First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

Published in this ebook edition in 2020

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 2020

Cover illustration by Jessie Ford

Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

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: 9780008254179

Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008254186

Version: 2020-03-19

For Judith, who will always be with me

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

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Books by Holly Smale

About the Publisher

VALENTIME FOR A CHANGE?

Leggy beauty Faith Valentine sported a brand-new hairstyle last night. Seen leaving The Ivy alone (left), her curly locks were worn straight, prompting immediate questions about her relationship status with pop star Noah Anthony.

Blasting straight into the FITTY FIFTY at number eleven is brand-new entry, FAITH VALENTINE (16). Tall, slim, with caramel skin and angel eyes, she’s 100 per cent modern bombshell. Online influencer, up-and-coming movie star and YES, part of THAT family, we want her as OUR Valentine come February!

‘I’m an early riser,’ Faith admits during our interview in the sun-dappled sitting room of their impressive family mansion. ‘I wake to the sound of dawn birds singing. The first thing I do is drink water – it perks up the digestive system – and practise ballet.’ Her exquisite face dimples. ‘I’ve been dancing since I was little. It really keeps me grounded.’

WELCOME TO THE T-ZONE! YOUR ONE-STOP SHOP FOR EXCLUSIVE SLEB ACCESS!

The Valentines have fame, hotness, soooo much money (like lend me a fiver already LOL!) and THIS award-winning blogger (links below, no I didn’t make them up, they’re totally real, KEVIN) has a PRIVATE INTERVIEW with FAITH VALENTINE, the best one. The T is about to be served!

Take a closer look at this year’s hottest couple – all is not well in paradise. Sources claim they are struggling to find time for each other. With Noah’s touring and Faith’s film career, there’s no opportunity to connect. She’s definitely feeling it more than he is, though. Experts agree: ‘Their body language shows that she’s holding on to this relationship with both hands.’ Will it be enough?

Snoring.

That’s the first thing I hear. Loud snoring, followed by the realisation that I’m the only person in the room so it has to be me. Outside, wood pigeons coo and sparrows chirp, but I’ve just managed to wake myself up with the machine-gun rattling of my floppy air cavities.

Hot stuff, Faith Valentine.

Eyes shut, I unstick my furry tongue with a clack. Then I sit up, yawn with breath like forgotten laundry, swig from a glass on my bedside table and promptly spit melted toothpaste and paprika all over my duvet.

Stuck to the bottom of the glass:

Bet your intestines are super PERKY now LOL. Max xxx

With a small grimace – my brother needs a hobby – I open my curtains. Sunlight streams in; I sleepily swing my legs to the floor, scratch my knee and turn the radio on. Then I head straight to my mat.

There’s an entire six-metre wall of glass covering one side of my bedroom – in this light, my pores look like potholes: you could get a rope and a tiny hard hat and climb down into one of them – so I quickly unfocus my eyes and grab hold of the wooden barre. Then I bend my knees deeply.

Lifting my heels off the floor, I yawn through my nostrils and gesture to the side with my left hand: grand plié. Flatten my foot and hold my leg up and back: arabesque. A single-leg relevé to stretch my foot. A la sec—

I’m going to have to step up my exfoliation routine or Grandma’s going to kill me.

Battement fondu, battement frappé; quatrième devant.

Perhaps we could just use Polyfilla?

Gliss—

‘Coming up,’ an overexcited woman on the radio trills, ‘the latest hit by Noah Anthony! This one’s got all the romantic feels, hitting me right in the chest cav.’

‘Yeah,’ a guy deadpans. ‘I’m, like, a mess.’

‘My heart’s all over the floor!’ she agrees, neatly ignoring his sarcasm. ‘And here it is! The UK’s newest Number One, pouring straight from our ears into yours!’

I stop mid-spin. What does that even mean?

With a quick leap, I make it to the radio just in time to catch the opening guitar chords. Guilt tugging at me, I turn the volume down before my boyfriend starts mmmmming and do-do-doing.

Sorry, baby. Love you.

Then – hamstrings still tight from yesterday – I head back to my mat, breathe deeply, close my eyes, stretch upwards, touch my toes and then plank peacefully for a few minutes. Pushing further up, I arrange myself into a deep V shape: feet and arms on the floor, head hanging down, knees flexing and—

‘You’re a total freak, Effie. You know that, right?’

I open my eyes. My big sister’s face is thirty centimetres from mine, lying on the floor, directly below me. She must have silently slipped in and squiggled under my downward dog.

‘Something’s definitely wrong with you,’ Mercy continues, dead-pan. ‘Do you think it’s, like, medical, or psychological, or genetic, or just the latent impact of a general cultural inequality? I’m legit curious.’

Mer’s so close I can see the fibres of her mascara.

There’s melted black eyeliner streaking from each corner of her eyes towards her hairline as if she’s wearing a mask, her foundation is separating around her nose and her lips are patchy with what was burgundy lipstick. The short pink wig she’s wearing is slightly knotted and wonky, the fringe lopsided.

My sister looks defiant and exhausted. My heart twangs.

‘Good morning,’ I say, leaning down and kissing her slightly greasy forehead. ‘How was the party? What poor yet totally suspecting soul did you make cry this time?’

Then I stand up, take a long step forward and perform a wide lunge over my sister’s reclining black-Lycra’d body.

‘Oh my God,’ Mercy snaps crossly. ‘Stop exercising on me.’

She shuffles across the wooden floor, sliming up and on to my bed one muscle at a time like a disgruntled deep-sea creature.

‘Hell, no,’ she adds, punching the OFF button on my radio. ‘I’m not listening to your basic boyfriend’s lame warbling, either. Nuh-uh.’

I frown at her. ‘Mercy.’

‘What? Oh, please. He sucks at writing music and you know it.’ She scowls at the light. ‘And you can turn that off too.’

‘The sun?’ I pirouette carefully.

‘Yes.’ Mer watches me spin in disgust. ‘It’s doing my head in. As are you, Faith Valentine. Stop being so bendy and twisty. It’s not even six am. Such a psycho.’

Then – ritual insults completed – Mer puts an arm over her face, closes her dark eyes and picks up snoring where I just left off, vibrating like a drill into a solid brick wall.

I watch my big sister, angry even in her sleep.

Sometimes I think of my bed as a timeshare, like a cheap flat in Majorca. I get the night, and my seventeen-year-old sibling gets the 5am till 2pm post-party slot. I’m not completely convinced Mercy even remembers where her own bed is. There’s only a year between us, but if I ever locked my door I’m pretty sure she’d just curl up and sleep on a damp towel in the hallway like a puppy.

Gently – well, quite gently – I pull my minty-paprika duvet over her. Then I refill the glass with non-Maxified water, put it back on the table and step out of my white silk shorts and cami. Hopping, I tug on neon-green leggings and an orange T-shirt. Carefully – God forbid I crush them – I tie my curls into a loose bun, then tug on a cap and sunglasses.

Finally, I lace up my trainers, click on my fitness monitor and slip out of the room. For a moment, I pause in the hallway.

Hope is making cute squeaking sounds – no ugly drilling noises for my little sister – Max is still out as usual and, at the far end of the huge corridor, Mum’s door (and the door next to it) is pointedly shut. Noah was playing Wembley last night and Dad is on a flight here from California: they’re both definitely unconscious too.

Which means – I take a long, deep breath and stretch – everybody in my life is fast asleep and everything the sun touches is mine. Today is important, and as soon as the rest of the world wakes up I’m going to have to be at my brightest, shiniest, most utterly flawless.

I’ll have to be Faith Valentine. But I’ve got two hours left before that happens.

I’m going for a run.

What kind of sports car does a cat drive?

A Furr-ari.

I’m nobody when I run.

When I run, I’m not a Valentine or a girlfriend or a big sister or a little sister; I’m not a daughter or a granddaughter; I’m not Fitty Number Eleven or a movie-star-in-the-making or The One To Watch or a girl on the verge of womanhood (vomit).

I’m not the inspiration for a love song.

As I pound down the long driveway and through the electronic gates – as sweat starts to collect on my top lip like a tiny, salty moustache – I begin to disappear into the familiar, piston-like in-and-out of my lungs.

Richmond Park is so beautiful at dawn. Damp and rose-gold, the path winds round the huge lake, past the ducks – partying in the early sunshine – and the white swans gliding blankly towards nothing.

I speed up, enjoying the burn in my legs, the heat in my chest and the sweat soaking into my T-shirt. Grimacing slightly – better crack out the razor as soon as I get home or my prickly underarms are going to get their very own headlines – I take a right turn and run even harder. I pump my arms back and forth, keeping my head down and—

‘Faith Valentine?’

Not yet not yet not—

‘Faith? Faith Valentine? It is, isn’t it?’

A boy is jogging next to me, acne shimmering in the sunshine. He jumps forward and leans round so he can peer under the brim of my cap, breathing right into my face.

Why does he smell of prawn-cocktail crisps? At 6am?

‘Nope,’ I say, pulling my cap down and running faster. ‘Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong person.’

‘I haven’t,’ he insists cheerfully, speeding up too. ‘You’re Effie Valentine. I read that you run every morning and you live in this area, so I got up super early for a whole week in a row and caught the Piccadilly then the District to Richmond and here you are!’

He’s running casually alongside me, as if we’re voluntary jogging partners discussing tricky daily commutes.

Quickly, I weigh up my options. I could probably run faster – although I’m more of a long-distance type – or I could stop, but that might look like an invitation to chat. Or I could dive off the path into the trees, but that’s definitely one of the most idiotic suggestions I’ve ever given myself.

