nose. That nineties eye make-up. Used to be quite cute, back in the day. Remember that show?’
‘Oh my God, right? But you can’t blame her. Didn’t she—’
‘Hello there!’ I part the clothing abruptly and peer through with a confident smile. ‘If you’re not too busy, would you like to get me ready now? You may have my autograph, if you like.’ Stepping over, I hand them both a pre-signed photo.
Mainly because I am a professionalist and a Valentine, and I’m pretty sure Acting Classy does not include punching your adoring potential public right in the face because they’re spreading nasty rumours about your family again. Also, Mercy is my big sister and therefore exclusively mine to be mean about.
‘I’m sorry,’ the tallest one says, staring at me. ‘Who … are you?’
‘Hope.’ I give a little twirl so they can take my measurements in a single glance. ‘The youngest Valentine, and very soon to be the most famous. I’m right on the end of your list, but don’t worry. I’m already highly trained in the subtle art of beatification so I can totally assist you.’
They glance at each other in alarm, then I guess they think that I can’t have heard anything and visibly relax.
‘Isn’t beatification what happens when the Pope turns someone into a saint?’
‘Yup,’ the other nods. ‘But sure. Can’t see the harm in it.’
‘I won’t harm anything,’ I reassure them, beaming. ‘Indeed, you will find me an absolute parasite of professionalism.’
Thrilled, I select a gorgeous purple Vera Wang gown.
After a bit of frustrated tugging – my hair has looser waves on one side, tighter ringlets at the back and short bits of fluff at the front – they give up and secure my hair in a ponytail again. Then they spend six minutes searching for the right foundation before compensating with a heavy layer of bronzer. I also get shimmery purple eyeshadow, lipstick and gold highlighter that pops.
In the meantime, I’ve been practising my range in the mirror: biting my lip and smiling, looking enigmatic and adorably confused, etc. That photographer’s assistant is going to be kicking himself when he realises I exist, which is going to be literally any second. I am a freaking vision.
Glittering, I race over to my siblings.
They’re grouped tightly together, shimmering in front of the lights: Faith in gold, Mercy in silver and Max in bronze.
‘I’m here!’ I say breathlessly, shoving between them. ‘Sorry I’m late! Don’t worry – we can start now!’ Then I suck in my cheeks, push my chest out and turn at an angle so I look two-dimensional. ‘And … shoot!’
There’s a long silence while my siblings stare at me.
Then at each other, then at Grandma.
Then at each other, then at the photographer.
Then at me again.
‘Umm,’ says Max.
‘Po,’ says Faith.
‘Idiot,’ says Mercy.
‘Hope.’ Grandma frowns at me from her position directly behind the photographer. ‘I assumed you understood the situation. You won’t be in this shoot or the interview.’
I stare at her. ‘But—’
‘You know the rules. You’re not sixteen yet.’
It feels like my character’s been killed off seconds before the opening credits roll.
‘But I’m sixteen any minute,’ I blurt desperately, wiggling further into the group and sticking my elbows out so they can’t dislodge me. ‘Like, so very nearly. My birthday’s less than four months away. By the time the magazine comes out, I’ll be basically sixteen already!’
‘I’m afraid this is non-negotiable.’ Grandma looks round. ‘Margaret, please remove my youngest grandchild from the room before things get … emotional.’
‘No!’ I use Max as a shield. ‘Please, please, please, please.’
My big brother smiles sympathetically, but then peels me away and nudges me out of the group. I’m then dragged across the room by Mags, dropping my pre-signed photos on the floor as I go.
Emotional? I’ll give them emotional.
Pulling air into my diaphragm, I clench my fists, lift my chin high and prepare my vocal cords for maximum dramatic output: lights, camera—
‘THIS ISN’T F—’
The door is closed in my face.
LOCATION SETTING: THE CLASSROOM
It’s two hours later, and my friends and I are sitting together at the back of class, furiously passing indignant notes and discussing this absolute injustice. Olivia can’t believe it and Sophia is sympathetic; Madison’s calling for mutiny, but she always overreacts so we ignore her.
Finally, we simmer down and our conversation turns to normal topics: parties, clothes, teachers, the new boy who’s just started at school. He’s clearly very bad news (he has piercing green eyes), but he keeps staring at me across the classroom. We all suspect that, deep down, he has an interesting backstory and a secretly good heart.
And Olivia is all, ‘Oh, Hope, when are you going to realise?’
‘Hope.’
Sophia is all, ‘You two are meant for each other.’
‘Hope.’
Except I can’t see it, because—
‘HOPE.’
Jumping, I blink at Mr Gilbert. ‘Mmm?’
‘Are you listening, or shall I take this absorbing lesson outside and teach a squirrel to pass their fast-approaching exams instead?’
Umm, good luck getting them to hold a pen.
‘I’m listening,’ I ad-lib quickly: we world-class actresses have to be able to think on our feet. ‘And … in … ah … 1052 William of Normandy claimed that he was the rightful heir to the throne, and thus began the Norman Conquest!’
‘In 1052?’ Mr Gilbert frowns.
‘1053? 54? 55?’
His ancient bushy grey eyebrows are going up a fraction at a time.
‘56 … 57 … 58 … 59 … 60?’
They’re still going up.
‘61 … 62 … 63 … 64 … 65 … 66 …’
They stop moving.
‘In 1066!’
‘Excellent. I’m glad we finally got there, Hope. What a shame we’re studying chemistry this morning, not history.’
I stare at the red book in front of me.
If only Sophia or Olivia or Madison or New Boy had pointed this small technicality out to me earlier, but they didn’t. Mainly because I’ve never been to school. I study alone in our library with a tutor and none of my friends actually exist in real life … which makes it hard for them to warn me about stuff.
