The Valentines: Happy Girl Lucky. Холли Смейл
‘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.’
Jupiter is in transit, which should bring luck and growth. But, as a water sign with Pisces rising, you might be feeling extra sensitive this week so try to avoid unnecessary confrontation and find harmony.
I wouldn’t call the rest of this week a classic. Honestly, if Monday to Thursday was a film, I’d have given it one star – Where’s the narrative arc? What direction is this going in? – and switched it off by now.
I’ve stayed upbeat by focusing on Friday night – the premiere for Mum’s new film (the third most expensive movie ever made).
On Tuesday morning, Mars and Saturn kick in and I get my pleasurable surprise:
Sorry, snowed under! Will catch up at the weekend! Love you. Dad xx
Finally.
Nearly two days late, yes, but I’m not going to be churlish about it. The universe has a lot to get through on any given day, what with all the moving about it clearly has to do.
Either way, my father will be arriving on a First-class flight from America late on Friday afternoon, just in time to collect Mum from rehab, take her shopping for a new dress and grab a bite of dinner at The Ivy before they arrive at the launch together. At which point there’s going to be a huge family reunion, photocall and announcement to kill off the rumours and set the paparazzi straight.
So obviously I have to be there too.
Mum was thirteen years old when she attended her very first premiere. There’s a photo on her bedside table of her next to Grandma, skinny, slightly shiny and beaming on the red carpet – two full years younger than I am now – and if that’s not proof that just one enormous celebrity party won’t damage me for life then I don’t know what is.
‘No,’ Max says when I finally track him down on Friday evening. He’s been out of the house pretty much all week, doing I don’t know what because his role lasts literally twenty-six seconds. ‘Nope.’
I open my mouth.
‘Not happening.’
‘But—’
‘Nu-uh.’
‘If he could just—’
‘No way.’
‘All I want is to—’
‘Nooooooooo.’
My brother is laughing while eating peanut butter out of a jar. He’s using the spoon to conduct me as if I’m an orchestra.
‘YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY.’
‘I do, Poodle, because you’ve been dropping the world’s least subtle hints all week. Now you’re just going to straight up demand that you attend tonight’s party for just a second because you’re so nearly sixteen and Mum was only thirteen and we’re all going without you and it’s not fair I tell you it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair.’
‘Pffft,’ I say, walking out of the kitchen with dignity. ‘I was only going to say it’s not fair twice. Idiot.’
Then I climb the stairs and stand outside Mer’s bedroom.
For a split second, I can see a much smaller girl grinning goofily, her hair in a crazy, curly cloud and missing a sock. I blink, then rap hard on the door.
‘WHAT? I’M BUSY.’
Apparently, my big sister has become nocturnal: sleeping all day, disappearing every night and having her activities logged by tabloid newspapers every morning. She’s having the Valentime of Her Life, according to Thursday’s headlines.
Quickly, I gather my best acting skills in one bundle.
As Mum said when she was preparing to play Anne Boleyn at the Old Vic, you can’t pretend to be the Doomed Queen: you have to fully embody her, find a way to step into her skin and walk around. It’s an acting technique Faith calls Being the Orange. My sister says if you can convince yourself you’re an orange then you can basically convince anyone you’re anything.
‘Oh,’ I project through the keyhole. ‘Are you getting ready for the launch tonight, Mer? Me too. Premieres are so difficult to dress for, aren’t they? So important to strike the right note.’
A pause, then her door opens. ‘You’re not going.’
‘I am, as it happens.’ Be the Orange, Hope. ‘I actually got permission from Mum this morning, so—’
‘Stop leaning on door frames.’ Mercy scowls at me. ‘It doesn’t make you look casual. And you didn’t get permission because Friday is silent day at the clinic, you lying little toad. There’s no way I’m letting you snot under my jumper tonight, Desperado. Try asking somebody who gives one.’
The door slams so I knock again.
‘GO. AWAY. MORON.’
Undaunted – that went exactly as expected – I wander down the corridor and knock