Instead, I veer subtly across the grass so we’re headed back towards the main path. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

‘I can’t believe it’s you!’ the boy continues chirpily. He can only be about thirteen. Why isn’t he playing video games or missing the toilet bowl while he pees or something? ‘This is awesome! Wow, I was right, you are really hot. I mean, like, naturally, you know? Not a smidge of make-up. That’s my favourite kind of hot.’

His favourite kind of hot? As if there are multiple genres of hotness available to a prepubescent boy with a ripe pimple between his eyebrows.

‘Thank you.’ I smile. ‘That’s so sweet.’

‘Do you come here often? This exact route, I mean?’ He lankily matches my pace. ‘Also, what are your feelings about parks in general?’

‘Umm.’ This must be some new, obscure kind of flirting. ‘I don’t run this route normally, no.’ This route is now dead to me. ‘And, mmm, parks are … nice?’

‘Nice!’ The boy sounds thrilled. A quick glance around. ‘So what’s your favourite … tree?’

‘Oak.’ I’m well trained in quick-fire questions, which is good because I’m not even properly awake yet.

‘Favourite food?’

Cornish pasty. ‘Sushi.’

‘Colour?’

Grey. ‘Green.’

‘Epic!’ We’re still running pretty fast and a drip of sweat runs off the end of his chin. ‘Can I have your autograph, then?’ A Sharpie is thrust under my nose. ‘You can write on my arm!’

Stopping, I put a hand on my waist, wipe my forehead and grab the pen with my damp hand.

Faith V—

‘All my love,’ he prompts. ‘Write all my love.’

All my love, Faith Valentine.

Then he shoves an arm round me, tugs me into his Lynx-saturated side, plasters wet lips to my cheek and holds a phone up in front of our sweaty faces. My stomach lurches: there’s a little red light flashing at the top: 4:36, 4:37, 4:38—

He wasn’t flirting with me. This was an interview.

‘And you,’ the boy announces to the camera, making an awkward T with his free hand, ‘have just been T-zoned!’ He beams at me triumphantly. ‘Thanks for the exclusive, Eff. Eleven schmeven. You’re my Number One! Or, like, Number Two. Behind Lily Aldridge. She’s a Victoria’s Secret Angel and I’m going to marry her.’

And he’s off, running back into the trees.

I may need to rethink my exercise routine.

Maybe I should get up earlier, start at 4am instead. I could sprint in circles round the lake in our garden. If only running on the treadmill in our basement gym didn’t make me feel like a giant neon hamster.

Pushing through the front door, I wipe my forehead, check the time, then pick my phone up off the table. It’s already flashing with notifications and Google alerts.

Stretching, I send Noah his daily wake-up text.

Morning, handsome! How did the show go? I watched some on YouTube last night – it looked amazing! So proud of you xxxx

Then, loosening my shoulders, I email my agent:

Hi, Persephone! Thanks for the update! Is this the last version of the script or will there be another one? x

Mum:

Can I fix you any breakfast? How about some nice healthy porridge? Let me know! xx

Dad:

What’s your ETA? Need me to leave you a key? Can’t wait to see you xxx

Max:

Where are you? You OK? xx

The morning feels like it’s unravelling already, so I drop to the floor of the hallway for thirty push-ups. Thirty crouch-star-jumps. Thirty lifts on a nearby chair. Twenty-seven squats with weights above my head (I’ll squeeze in the last three after brushing my teeth).

Grabbing my phone, I open today’s messages from Genevieve, my grandmother’s assistant. The first photo is of a bright green smoothie bowl with a gold spoon on a marble worktop, raspberries and coconut shavings in a beautifully arranged heart shape. It’s been filtered to look rosy and nostalgic.

I bet it tastes like the contents of a lawnmower bag.

Frowning, I copy and paste:

Nothing starts the day like a full heart (and tummy)! Good morning, lovelies :) xxx

And … POST.

Then I steal a rubbery slice of Mercy’s cold takeaway pizza from a box on the kitchen table, wolf it down and burp greasily as I climb the stairs. At the top, I quickly scribble my cat joke down on a Post-it and cock my head to the side. Furr-ari/Ferrari. Is that funny? I think it’s quite funny. Cats can’t even drive! LOL.

Finally, I slip into the empty room, kiss the Post-it and stick it on the wall. Done. Then I glance at my watch and breathe out slowly: 8.23am.

Just one more thing left to do.

My little sister sleeps so easily.

Whereas Mercy confronts darkness like an enemy to be clawed at, fought with and be finally overwhelmed by – and Max fires up and burns straight through it – Hope simply shuts her eyes and ignores it completely.

Softly, I slip into Po’s room. She’s still passed out in a knotted heap, sunshine pouring through her wide-open red velvet curtains, fluffy black curls in chaos, arms wrapped tightly round her brand-new camcorder. Her left foot is kicking and she’s murmuring, ‘Cut! Cut! Cut!!’

Love streams through me, uncomplicated and bright, entirely without shadows.

‘Po.’ I put a hand gently on top of her head. An alarm is beeping next to her, to no avail. ‘Wake up, baby.’ I promised I’d stop calling her that now she’s nearly sixteen, but … ‘It’s your big day.’

Hope wiggles, murmurs, ‘Action!’, then opens her eyes and beams at me. Unlike the rest of us, it takes the youngest Valentine exactly zero time to wake up. She’s switched on and suddenly she’s all there, like a film starting.

‘And so the dream begins!’ Hope sits upright, stretches her toes and holds her arms out like a starfish. ‘Let the day pray seed.’

I laugh fondly. ‘Proceed.’

‘Exactly.’ With a quick hop, Po bounces out of bed and starts spinning in dreamy circles with her arms above her head. It’s Initiation Day at her new school before she starts properly in September, and she’s been preparing since she got back from California last week.

And, when I say ‘preparing’, I mean ‘practising elaborate speeches as Head Girl/Most Popular Person/Chief Party-thrower’ (it varies).

My phone pings.

Morning, beautiful. Wish you’d been there. The crowd was wild! Am I seeing you later? Love you N xxxx

‘Faith and Noah,’ Po sings as I smile and type back:

Of course! Can’t wait! When works for you? xxx

‘Snogging in a tree. S-N-O-G-I-N-G.’

Then my baby sister starts floating round the room, clutching all the bright new clothes I bought her a few days ago. ‘Everyone is going to see me coming a mile off,’ she sighs happily, waving them like flags. ‘Cancer’s a naturally popular star sign, Eff. We’re built very sociable. I strongly inspect everybody’s going to adore me.’

Smiling, I take a pencil case off the mantelpiece. Hope has always been a happy soul, but ever since she came back from Los Angeles she’s been bouncier than ever. Except every time I ask her exactly what happened out there – especially with that boy – she adopts a weirdly secretive expression.

‘Oh,’ she grins. ‘You know, Eff. Just some driving.’

She’s also taken to slamming doors and yelling at inappropriate moments, which is out of character and kind of adorable. Although I’m not entirely sure what Dad was doing, letting a fifteen-year-old control a car.

‘Maybe take something to help with the non-social side of school?’ I shake the pencil case. It’s totally empty, the little mousebear. ‘You know, for luck?’

‘Luck schmuck.’ Po shrugs. ‘We make our own destinies, Eff. Also, it’s a house of education. A church of learning. There must be a spare pencil lying about somewhere.’

Then she shouts, ‘Ooh!’ and opens the window.

‘Ben!’ she yells through cupped hands. ‘Benjamin! Ben-jamin-o! We’re up here! Can you climb the drainpipe au itsy bitsy spider or do we need to come down and let you in?’

Po turns and wiggles her eyebrows at me.

I have a long-term boyfriend and I love him very much, and he isn’t the boy currently standing on our doorstep. Not that this small technicality makes any difference to my matchmaking sister.

‘Go and say hello.’ Hope starts pushing me towards her bedroom door. ‘Ben’s come all the way back from Edinburgh, Faith. That’s just good manners.’

I’m nudged another few steps. ‘I don’t think—’

‘Also,’ my sister continues brightly, tapping my shoulders, ‘can we take uno momento to acknowledge how cute he’s got, Eff? Don’t you think Ben’s kind of gorgeous? He’s like a –’ she considers her options – ‘final-season Harry Potter or something.’

There’s excitement all over her sweet little face. My sister loves me very much – and she likes Noah – but she loves a good romance story more. And Benjamin has been killing daisies and leaving them for me on the kitchen table since we were six years old. In her eyes, this is a solid love triangle.

‘Umm,’ I say hesitantly as I’m pushed on to the landing. ‘Baby, I honestly need a shower before I see another human. I’m all stinky and sweaty, and I think I ran through some duck poop, so—’

Hope leans towards me and sniffs. ‘Roses,’ she says matter-of-factly, spinning me round to face the stairs. ‘Roses and dewdrops and macaroons and kittens. It doesn’t matter what you do, Faith Valentine. You are always perfection.’

Why did the robber take a bath?

He wanted to make a clean getaway.

‘Just a second!’ I call through the keyhole.

A clean getaway. HA! I wish.

Quickly, I rub a posh scented candle on my neck, wipe my sweaty face on my T-shirt and try to arrange it into an I’m-just-an-old-friend-almost-like-a-sister-and-not-a-romantic-prospect-who-will-suddenly-see-you-in-a-new-light-stop-looking-at-me-like-that expression. Ben has obviously watched way too many romcoms.

Then I fling the door open and my nonchalant, ‘Oh hello,’ is appropriately truncated to an, ‘Oh hell.’

There’s a long silence.

‘Faith,’ Dame Sylvia Valentine says eventually, looking me up and down in steely-faced horror. ‘Is this some kind of … joke?’