‘Ah,’ I nod.
What does Mum say when she’s not listening?
‘I’m just multitasking, darling.’
‘Let’s see if we can single-task first,’ Mr Gilbert says, closing his eyes briefly. ‘Then we’ll consider branching out to more than one. And please don’t call me darling.’
He looks tired, which is strange because up until two years ago he had to teach all the Valentine kids and now it’s just me. You’d think it would be a lot less hard work.
‘Shall we push on?’ Mr Gilbert coughs. ‘We write the molecular formula of the repeating unit in brackets, putting an n where—’
My eyes start wandering around the room.
I can’t believe I’m in here, surrounded by thousands of books in brown, beige and snot-green, when I could be out there, telling Variety my entire life story. What does a nearly movie star need with this information anyway? They’re not exactly going to quiz me on repeating units for a feature in Vogue Japan, right?
Bored, my eyes flick across the chintzy wallpaper, windows, wallpaper, books …
Finally, they reach a small, oily and deep grey/brown painting I haven’t paid attention to before because it was made before they invented proper colour paints.
‘Is she dead?’ I ask abruptly. ‘Or sleeping?’
Mr Gilbert pauses from polywhatsits and rubs his face. ‘Who?’
‘That woman. The one lying in the boat.’
I peer more closely. She’s got long blonde hair, her eyes are shut, she’s covered in flowers, people are crying … and I may have just answered my own question.
‘That’s Elaine,’ my tutor says in an exhausted voice. ‘She was in love with the knight Lancelot, but he loved Queen Guinevere who was married to King Arthur.’
He says this in a flat tone, as if it’s not the most interesting thing he’s ever told me.
I lean forward. ‘And then what happened?’
‘She was trapped in a tower, cursed to only watch the world through a mirror.’
‘And then?’
‘Lancelot rode past and Elaine spun round to see him.’
Mr Gilbert has no ability to tell even a basic story properly. ‘And then?’
‘The mirror breaks and she dies.’
My heart is swelling; my eyes are losing focus. ‘That is … the most … beautiful … and … romantic … film … I have ever …’
‘It’s not a film, Hope. It’s The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson – we studied this poem last month. Have you been listening at all?’
Umm, no.
Honestly, I heard a lot of dull stuff about barley and rye, and figured it was a vegetable-based poem about baby onions. This is exactly why titles and visuals are so very important.
I’d have called it Lancelot’s Lover is Dead and it would have been huge.
‘OK,’ my tutor sighs, shaking his head. ‘So where were we? Hydrogen atoms, Hope. How many electrons do they have?’
Kill me. ‘Five?’
Mr Gilbert and I are in tune: he clearly wants to kill me too.
‘One. And, because they only need one more to complete the first shell, they seek out other easily available atoms to combine with, which means they’re weaker and less stable …’
‘But … what if they’re not.’ I lean forward and jab the page with my finger. ‘What if they’re meant to be with other atoms, Mr Gilbert? What if they want to be? What if it’s their atomic destiny?’
‘It kind of is, Hope,’ my tutor nods, unexpectedly delighted. ‘Chemically speaking. Well done.’
I glow at him, even though I was obviously talking about myself.
‘So,’ he continues, ‘hydrogen perox—’
There’s a soft knock at the door.
‘OH NO!’ I shout, jumping up. ‘It must be someone from Variety, come to disrupt my pivotal lessons! They’ve realised I am an integral part of the interview and they can’t go on without me! What an unexpected twist! What will I do?’
Effie’s head appears. ‘Sorry for butting in, Mr Gilbert.’ Then she grimaces at me. ‘Bad luck, Po. I tried my best to talk Grandma round, but … you know what she’s like. If it helps, I can’t answer without Mercy or Max interrupting me.’
I sit back down again with a sigh. ‘At least you’re not an ostrich.’
Faith blinks. ‘An … ostrich?’
‘Yes.’ I nod sadly. ‘I have been ostrichsized by my own family.’
‘Do you mean ostracised?’
‘That is what I said.’
Opening the door fully, Faith laughs and swishes towards me – shimmering and gold – and kisses the top of my head. ‘You’re my favourite,’ she whispers into my hair.
‘Is it over now?’ I ask hopefully, tidying my ponytail again. ‘Can I come out? Is the … photographer’s assistant still there? I just … thought he might need … help. With his little black box or … other photography-based props.’
I am prepared, on very careful reflection, to give him a second audition.
Not everyone nails it first time round.
‘We’re not done yet,’ Faith says with a small twist of her mouth. ‘It’s just they … uh.’ She hands me a bag full of my crumpled jeans and T-shirt. ‘They need the dress back, sweetheart.’
Devastated, I look down at my beautiful purple Vera Wang gown.
Can’t I even study chemistry flawlessly?
Sighing, I walk behind a jammed bookshelf and clamber back into my jeans and T-shirt. Four months, only four months, although frankly, if my family don’t stop using up all the attention, we’re going to run out.
Then I hand the beautiful dress to my sister.
‘Do you want to hang out tonight?’ I ask as Faith heads towards the door. ‘Maybe watch Waves of Time together? Then we can quiz Dad on all the behind-the-scenes information and ask him why there isn’t a single kiss in it.’
‘I … would.’ Effie smiles slightly. ‘But Noah’s cooking dinner so I need to get there before the papers rifle through his bins to work out if we’ve split up yet.’
I nod resignedly because Max will be at the theatre and Mercy will be Out.
‘Cool,’ I say as the door closes. ‘That’s cool.’
It’s at times like this that I really miss Rocket.
‘Right,’ Mr Gilbert says, tapping the book. ‘Where were we? Hydrogen peroxide.’