Blinking, I glance down the driveway. There’s no sign of Ben. Obviously, he saw my famous grandmother and her even more famous walking stick coming and dived into a bush. Smart boy.

‘Is … what a joke?’

‘This.’ Grandma waves her stick at me and sniffs like a scandalised bloodhound. ‘When I said prepare a natural look, I did not mean that of a long-term vagrant with –’ she leans forward – ‘undertones of bitter orange peel and lavender.’

My nose twitches: this is a woman who knows her Liberty candles.

‘I thought you said ten o’clock and it’s only—’

‘You are a Valentine.’ She holds up a pale, heavily diamond-spangled hand. ‘We do not open doors in a dishevelled state, regardless of the relative position of the sun. What would you have done if I were a journalist? What if I were a crazed member of the public? What if I had a video-log?’

I hold my head down so she doesn’t see my nostrils flicker again. Video-log? ‘Sorry, Grandma.’

‘We must always be in a state of readiness.’ I glance up. Grandma has begun projecting in her small-theatre voice. ‘There is no intermission, Faith. For us, the curtains are always up.’

I dip my head further. ‘Sorry, Grandma.’

‘Get in the car, please,’ she says curtly. ‘I expect irreverent behaviour from your siblings, not from you.’

Then she turns and marches towards the silver limo, disappointment radiating from her shoulders.

Sudden guilt rushes through me. Those two hours weren’t mine at all. I should have been washing, scrubbing, shaving, plucking, conditioning, masking, moisturising, face-packing, contouring. I should have been filling in all the holes in me so that nobody else could see them.

‘Sorry, Grandma,’ I say for the third time. Three bags full, Grandma.

Then I do exactly as I’m told.

‘… potential,’ Grandma reads as I lean back in the limo and scrub my face with a cloth that smells of cucumber. ‘With the coruscating beauty of a modern movie legend –’ she looks pointedly at me – ‘and half of this year’s hottest teen couple, Faith Valentine is poised to make her mark on the film industry. Movie offers are already flooding in from around the globe.’

Genevieve hands me another wet towel from an enormous straw bag that appears to contain the entire contents of a day spa. She may at some point produce a hot tub and steam room. I start rubbing hard at my neck.

‘On which note, have you submitted your first post to the World Wide Web today?’ My grandmother raises her eyebrows. ‘Suitably aspirational and brand appropriate, I hope?’

She makes social media sound like you have to send an application form with your passport and a stamped-addressed envelope to the tiny robots that run ‘The Internet’.

‘Yes, Grandma.’ I smile at Genevieve gratefully, then absent-mindedly poke the inside of my ear with a finger. ‘Over a hundred and thirty-two thousand likes in half an hour.’

‘Good girl.’ She turns a page in my gold scrapbook of media clippings (aka my Book of Shame). ‘Though the tabloids continue to focus on your difficulties with young Noah Anthony. This is not a good look for you, Faith.’

She holds up a papped photo of me scowling at my boyfriend, a large glob of mayonnaise positioned neatly on my chin like a white goatee.

‘I was hungry,’ I say, flushing. ‘We’re doing brilliantly, I promise.’

Also I’m not entirely sure how to eat a burger in a way that says We Are Madly In Love But You Said No To Chips – Get Your Hands Off My Skinny Fries.

‘Valentines don’t wash their dirty laundry in public,’ Dame Sylvia reminds me severely. ‘We pay other people to do it in a secret and exclusive celebrity Launderette facility, preferably on the other side of town. Have I made myself clear?’

I nod humbly.

All millions of people can see is Noah – adoring and attentive – and me: a grumpy, greedy cow with no idea where my mouth is.

Must do better, Eff.

‘On which note, I saw the Variety proofs this morning.’ The scrapbook page is turned. ‘You look very pretty, but say very little, Faith. Please do try to make an interesting comment. Nobody wants to interview a statue, even if it’s of a goddess.’

‘But Mercy and Max were taking all the—’

‘Then find a way to make yourself heard.’ Grandma flips another page, scans, then sighs. ‘The Daily Mail has once more referred to you as aloof and an Ice Queen. Darling, if you were a man, that would be a way of saying enigmatic. As a woman, it just means nightmare. You must try to come across as warmer. But not so warm that you look desperate, obviously.’

Genevieve and I make eye contact.

My grandmother’s assistant is in her early twenties, but she’s wearing a velvet jacket, midiskirt and ruffled blouse. It’s like an identical version of my grandmother has sprouted – the way you can take cuttings from plants and put them in small pots to make new ones.

She nods with raised eyebrows. Warm up, Faith.

‘Sure. Sorry.’

Our limo glides to a stop in the middle of the road – imperiously ignoring the frustrated beeps of the cars stuck behind us – and a wave of nausea whips through me.

Maybe if I vomit all over myself they’ll send me home. Although something tells me I’ll just be handed another wet wipe, sprayed with pine-scented car freshener and sent on my way.

My phone pings.

Ohmygodohmygod, I forgot to say GOOD LUCK! You’re going to NAIL IT. YOU’RE A TOTAL PARASITE OF FEMININITY! Hxxx

‘Umm.’ Smiling briefly, I tug the white floaty dress I’ve been handed over my damp orange sports bra. ‘Grandma, can we … Do you think … Perhaps we could quickly go over what I’m supposed to—’

‘We’ve been studying drama every Wednesday for nearly a year, Faith.’ My grandmother frowns. ‘Have you not been listening? Did we not cover every key point?’

‘Yes, I’ve read Stanislavski and Chekhov and Meisner and Adler – I know every word – I just—’

‘Then I do not understand the problem.’

A short silence.

‘Acting is in your blood,’ clarifies Dame Sylvia Valentine, five-time Oscar winner, recipient of the BAFTA lifetime achievement award and British National Treasure. ‘A rare, valuable gift passed from my mother to me, to your mother to you.’

The door is opened by the chauffeur as Genevieve hands me a printed script.

A few more irritated beeps from behind us.

‘You are a Valentine, darling,’ my grandmother concludes with a tight smile. ‘The entire world has been handed to you on a plate. All you have to do is not screw it up.’

FAITH VALENTINE SAYS PARKS ARE ‘NICE’

That’s right, you heard it here first, T-zoners! During an EXCLUSIVE interview with gorgeous sleb Effie V, she EXCLUSIVELY admitted that she likes oak trees, sushi and the colour green! And I kissed her!

For proof, KEVIN, click the video on the left.

Don’t screw it up, Faith.

Don’t screw it up, screw it up, screw it up, screw it, screw—

The door gets simultaneously kicked from the other side as I pull on it, nearly smacking me in the face.

‘Whoa! Sorry.’ A short girl with cropped blonde hair and freckles rolls green eyes at me. ‘Cat on a pink bicycle, it’s you? What a waste of my flaming morning. Have fun with the unearned leg-up, Valentine. Must be nice.’

Then she stomps out through the front door: dungarees, thick silver boots, little but somehow taking up so much space. Blinking, I watch her go.

‘Faith Valentine?’ the receptionist squeaks as I turn round. ‘OMG, you’ve arrived! And you’re even more beautiful than in your headshots! How’s your poor mother? I’ve been heartbroken about Juliet’s –’ she lifts her voice into a whisper-shout – ‘TRAGIC DECLINE.’

At my name, every girl in the room looks up, narrows their eyes and looks back down again.

‘She’s—’

‘That’s just so great!’ The receptionist stands up and waves away the actress waiting nervously outside the casting room. ‘You, sit down. I’m under strict instructions to send Faith Valentine straight in. Please, Faith, do let me!’

She opens the door and bows slightly, as if she can see I might need professional help getting in and out of rooms. Humiliated, I swallow and step forward.

Be warm, Faith, but not too warm.

Enthusiastic but not desperate; calm but not dull; funny but not try-hard; quirky but not crazy; feisty but not aggressive; beautiful but relatable; elegant but not icy; confident but not arrogant; feminine but not girly; nice but not boring.

Yourself but – you know … someone else.

My grandmother and I have spent the first ten minutes of each Wednesday lesson practising the Stanislavski method. You draw an imaginary circle round yourself and block everything else out, keeping you safe and private, no matter what’s happening.

Yeah, I can’t do it.

I’m standing in front of an entire roomful of strangers who are assessing me carefully. Taking me apart so they can evaluate the individual components: my mother’s eyes, grandmother’s nose, father’s mouth and height … Until I’m just little pieces of people who aren’t even me. A composite of recycled beauty handed down by others and instructed to look after carefully, like an old clock or a vintage handbag.

‘The middle Valentine,’ an older woman with tortoiseshell glasses announces to the room. ‘Mike and Juliet’s girl!’

‘Remarkable,’ somebody says, taking notes. ‘Exotic but also classic. The camera’s going to love her.’

On cue, I switch myself on.

‘Hello!’ Walking forward, I smile with a dimple in my left cheek. ‘It’s so very nice to meet you.’ I’ve learnt to subtly bite the inside of my mouth without anyone noticing. Nobody knows my dimple is fake. Not even Noah.

‘Hi,’ I say to each person in turn. Dimple. ‘Hi there.’ Dimple. ‘Hey.’ Dimple. Dimple. Dimple. Dimple. The inside of my mouth has started bleeding.

‘Hello.’ I’ve reached the famous casting director, Teddy Winthrop. He’s so old and crumpled he makes my grandma look like a Manhattan debutante. ‘It’s a privilege to meet you.’

Dimpling again – ow! – I hold out my hand.

‘Established.’ Teddy nods, unimpressed. ‘We’re all very much greeted now. Shall we get on with it?’

He flicks rheumy blue eyes at the empty chair in the middle of the room and I glance down at my script.

‘Off-page,’ the casting director demands in an icy voice. ‘Please.’

I look up in horror. ‘But my agent said—’

‘Yes, but as I have been informed, repeatedly and relentlessly, you are one of the Valentines. I think you can manage a single short scene, don’t you?’

I’m suddenly not so sure that my family connections are working in my favour. He may have already met Mercy.

‘Of course.’ I obediently drop the script on the floor. ‘Yes. No problem.’

Then I sit in the chair as two enormous lights abruptly switch on. I flinch. Find the circle, Eff. It feels like I’m some kind of rare lizard in a bright terrarium.

‘Where would you like me to—’

‘Bang,’ the woman wearing glasses abruptly says. ‘Crackle. Ooooh-eee-oooooh. Woo. Woo. Wooooooooooooo. Yeeeeeha. Yeeeha. Woof woof meow oink arrooooooooga.’

I stare at her blankly. What the—

‘Oh!’ I glance to the side and see that the green light on the camera is blinking. ‘Have we started? We’ve started. Umm. Fred! What was that? I heard something – there’s someone outside!’

‘There’snobodythere,’ the woman reads in monotone.

‘We’ve made a mistake,’ I say, voice trembling carefully. ‘We should g-go – we should l-l-leave. Wait, I think I’ve got enough battery in my—’

‘It’sjustasheeporsomething.’

‘But sheep don’t sound like that.’

‘Acowthen.’ The woman peers at me with raised eyebrows. ‘AgoatwhatevertheyhaveouthereI’llgoout justwaitforme—’

Wait. Do I … know her?

A memory clicks. A party my parents threw nearly a decade ago. Music, laughter, flowers, a large white tent in the garden, and we were all sitting on the stairs together, listening to the—

‘… Kiss.’

My parents were standing on the lawn, making a toast, and—

‘Kiss.’

A clink of glasses and I looked round and—

‘Kiss.’

Wait, is that my cue?

‘Ah.’ I blink at the woman from the party, and then at Teddy. I don’t remember kissing in the original script. ‘Kiss? What – who am I supposed to … kiss exactly?’

Confused, I look round the room.

‘I’ll do it!’ A young guy at the back jumps up. ‘If you need someone to make out with Faith Valentine, I can do it! Just … you know. For now. To practise. Or whatever.’

Teddy stares at the poor boy until he sits down again.

I lick my lips. Do something, Faith.

Impulsively, I close my eyes and start to make out passionately with the back of my own hand. I taste of sweat and fear and disinfectant cucumber wipes.

‘F-F-Fred!’ Kiss. ‘Don’t go!’ Kiss. ‘Please! I love you! Don’t leave me in here on my own!’ Kiss. ‘What will happen if— Oh no. Oh no, he’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone, he’s—’

‘And stop,’ says Teddy Winthrop.

I stop.

‘What are you doing?’ The casting director frowns. ‘Do you not want this role? Do you find television beneath the illustrious Valentines?’

‘No!’ I flush in alarm. ‘Of course not. I really want this role, sir. Acting is my life.’

‘You could have fooled me.’ Mr Winthrop looks at the woman in glasses, then back at me. ‘You’re the only character left alive. For the audience, you are the film. You’re alone, you’re scared, something deeply unpleasant is happening and you need to hold the show. Command it.’

‘Would it help if I … move, do you think?’

‘I don’t care if you cartwheel, darling, just play this role with more charisma than a rotten wooden spoon.’

Ouch. Be the Orange, Faith.

Straightening my shoulders, I stand up; change my mind and sit down again; change it again and stand back up. I turn my head; turn it back again. My body feels like it’s being driven by somebody who hasn’t got their licence yet.

Try harder, Faith. You are not trying hard enough. Give them more.

Taking a deep breath, I scream: ‘NOOOOOOOO!’

One hand in a fist clutched to my chest, I fall to my knees and close my eyes. ‘Fred! FREDDDDDD!!!!’ More. ‘FREEDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!’

‘Yes, I think we’ve seen enough.’

I open my eyes, cheeks flaming.

‘Please, Mr Winthrop.’ Don’t be desperate. Don’t be desperate. ‘Is there anything else I can—’

‘No, thank you,’ Teddy says curtly. ‘Please send the next girl in.’

Blinking, I clear my throat and calmly stand up. Then I dust off my dress, brush back my hair and smile. Because the curtain is always up, the audience is always watching and you must always take your bow, even if nobody is clapping.

‘Thank you for taking the time to see me,’ I say politely, dipping my head. ‘I hope to see you all again in the future. Goodbye.’

I slip out of the room.

The door is way too thin.

‘Well,’ Teddy Winthrop grunts from the other side, ‘the infamous Ice Queen might have the looks, but I’d rather hire my kitchen worktop.’

I close my eyes once more.

‘Shame,’ agrees my parents’ old friend. ‘Such a nice girl. Can’t act for toffee, but my goodness: what a face.’

GET THE VALENTINE GLOW!

Want the radiance of a Valentine girl, but lack the movie-star genetics, designer freebies and massive trust funds? Here are our top tips for luxury looks at affordable prices!

So, that was fun.

My grandmother’s chauffeur climbs out of the car, tips his hat and opens the door for me as I launch into: ‘Gosh, that went so well! I’m not entirely sure I’m what they’re looking for –’ maybe a human who can convincingly portray another identical human – ‘but I really connected with the director and next time I think that—’

The back of the car is totally empty.

‘They went shopping in Fortnum and Mason, miss,’ the driver says as my smile collapses in relief. ‘Then I believe your grandmother took a sudden liking for afternoon tea at the Hilton.’

My grandmother is such a cartoon character. At some point, she took on the role of timeless Great British Dame – walking stick, imperious attitude, haughty expression, sudden likings for afternoon tea – and just never took it off again. It’s important to remind myself I’m half American and only half Downton Abbey.

My phone pings.

Baby, this album is kicking my butt. Come make it all better? :( Nx

‘Where now, miss?’ The driver climbs back into his seat. ‘Dame Sylvia said you’re welcome to join them.’

I politely pretend to consider this for a few seconds.

Umm, eating scones in a busy, gilt-embossed room (‘Oh, have you met my granddaughter Faith? She’s the future of the Valentines, you know. Darling … not so much jam!’) or watching my cute boyfriend excitedly twiddle buttons on a huge control system like it’s a spaceship he’s only just learnt how to fly?

With a wave of relief, I rummage around in the car door for my secret make-up bag and hold a tiny mirror up to my face. I look tired. But a few more dabs of carefully positioned pore-filler, highlighter, foundation, concealer, blush, mascara, eyeliner, bronzer and everyone will think I’m fine.

I start expertly applying the make-up nobody knows about but me.

Thank goodness for boyfriends.

‘Take me to Abbey Road, please, John.’

Noah is waiting outside.

As the limo pulls up to the world-famous recording studio, I see my sweet guy. He’s perched on a bollard, long legs bent, big black eyes narrowed in concentration while he taps a tune on his jeans with his fingers. You know that moment when you climb into a warm bath, and everything goes tingly and floaty, and you worry you’re going to melt and disappear, but you’re also kind of cool with it if you do?

That’s how I feel every single time I see Noah Anthony. As if I’m disappearing and I don’t mind in the slightest.

‘Eff!’ He looks up as I step out of the car, and I finally feel myself beam without dimples. ‘Oh, thank chicken nuggets you’re here! I’ve been playing the same three chords all morning and I was literally about to rip my fingers out at the joints.’

Noah’s nose is a tiny bit crooked from a brother’s punch when he was small, there’s a scar above his left eyebrow and his front teeth are a little misaligned from the braces he refused to get. But it’s the imperfections that make my boyfriend so gorgeous, that leave the eyes with somewhere interesting to land.

My smile widens as I get closer. He shaved his hair off two days ago – an attempt to look ‘edgier’ – but it actually makes him look soft and vulnerable, like a tiny lamb.

‘Hey.’ I give him a gentle kiss and study his face carefully. ‘Is it going very badly?’

He grimaces.

Noah pretends to find the roller coaster of success overwhelming, but every dip and swerve excites him. He loves the pressure, but he also needs to play the reluctant, overburdened artist, so I pretend not to see it.

‘Dire,’ he sighs, rolling his eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder what I do it for, you know? I miss the days of sitting in my bedroom, just me and my guitar. The chords aren’t working for me today.’

He makes a sad-emoji face, so I quickly search for an appropriate joke. ‘What do you get when you, er, drop a piano down a mineshaft?’

Noah frowns. ‘Huh?’

I hold my hands out, palms facing him. ‘A flat miner.’

There’s a pause.

‘A Flat Min-or,’ I say again, with slightly different emphasis. ‘It’s … a joke about chords, I think?’

My boyfriend gives one short laugh – ‘Ha!’ – and kisses me on the nose, although frankly he might as well pat me on the head. ‘Who says girls can’t be beautiful and funny?’

Relieved, I kiss him back. ‘Pretty much everyone.’

He grins. ‘Sad times.’

‘Noah?’ Out of nowhere, embarrassment wallops me in the stomach. ‘This morning …’ I wince. ‘The audition … it didn’t … go … brilliantly.’ Charisma of a rotten wooden spoon. ‘I don’t think I … exactly nailed it. I … might have come across as a bit … wooden.’

I’d rather hire my kitchen worktop.

‘Don’t be daft, baby.’ Noah smiles proudly. ‘You’re always so hard on yourself, Eff. You need to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you.’ Here comes the inevitable wordplay. ‘Have a little faith in yourself, know what I mean?’

He laughs. He always laughs at that.

‘No, I really mean it, Noah.’ My eyes are suddenly wet. ‘It was horrendous. Grandma’s going to be so cross with me, my agent will be furious and I’m not sure what to do if—’

‘Oh, please, as if anyone could turn this down.’ He steps back and gestures at me as if I’m a new goddess rising from the sea foam. ‘You’re literally the most beautiful girl in the world. And the sweetest. I mean, look at you, Eff. These eyes? This hair? This mouth. Those—’

I roll my eyes and smack him gently. ‘Yes. Thank you, Noah.’

‘All I’m saying –’ he puts his hands gently on either side of my face – ‘is they’re not blind.’

We gaze at each other affectionately.

For a brief moment, I see my boyfriend as he was the night I met him at the BRITs after-party. He was celebrating his first big win, while I was crouched on the floor, helping the waiters clean up spilt hors d’oeuvres.

I kind of had to. It was Mercy who’d knocked them over.

‘Noah,’ I start, then abruptly stop. His big dark eyes have got a slightly glazed expression and I can feel his fingertips twitching. ‘Noah, are you practising the piano on my face?’

‘What?’ He jumps back. ‘No. What?’

‘You are.’

‘I’m not! We are talking about your career, Eff, your destiny, your life path, the—’ A scratch of the shaved head. ‘Yeah, I was, but I think your little “joke” just fixed my chord problem! It’s an A minor, not a C. A minor! I cannot believe I didn’t realise that earlier!’

I laugh, even if he did just mime bunny ears around my attempt at humour.

It’s impossible to be angry with Noah. He has incredibly long eyelashes and a freakish ability to make his eyes look so huge and round you feel like you’re snapping at a baby cow.

‘Go.’ I playfully push him towards the studio. ‘Go get that note. Hit inspiration over the head with a baseball bat or whatever.’

Noah tries very hard to look reluctant. ‘Sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Because, you know …’ He grabs my hand and pulls me closer to give me a kiss. I can feel his breath on my lips: sweet, warm, rich. He’s been drinking coffee with three sugars in it again. ‘You came all this way and the new album’s not that important. I could always settle for Number Two in the charts and stay out here a bit longer …’

Nose twitching, I try to look stern. ‘Go record that song.’

‘Maybe even Number Three –’ he kisses my eyebrow – ‘or perhaps I could chuck my guitar in the bin and we could—’

I push him away again. ‘Go.’

He kisses my eyelid. ‘Make out all—’

‘Noah Anthony, go.’

And that’s when I hear the clicks.

I spin round. Cameras are trained on us like guns.

‘FAITH! NOAH!’ Paparazzi are bursting from every direction. Behind walls and bins, round the sides of cars, yelling, jostling, pushing: ‘THIS WAY! DOES THIS MEAN YOU’RE OFFICIALLY BACK TOGETHER?’

‘STILL ON THE ROCKS?’ More pushing. ‘ARE YOU SEEKING COUPLES COUNSELLING? HOW ABOUT A RELATIONSHIP PSYCHIC?’

‘ANYTHING TO SAY ON THE AVERY RUMOURS?’

‘FEELINGS ON THE SHIP NAME FOAH? FAINOAH? OR JOITH? JAITH?’

‘WHAT ABOUT NOITH? NITH?’

Noah laughs. ‘Fainoah, that’s my favourite one – sounds like something hipsters eat with avocado,’ but my brain is already starting to spin, replaying the last few minutes on a frantic loop. How long were they there? What did they see? Could they tell I was nearly in tears? Did it look like we were fighting?

I kept pushing Noah away, and he kept grabbing my hand.

Oh my days, I smacked him.

‘COME ON, FAITH! GIVE THE POOR GUY A BREAK!’ somebody yells as a handy reminder.

Horrified, I turn to stare at my boyfriend.

‘Whoops,’ Noah grins nonchalantly. ‘My PR people must have told them we were here. My bad.’

My eyes are flickering wildly, seeking an exit.

‘Hey, hey.’ Noah grabs my hands. ‘Don’t get upset, baby. I mean, it’s all part of the fame game, right? I mean, I hate it too, with every bone in my body –’ he does not – ‘but what can we do?’

I dunno – how about not give the paparazzi details of our every single move?

What I really, really want is to give my boyfriend a quick hug on his break without millions of people casually assessing what it means over their cornflakes the next day. Without judging the minutiae of my facial expressions or hair or outfit; without entire articles analysing our body language. She pulled away: it’s a fractured relationship. Their feet facing away from each other? Lack of intimacy, right there. Did you see her eyes well up?

This couple are in deep trouble. Pray for them, readers! Pray for FOAH!

Except now I sound surly and ungrateful – super unattractive – so I quickly dimple as hard as possible.

‘Can we—’

‘Unless,’ Noah interrupts thoughtfully, eyes starting to shine again. ‘I mean, if they’re going to write about us, Eff, we might as well give them something to write, yeah? Have some fun?’

‘Absolutely.’ I nod enthusiastically. ‘Good idea!’

My boyfriend gives me a wink and whispers, ‘Ready?’

I nod.

And he kisses me, hard. One hand on the small of my back, the other entwined in my hair, bending me backwards until I physically have to cling to him. I’m warm and breathless and curiously weak.

It’s a movie kiss. A poster kiss. A front-page kiss.

Click click click click click click.

Flustered, I kiss him back.

‘Now be gone!’ Noah shouts when we finally stop. ‘Off with you, pap-ouschkas! Shoo! Give us some privacy! Look how beautiful she is, dagnammit! I need some alone time!’

The paparazzi laugh. Noah loves fame – courts it, woos it, flirts with it – and so it loves him straight back. Whereas I carry my fame on my back like a reluctant snail and, no matter how hard I dimple, the paps can see that too.

‘Love you very much,’ Noah whispers under his breath, squeezing my hand. ‘You know that, Eff. OK?’

‘Yes.’ I relax and smile. ‘I love you too.’

‘I’ll ring you tonight? After the gig?’

Better set my alarm for midnight: he’s so hyper and coffee-fuelled, it’s going to be another very late video call. ‘Yes. Am I still seeing you—’

‘Tomorrow?’ Noah grins. ‘Of course, baby. The date’s engraved right here.’

He taps my hand on his chest, then drops a soft little kiss on my forehead. Nobody takes a single photo. A forehead kiss is of no interest, unless it’s to illustrate: Has Fainoah Lost Its Spark?

‘Good luck,’ I say to my boyfriend’s back as he disappears into the studio, fingers already twitching with invisible music.

Taking a deep breath, I hold my head high. Not too high. Not arrogant high; not snotty high; not I’m-better-than-you high. Just high enough to look like a confident, grounded girl who is secure and happy in her long-term relationship.

The limo door is opened for me.

Head up, head up, head up, smile, smile, confident, confident – I climb in, the door clicks shut and I slump into an exhausted heap behind the blacked-out windows.

‘Home?’ John the driver asks.

‘Yes, please.’ I close my eyes. ‘Home.’

I’m still wearing white.

Except now it’s a bedsheet, knotted at the back of my neck, a large white hat of Mum’s flopping too far forward and battered white tennis shoes that are much too big for me. I’m standing on an upturned cardboard box in the centre of the room, partly hidden – partly hiding – behind the hat’s huge brim.

Holding a … candlestick?

‘And where –’ the boy straightens his bright emerald scarf – ‘were you at six thirty-eight pm last night? It’s a very simple question, madam.’

‘I—’

‘Don’t answer that!’ A small girl in a huge turquoise sweater jumps to her blue-socked feet and waves a vacuum-cleaner pipe in the air. ‘It’s an atrosicky! You don’t need to answer anything!’

‘You’re not this good lady’s lawyer, Mrs P.’ A small chuckle. ‘You’re another suspect.’

‘Well … so are you! Also your … spanner sucks … donkey ears, so there.’

‘Brutal, birdy. Get him.’

I tilt the brim with one finger to see better as a small pink tongue gets stuck out at the other boy wearing bright yellow fur, holding a mustard skipping rope.

‘Can we get on with it?’ Under an extravagant red hat, a plastic dagger is studied casually by glowing eyes. ‘The show’s tonight and everybody who’s anybody is coming.’

‘I was …’ I clear my throat and look round the dusty attic. Everyone is staring at me. Familiar panic is rising. Where was I at six thirty-eight last night? Who does this candlestick belong to? What’s it doing in my hands?

Was it me? Did I do it?

‘I was … I was … I …’ My breath is getting faster, my cheeks hot. Abruptly, my hands go over my face. ‘I didn’t … I don’t … I don’t remember!’

A short silence.

‘She knows she didn’t actually do it, right? Like, it’s written down in the script. Is she about to confess to a gruesome murder she didn’t even commit?’

‘Oh, great, she’s going to ruin everything.’

Muddy purple trainers appear at the edge of my vision. ‘Hey, you, get off the stage.’

Overwhelmed, I clamber down.

‘Curl in a ball on the floor and breathe.’

I do as I’m told.

‘Now close your eyes and concentrate, OK?’ The voice is low and husky, a laugh bouncing across it like a pebble. ‘You’re perfectly round. You’re bright and bumpy. You’re sweet and you come in segments. You’ve got pips and taste delicious with chocolate. Got it?’

I close my eyes and strain. ‘No. What?’

‘If you can convince yourself you’re an orange, you can convince anyone you’re anything.’ A familiar dry laugh. ‘Now get up and try again.’

Slowly, I stand up and clear my throat.

Be the Orange.

‘I-AM-INNOCENT!’ I yell, pushing Mum’s floppy hat away from my face as my lines come flooding back. ‘It was him, with a spanner, in the conservatory! I saw him! You are the killer, sir! Confess!’

There’s a ripple of relieved applause – finally, that’ll do, you can get down now – then it’s the girl in scarlet’s turn. She pulls me off the box with an elaborate eye-roll and commences her three-page, self-written monologue.

I turn to my purple saviour.

The professor winks – so proud, so loving – and then, slowly, starts to crumble into powder.

Into paint.

Into watercolours of lilac, violet and lavender: melting into the air, swirling in a bright amethyst circle before drifting towards the window, and I realise it’s open and I jump, I jump as high as I can, trying to close it, trying to hold the colour in my hands, but the purple’s running over my fingers and down my arms and it’s seeping through me and into me and I can’t, I don’t know how to, I can’t keep it—

I can’t keep it—

I can’t—

I—

With a start, I lurch upwards.

‘Where am I? No, no, what time is it?’

Alarmed, I stare at my hands. Twisting round – I’m still in the back of the limo – I peer out of the blackened window.

We’re parked at the end of my driveway, but the sun is rosy and low. How long did I sleep for? This can’t be happening. I’ve missed the schedule for posting the rest of Genevieve’s photos, I need to shower, face-mask, wash my hair, diffuse it, dress, prepare, apply make-up, learn another script, phone Noah, plan for tomorrow—

Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no—

‘I was told to let you sleep, miss.’ The driver puts his newspaper down and gives me a kind glance over his shoulder. ‘Your grandmother said you looked like you needed it.’

Flushing, I grab my phone: 17.30. It’s flashing furiously, the little blue light blinking like an indignant eye.

MISSED CALL: Hope

MISSED CALL: Hope

MISSED CALL: Hope

MISSED CALL: Hope

MISSED CALL: Hope

Where r u? COME HOME NOW!!! Po :) XXX

Yo, sis, you with the BF? Your needed here! Max x

LOL I mean *you’re. Don’t judge. Max x

MISSED CALL: Hope

MISSED CALL: Hope

MISSED CALL: Hope

Hi, Faith,

I’ve had feedback from the audition.

They’ve decided to go in a different direction, but wanted to thank you for your time. They did mention that you struggled somewhat, so again I would like to suggest that we look at smaller roles, with a view to building up to more prominent characters gradually. This is an established way of developing a long-term acting career, and allows you to hone your talents steadily.

I do hope you are not too disappointed.

I have attached another script for auditions next month.

Persephone

MISSED CALL: Hope

MISSED CALL: Mercy

My eyebrows shoot up. Mercy?

I wasn’t even sure she had my phone number. Every time we argue, she holds her phone in the air and pointedly deletes me.

Quickly, I thank John, leap out of the car and start running towards the house. I can worry about the audition later. I’ve already allocated a full hour at around 3am to lying awake, staring anxiously at the ceiling, so that email will fit right in.

Then I push through the front door and—

‘… HOUSE! HOW DARE YOU SWAN IN AND—’

‘—MORTGAGE. AND BILLS. AND THE—’

‘—THIS FAMILY FOR A HUNDRED YEARS, AND YOU WANT TO BRING YOUR BIT OF FLUFF INTO MY—’

‘ROZ IS NOT A—’

‘SQUEEZE. FLING. BETTER?’

‘STOP BEING CHILDISH, JULIET! I DIDN’T SUGGEST THAT—’

‘DON’T YOU DARE “STOP BEING CHILDISH, JULIET” ME! I WON’T BE SPOKEN TO AS IF I’M—’

‘THEN DON’T ACT SO—’

Biting my lip, I enter the living room.

It’s like being in an aeroplane. One minute you’re calmly reading Variety and eating your dinner; the next you’ve flown into a storm cloud so thick and dark you can’t see anything. All you can feel are the shudders, the spiralling, while everything starts rattling and your beef stroganoff ends up in your lap.

My mother and father are the storm.

Mum, thin and beautiful and silver and electric – crackling in her collarbones, knuckles, the point of her chin – while Dad roars, low and loud, rumbling a few seconds later.

To my right, Max is lying on a sofa: faux-casually eating an apple, long legs stretched out, sunglasses on, pretending to read a book. Hope is sitting on another sofa, eyes on the ceiling, fingers clutched tightly. Mercy is hovering on her feet, an unnatural brightness in her eyes and a strange flush to her cheeks.

So much for the ‘amicable divorce’, guys. Why do actors and directors need an audience for everything?

‘WE DISCUSSED THIS!’ Dad booms. ‘JULIET, WE DISCUSSED THIS, IN DEPTH, FIVE DAYS AGO! WHAT IS THIS? WHY MUST YOU ALWAYS TURN EVERYTHING INTO A—’

‘—BRING THAT WOMAN AND REPLACE ME AS IF I’M SOME—’

‘—NOT WHAT I’M SUGGESTING. THIS IS NOT HOW ADULTS BEHAVE—’

‘—DARE TELL ME HOW ADULTS—’

Po sees me and jumps up like an overwound jack-in-the-box.

‘Eff!’ She runs over, holding out a fabric tote with an embossed school crest on it. ‘Look! They gave me a full branded pencil case like I told you and there’s a drama club and I met this girl called Olivia! Insane, right? She’s a Pisces just like you so we’re super compatible. I think she’s going to be my best friend forever, how cool is that?’

Umm, I’m not Pisces. My birthday’s in October, I’m Libra. But now is not the time to make that correction.

My little sister’s cheeks are also pink and she’s bobbing up and down on her tiptoes, which is what she does when she’s trying to be anywhere else. When she’s trying her hardest to not be here.

I glance at my other siblings. I’m not sure how long this fight has been going on, but Max’s eyes have glazed over under his sunglasses and a small muscle in Mercy’s jaw is ticking like the second hand of a clock.

This needs to stop, and I mean immediately. Quickly, I snap into action.

‘Dad!’ I walk calmly through the thick storm cloud and kiss his cheek. ‘How was the flight? I’ve missed you! How’s California? Did the film wrap up well? Is Roz OK?’

Then I turn to my mother. ‘Mum! I met one of your biggest fans today. She was saying how much she enjoyed Pinnacle, and how incredibly talented you are.’

‘Po?’ I turn to my baby sister, who’s staring at me with wide eyes, waiting for instructions. ‘Could you make us all a cup of tea? Max, why don’t you take Dad’s bags upstairs? Mercy—’ My sister scowls, but there’s relief on her face too – as if I’ve just pulled the plug on a TV show she hated, but couldn’t stop watching. ‘Could you get some … biscuits?’

My parents are slowly coming back to themselves. Looking around in bewilderment, like small children waking up. Dad’s embarrassed and Mum is shutting down again.

They’re not really fighting – we know that – but sometimes you have to step in before they rip themselves apart just to make sense of the pieces.

‘Biscuits?’ Mer scowls. ‘Get biscuits? I’m not a dog.’ But she flashes me a glance of gratitude and makes a swift exit.

The tension is draining out of the room.

‘Juliet,’ Dad says in a much lower voice, turning to Mum with beseeching eyes. ‘Please. Obviously, I wasn’t going to bring Roz here. It would be hugely inappropriate. She’s staying at a hotel in town. I just thought it would be a good idea for everyone to meet before the paps find out. You know we still haven’t made the divorce public yet.’

My mother holds her lovely head up.

‘Well.’ Her grey eyes are remote and distant: Elvis has left the building. ‘You could have just said so, Michael. It’s a misunderstanding. We just don’t have the space for visitors, I’m afraid.’

We have fifteen bedrooms.

‘Mmm.’ Dad coughs. ‘I thought the kids might want to come out for a quiet dinner with Roz. Maybe they can get to know her.’

‘Yippee for us,’ Mer says flatly, returning with empty hands and a mouth full of cookie. ‘Your brand-new side order sounds an absolute treat, Dad.’

‘She is!’ Po squeaks behind her, splashing three cups of tea on the white carpet. ‘Roz is amazing, Mer! She’s soooo kind and sooooo clever and she has these shorts that have, like, a million pockets in them and oh my Ryan goshlings, I can’t wait for her to psychologise you all. Especially you, Max.’

‘Good-oh,’ Max laughs. ‘In fairness, I am possibly the most fascinating Valentine character.’

‘You’re not,’ Mercy snaps. ‘You just think you are.’

And I feel my family slowly recalibrating: finding our places, remembering our lines, resuming our positions.

‘Obviously, I’d love to join you,’ Mum says icily. ‘But the American shrink with zero fashion sense will have to get my signature another time.’

With a stiff back, she leaves the room.

‘Blimey,’ Max whispers as we slip into the silent hallway. ‘Nice one, Eff. Five more minutes and we’d have ended up with our own reality show. On which note—’

Honestly, I don’t feel very well. It’s as if the black cloud in the room had to go somewhere, so I breathed it all in. And now it’s lodged in my chest like thick tar, squelching and sticky.

My phone pings and I scan the pop-up.

‘Faith,’ my brother says as I abruptly sit down on the bottom stair and tighten the laces on my trainers. ‘Sis … please tell me you’re not going for another run.’

I frown. Exercise is good for you – everybody knows that.

‘I just need some fresh air.’

NOAH ANTHONY ‘NEEDS ALONE TIME’

Furious Faith Valentine fought on-off boyfriend Noah Anthony in Abbey Road this morning. As he attempts to record his latest album, Faith was pushing him away with tears in her eyes, rebuff ing every effort he made to calm her down.

‘It’s clear,’ experts say, ‘that she doesn’t like Noah spending time on anything but her. This level of clinginess will drive him away.’

Noah agrees, confiding: ‘I need some alone time.’

Breathing hard, I follow the river.

Pounding the footpath that winds from the bottom of our garden, I try to focus on the air in my lungs and the soft thud of my trainers in the mud. On the muted colours of the day, the beautiful silvers and greys and the – I mean what the actual—?

Focus on the pumping of your blood, Faith. On the warmth in your legs, the heat in your cheeks.

Breathe. Breathe. Brea—

I mean, are they freaking kidding me? I turned up at the studio because Noah asked me to. I told him to focus on writing.

Dipping round a tree, I hop over a log.

We have never been ‘on-off’. He was on tour.

With a sharp burst of angry energy, I run faster. I cannot believe they’ve misquoted him on purpose yet again – I take a left turn deeper into the wood – his I need alone time might be totally out of context, but they’ve found evidence for it anyway. Unflattering pictures of me looking hostile, Noah exhausted and oh-so-very-patient.

Breathe. Breathe, br—

That movie-star kiss was never getting printed, was it?

Boring Couple Snogs For The Three Thousandth Time doesn’t sell papers. And I know it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter – they’re just photos, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter—

Except it does.

I’m going to see these photos again and again: when they’re cut out and stuck in my scrapbook, when they’re analysed in magazines, when one of his fans yells, ‘WHY CAN’T YOU JUST BE NICE TO HIM!’ outside a restaurant. When ‘chilling with laid-back Avery’ is published next to a photo of Noah and a pretty backing dancer on tour; when a big role comes up and they pass me over for someone who’s apparently less of a diva.

It’ll be there every time I reach for Noah’s hand in public, then pull back in case I look pathetic; when I lean in for a kiss, but stop in case I seem desperate.

And every article, every photo, every headline will slip between us. Writing a version that isn’t us, but that on some level we both start to believe anyway. Until the gap between reality and fiction is too big to cross any more, just like it’s become with my parents.

Scowling, I brush past a branch and feel it tug and rip my stupid floaty dress.

I’ll give them freaking ‘furious’.

Except I won’t, obviously.

Instead, I draw to an abrupt halt, wipe my nose on my wrist and grab my phone again. Screw Genevieve’s cute pug photo, I need to post a selfie quickly or the world will think I’ve gone into humiliated hiding.

Holding it over my head, I dimple and smile brightly.

Click.

I examine the shot. There’s a random crisp packet on the ground behind me so I pick it up, stick it in my dress pocket and try again, tilting my chin down and angling it.

Click.

Now my forehead looks massive.

Click.

My left eye is squinting.

Click.

Waaaaay too much boob. Let’s keep this clean and on brand, people.

Click.

Strained and desperate.

Click.

Controlling?

Click.

Crazy as a box of badgers.

Click.

You know how if you say a word over and over again it starts to lose all meaning and just sounds like a random noise? That’s kind of what’s happening to my face.

Click.

It’s started looking like a collection of weird shapes.

Click.

A couple of hazel blobs, a sticky-out nobble, two pink puffy flaps, a scattering of brown splodges and some random fluff.

Click.

Until it feels like I could reach a hand out and rearrange my features: stick my lips on my forehead and push my eyes straight into my ears, turn my nose upside down like Mrs Potato Head.

Click.

How d’ya like that, Instagram?

Beautiful evening! It’s times like this my heart wants to burst with happiness!! Have a lovely night, everyone xxx

And … POST.

Another two pop-ups bounce on to my screen:

HELLO FROM THE T-STER! GREAT NEWS!

Our favourite gal-sleb, EFFIE VALENTINE, is gonna be on the single market real soon! Pop star idiots can’t HANDLE a REAL WOMAN. Everyone knows HAAAAWTIES are hard work. If he can’t be bothered, I’ll step in! Call me, Effie! Number on CONTACT ME page.

FAITH VALENTINE – BEAUTY OR BASIC?

Click below to vote!

For the love of—

It’s like I’m an impulsively purchased convertible car – attractive in the showroom, but so high-maintenance I end up stuffed in a garage and covered with a dust sheet.

A bolt of nausea pulses through me. Swallowing, I drop Noah a quick text.

Hey. These headlines, huh? Gah! LOL xx

There’s another pop-up:

NEON IS BACK!

White dress and neon sports bra? We’re here for it! Unlucky in love, Faith V, was the latest celeb spotted showing off her underwear. For a more affordable version, click HERE, HERE and HERE.

This time, I actually laugh.

Don’t dress like me, guys. You’re unwittingly taking your fashion lead from the directives of a seventy-year-old woman in a chiffon scarf and a girl who regularly showers with wet wipes.

Ping.

IKR?! You look gorgeous though, don’t worry! N xx

I stare at Noah’s text blankly – umm, not exactly where I was going with that one – then type back:

Awww. Thanks :) :) :) xx

Then – with no smile on my face, let alone three – I slip the phone back into my pocket.

And I keep running.

MISSED CALL: Persephone

MISSED CALL: Grandmother

MISSED CALL: Persephone

Hi Faith,

Please call me as soon as you can. Persephone

MISSED CALL: Persephone

MISSED CALL: Persephone

Faith, noted film journalist is desperate to talk to you. Please contact me ASAP. Persephone

MISSED CALL: Grandmother

MISSED CALL: Noah

Hey baby, just seen the papers!! TOLD YOU SO. You’re the greatest Nxxxx

Umm, DUDE. Max

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!!! Po xxxxxx

WT actual

Mercy considers her narrative voice instantly recognisable so she rarely signs off her text messages. Blinking in confusion, I sit up abruptly in bed and stare at my alarm clock.

It’s 10am. I must have run so hard for so long yesterday that I managed to sleep through my alarm, my body clock, the birds outside, my phone going crazy. It’s flashing so hard it looks like it’s about to take off like a firework.

I roll over – the left side of my bed is crumpled and there’s black eyeliner smudged all over the pillow. Mercy must have fallen asleep and got up again without me even noticing.

Hair in a cloud, I grab my dressing gown and fly down the stairs with it streaming behind me like a fluffy cape.

‘Here she comes!’ Max appears cheerfully in the kitchen doorway, eating strawberry jam directly from the jar. ‘Faith Valentine. Megastar, icon, siren. A morning vision, complete with greasy forehead and a booger in her left nostril.’

Distractedly, I pick my nose and flick it away.

‘What’s happened?’ Alarmed, I grab my brother by the T-shirt. ‘Will you stop the persistent mockery and just tell me what’s happening?’

‘Don’t touch me with your crusty booger hand,’ he laughs, moving away. ‘You know, apparently people consider you vaguely attractive, Eff. A true mystery I cannot understand.’

I’m clearly getting no answers from my idiot brother so I turn to my remaining siblings. Po is impatiently bouncing up and down at the kitchen table – dimpled and glowing – and Mercy’s face is literally the stormiest I’ve ever seen it. You can practically see the dark thoughts skidding across it like clouds.

‘What?’ I stare at them. ‘What??!’

It’s extremely frustrating – I’m normally the one who actually knows what’s going on around me.

‘Oh my days!’ I shout to the ceiling. ‘WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME WHY MY PHONE IS ON FIRE!!!’

Beaming, Hope opens a newspaper. Then she dramatically lays it down with an elaborate flourish; opens another one and does the same; and another; and another. My face is plastered over all of them, except this time I’m not scowling. This time I don’t have food on my chin.

I’m poised, poreless – photoshopped to oblivion and Grandma-verified – and the headlines read:

VALENTINE FOR ROLE OF THE DECADE

HAVE A LITTLE FAITH! ICE QUEEN SET TO STAR

BRITISH BEAUTY PIPS AMERICANS TO POST

I stare at them, eyes wide.

‘You did it!’ Hope jumps up and wraps her arms round my midriff. ‘You nailed your very first audition. Effie, I’m so proud I could rupturify on the spot. I knew you’d be a Hollywood star on the floor, and now you’re one step closer! After you’ve won your Best Newcomer Oscar, will you be in my debut film? Please? I promise there will be top-notch sandwiches.’

I glance at Mercy.

‘Well,’ she says darkly. ‘Genuine skill means nothing to the industry any more.’

‘Mercy.’ Max puts a protective hand on my shoulder. ‘For the love of unicorns, can you take a break from being a total monster? Just, like, five minutes to be happy for your little sister? Consider it a short recess. Give us a time-out so we can collectively regenerate.’

‘Fine.’ Mer scowls and stares at the table. ‘Well done, very exciting, what a well-deserved achievement, et cetera.’

My head feels like I’ve stuffed it with a cashmere sock.

‘I don’t understand.’ My voice sounds foggy. ‘What role? Are they talking about Fright Fortnight? But I screwed that audition up. They said I did. I heard them.’

‘You heard wrong,’ my brother says jubilantly, holding out his jam jar. ‘Sugar? For the shock?’

I pick up a tabloid and scan it.

Knockout stunner, Faith Valentine, is confirmed as front runner for ‘the biggest teen role ever’. ‘It’s huge,’ a source confirms. ‘Fright Fortnight had buzz, but this launches it to the next level.’

Daughter of A-lister Juliet Valentine and BAFTA-winning director Michael Rivers …

I scan faster. Yes, we know my pedigree, thank you. I’m not a dog at Crufts.

Hang on—

‘She’s a true talent,’ delighted boyfriend, Noah Anthony, confirms. ‘She thinks she’s a terrible actress! She worries she lacks what it takes. Crazy, right? Plus, she’s so beautiful. They’re lucky to have her.’

When did they speak to Noah?

‘I see your charming boyfriend is at it again,’ Mercy says sharply. ‘How sweet of him to have an opinion before you did.’

I frown at her – stop it – pick up my phone and hit DIAL.

‘Persephone?’ I turn away and stick a finger in my free ear so I can’t hear Max noisily flicking Mercy on the forehead. ‘Hi. Is this real? Did I get another audition?’

Crackle, crackle, crackle.

‘… yes.’ My agent is brusque. There’s an air of army sergeant about her: small talk permanently unwelcome. ‘Crackle – administrative error – crackle – final round – crackle – tomorrow morning. Crackle, crackle – details.’

The reception in this kitchen is truly terrible.

Holding my phone in the air, I try to climb in the gap between the fridge and the wall so I can hear Persephone better.

‘Yes,’ Po insists in the background. ‘I’m gonna film all the people I meet on my first day at school—’

‘But …’ I must have misunderstood the casting director. Did I hear a few key words and fill in the rest with my own negativity? ‘Do you really think I can—’

‘They’ve sent – crackle – different scene.’ Persephone hasn’t got time to stroke my ego. ‘Off-script – crackle – time to learn it.’

‘Actually, tonight is—’ I stop. ‘Sure. Of course.’

‘You’re not auditioning for buddies!’ Max is laughing at Po.

‘Of course I am,’ she indignantly replies. ‘How else will I know how they’ll work out when they star in the film of my life?’

Louder laughter. ‘Not enough bubble wrap, little sis.’

With a pointed glance over my shoulder – shhhhh – I tuck myself further into the fridge-gap.

‘… number of requests – crackle – interviews,’ Persephone is saying, ‘but – crackle – exclusive.’ A burst of phones ringing in the background. ‘So – crackle – with you in half an hour.’

My eyes widen in alarm. ‘Wait, what?’

‘Traffic depending.’

‘With me?’ I glance round the kitchen: there’s peanut butter on the floor. ‘In my house? Like, here?’

‘Yes. To see how you live – crackle— Inside track on Faith Valentine.’

My throat feels like it’s closing.

‘Ah. I—’

‘Faith, we can’t afford to pass this exposure up – crackle – you want to work in film. Formal profile pieces – crackle – right people pay attention. Just be yourself and the world’s your oyster.’

I open my mouth.

‘Got to go,’ Persephone concludes briskly. ‘Tom’s on the other line, you know what he’s like – crackle – later!’

The phone goes dead.

J ust be yourself.

As if I don’t have a physical folder of pre-approved media question answers written by Grandma and rehearsed to perfection every single Wednesday for practically an entire year.

Favourite colour.

Favourite food.

Favourite film.

Favourite ice cream.

Favourite dog breed.

Favourite music.

Favourite season.

Being myself requires a huge amount of memory power, focus and hole-punched paper.

Jittery, I glance at my watch.

There’s no time to ring Noah so I quickly bash out a text:

Crazy!!! Mad here but I’m meeting you later, right? What time, where?? xx

Thirty seconds later:

Sure, good-looking! See you 4pm, Covent Garden. Can’t wait. Love love love you xxx

I smile and breathe out.

Love love love you too xxx

Then I firmly recommence panicking. Our housekeeper Maggie has been off all week while her son Ben’s visiting, and the result is …

Well. I can see the resulting piece already:

Inside their glamorous multimillion-pound mansion, the Valentines are slowly festering in a stew of their own filth.

‘Up!’ I say as Max flops on the sofa with his hands behind his head and watches me spiral frantically round the living room. ‘Get up!’

He digs in, like a belligerent dog.

‘Oh, Max, please.’ With considerable effort, I haul my lanky brother on to the floor. There’s dried pesto pasta stuck between the cushions. ‘A journalist is turning up any second! They can’t see that we live like this!’

‘Why not?’ He laughs. ‘We might be famous, rich, beautiful – me in particular – but we’re actually teenagers, we don’t really like cleaning up after ourselves that much, hold the front page.’

‘No.’ I rummage again: a shrivelled carrot stick. ‘That’s not what I want us to be known for, Max. And Mum’s still upstairs. Remember? Do we really want to make it public that she’s clearly not OK when Dad’s not living here, either? That we’re essentially home alone?’

There’s a short silence.

‘Valid point.’ Max jumps up and claps his hands. ‘Don’t want social services sending you guys to Celebrity Masterchef or whatever. I shall … go … do whatever it is people do with a vacuum cleaner.’

Meanwhile, Po is drifting round the room, trailing her hand along dusty surfaces. ‘I know it’s not my interview, Eff, but do you think you could mention my upcoming projects? Just drop it in casually. Like, My Sister, Important Director Hope, or maybe: My Sister, Future Genre-defining—’

‘Hope.’ I grab her by the shoulders. ‘Sweetheart. I love you and I promise I will mention you, but please can you go and lock the kitchen door?’

‘May wee!’ she agrees cheerfully. ‘That’s French for I’m so excited, I might wee.’

When she’s gone, I look up.

Mercy is on her knees, quietly cleaning up the tea stains Hope made yesterday. My heart twangs again. This is how my big sister apologises. She doesn’t say sorry for insulting your boyfriend or being nasty about your abilities, looks, personality.

She’s careful not to wake you when you’re fast asleep. She gets to work with a damp J-cloth.

Mer glances up from under her dark brows and glowers.

I throw her a grateful smile. Then I run into the hallway, rip off my dressing gown, stick on a tailored shift dress from the designer freebies cupboard, let my curls down, bite my lips and pinch my cheeks like I’m in Gone With the Wind.

I’m at the front door just in time for the bell to chime. Swallowing, I pause with my hand on the door.

Remember, Faith. You are the future of the Valentines. It’s a relay race a hundred years in the making, and now it’s your turn to take the baton.

Just. Don’t. Drop. It.

Pulling my shoulders back, I ease the door open. Today’s journalist, Rani Basu, is a fierce-looking woman with thick-rimmed black glasses, a blue-black bob and an earnest expression. She looks nice. Serious. More importantly, she looks – I realise with a sudden burst of optimism – like someone who’s actually going to listen.

This could be my chance. No more quotes from Noah, or assumptions, or ‘honest’ photos that get it all wrong. It’s my interview and I get to say what’s written. This is what I’ve been trained for.

Finally.

‘Hello,’ I beam triumphantly. ‘I’m Faith Valentine.’

‘… And this is the lower hallway,’ I say, holding a graceful hand out. ‘Over here is a grandfather clock bought by my great-grandmother Pauline back in—’

The kitchen door creaks open and Hope’s expectant face peers out. I take a few quick steps so I’m behind the journalist and give Po a little nod. She disappears again.

‘—1920, just after she won the first of her multiple Academy Awards.’ Smoothly, I lead Rani towards the living room. Grandma was very clear about the order in which I should present the rooms: there’s a highlighted map and everything. ‘Over here we have the formal parlour. This is where the Valentine family gathers for Christmases, birthdays,’ screaming matches, ‘celebrations and so on.’

‘Oh yes,’ the journalist nods, making a note. ‘I did want to ask about that. Your mother is recently out of rehab. But as far as I can tell she hasn’t been seen in public since – is she still very ill? And your father is in America, correct? With rumours of an affair and upcoming divorce?’

I smile brightly. Thanks for that.

‘My mother is doing splendidly.’ Lie One. ‘She’s been considering upcoming scripts.’ Lie Two. ‘There has been no affair and there will be no divorce –’ Lie Three – ‘and everything is absolutely fabulous.’

HahahahahaHAHAHAH.

With my head held high, I glide towards the cinema room and open the door. ‘As one of the most celebrated movie dynasties in the world –’ Grandma will be pleased I got that in – ‘the Valentines have an entire room dedicated to our love of theatrical arts, in particular—’

‘It can’t have been an easy time,’ Rani insists belligerently. ‘Isn’t it exactly two years since—’

‘In particular,’ I repeat firmly, waving my hand around, ‘our home cinema, where we often congregate to review performances together …’

I shut the cinema-room door. Ugh, I hate it in there.

‘And here we have the library,’ I say, opening another door. ‘As artists, our love of books and plays—’

WOOF WOOF ARRROOOOOOOO!

‘You have a … dog?’ The journalist looks round sharply. ‘I don’t think I knew that.’

I don’t think I did, either.

‘Yes,’ I nod quickly. That was actually Max’s ‘secret’ alarm call – has been since he was about five years old. ‘Two dogs. Huskies. Ah—’ I glance behind her. ‘Rocket and … Book.’ A dog called Book. Nice one, Eff. ‘They’re … very private dogs, I’m afraid.’

Max is halfway up the stairs.

He WOOFs again, then points upwards: Mum’s on the move. Mum – one of the most famous women on the planet, in her grubby nightie, with dishevelled hair, empty eyes and fun new habit of randomly screaming at people – is about to come into direct, unprepared contact with a member of the national press.

‘Private dogs?’ Rani says doubtfully.

‘Ah,’ I say, spinning her round to face the other way. ‘Yes. Keep themselves to themselves. Antisocial, bordering on misanthropic. Do you know what? I think you really need to see—’

There’s a noise at the top of the stairs.

Juliet Valentine, Oscar-winner and beloved star of The Heart of Us, has officially gone bat-poop crazy – here’s the evidence!

‘My bedroom!’ I finish desperately. It’s completely against the rules – Grandma says it’s highly inappropriate to take journalists into our private quarters – but what choice do I have? It’s that or giving a tour of the laundry room. ‘Why don’t you come and see my bedroom! It’s an exclusive! Never seen before!’

Mum appears, so frail she has to hold on to the bannister.

‘Darlings,’ she calls in a voice as light as a feather. ‘Is somebody—’

‘Come with me!’ Panicking, I grab Rani’s shoulders just as she turns to look upwards and twist her in the opposite direction. ‘Via the exciting secret servants’ staircase!’

And I pull her away as fast as I can.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.