The Valentines: Happy Girl Lucky. Холли Смейл
roll my eyes and Maggie frowns at him. ‘Max …’
‘Wait, Mags, it gets better. Mercy Valentine, Up-and-Coming It Girl and Professional Big Nose, whose eyes filled with eloquent tears yesterday—’
‘It’s not my fault you’re not quoted,’ Mer shrugs, savagely pulling apart a croissant. ‘If you didn’t want to be outshone, you probably shouldn’t have invited the media in the first place.’
‘You invited the media?’ Maggie frowns and puts more eggs on the table. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’
‘They were writing about Mum anyway,’ Max declares defensively. ‘I figured they might as well hear it from us.’
‘From you, you mean,’ Mercy corrects.
‘It’s such nonsense,’ I pipe up through a mouthful of toast, shaking my head humorously. ‘Where do they get this crazy gossip from? And they call themselves professionalists!’
‘No, they don’t, because that’s not a word, Po.’ Max looks back at the article. ‘What else have we got? Natural beauty, Faith Valentine, girlfriend of pop sensation Noah Anthony, said everything without saying anything.’
‘Please stop,’ Effie says, sipping orange juice. ‘They’re toxic.’
‘And yet they still like you the best,’ Max laughs. ‘Looks like you’re going to need that nose job if you want the main shot, Mermaid.’ He nudges Mercy with his foot and then hops to another chair so her punch doesn’t reach him. ‘Let’s see how online feels about the Valentines today, shall we?’
He picks up his iPad and clears his throat.
‘Grandmother, no comment … diva posho Mum’s finally lost it … Dad’s upgraded … the kids are talentless nonentities …’
‘Max.’
‘A century of privilege … entitled brats, living off their parents’ money …’
‘Max.’
‘Who do these people even think they—’
‘THAT IS ENOUGH, MAX!’ barks Maggie.
Max sits down abruptly. ‘Apologies, Mags. At least Dad told them to – direct quote – kiss my American butt, so you can take some comfort in that.’
‘Of course he did,’ I say cheerfully, licking blackcurrant jam off my fingers. ‘I mean, I’ve never heard such trash in my entire life. Always jumping to ridiculous conclusions! Hahaha – journalists or journo-nots, am I right?’
I look triumphantly at everyone, but they’re busy eating.
‘Anyway,’ Maggie says smoothly, cleaning the top of the Aga, ‘I’m afraid I’m not around this evening. Ben’s back for a holiday so I’m taking the rest of the week off.’
Max, Mercy and I swivel immediately towards Faith.
Ben is Maggie’s son and has been madly in love with Effie since they were both six years old: he used to follow her around the grounds, giving her caterpillars to eat as a sign of his eternal devotion. I thought it was very romantic, but she never ate them.
‘He is?’ Faith flushes and avoids our eyes. ‘How’s he finding school up north? You must miss him so much.’
‘I do.’ Maggie nods and wipes her hands on a tea towel. ‘But he loves living with his father in Edinburgh so I try not to show it. And I know I’m biased, but he’s turning into a bit of a heartbreaker. Every girl in sixth-form chess club seems absolutely besotted.’
Max and Mercy start sniggering.
‘How proud you must be,’ Faith says, flashing them warning eyes.
‘How proud,’ Mercy agrees, snorting. ‘Is he still obsessed with Scrabble too? Do you remember when he used to meaningfully play words like beguile and ardour all the time, Eff?’
I should probably mention here that Ben is short and skinny with crispy mouse-coloured hair in a side parting. The last time I saw him he had a spidery moustache that he stroked every now and then as if for luck.
‘Umm,’ Faith says, fiddling with her spoon. ‘I don’t really remember. It was such a long time ago.’
Mercy and Max are twiddling air-moustaches and pretending to play the bagpipes until Maggie quirks her eyebrows at them. ‘You want to make your own dinner tonight, Downton Abbey?’
That shuts them up: none of us know how to cook.
‘I can’t wait until I’m famous,’ I sigh with starry eyes, gazing at the newspapers. ‘I wonder what nonsense they’ll make up about me. Right now, I could get attacked by zombies and there’d only be a picture of my elbow, slightly nibbled on.’
‘Oh, please.’ Mer’s nose twitches slightly. ‘If zombies ever invaded England, you’d just fall in love with the most rotten one, Poodle.’
‘Oh, Handsome Zombie!’ Max cries, pretending to reach into his chest and throw the invisible contents across the table. ‘You have my heart, now and forever! Do with it as you will!’
Pretend slobbering, Mer catches my heart and eats it.
‘There’s no harm in a bit of romance,’ Maggie says sternly as my siblings start sniggering again. ‘Now, you lot, behave, please. I don’t want the media circling while I’m trying to cook my top-secret shepherd’s pie.’
Then she puts her cardigan back on and leaves us to it.
‘No harm in romance …’ Max erupts as soon as she’s gone. ‘Unless it’s with the flesh-eating undead.’
‘I’m sure the zombie will love you to pieces, baby,’ Faith says, leaning over and kissing my cheek. ‘Like we all do.’
‘Yeah, literally bits and pieces.’
‘You know what?’ I say as my siblings laugh and get up from the breakfast table. ‘If I did fall for a zombie, I can promise you that our great love would ultimately triumph against the odds. It’d be a blockbuster romance that my adoring public would pay millions to see, so there.’
‘Don’t worry, little sis,’ Mer grins, finishing her croissant in one bite. ‘You’ll find a boy with a huge chunk of his brain missing one day, I have no doubt.’
Now they’re draining their drinks and checking their phones. So I jump up and do that too.
‘What are we doing now? Oooh, why don’t we watch a film together? How about The Heart of Us? We haven’t seen that in ages.’
It also happens to be the very film Mum and Dad met on: an epic, sweeping romance set in London in the Second World War. And, yes, I watched it last night, but it doesn’t count if it’s on your own.
‘Sorry, Poodle,’ Max says, shoving toast in his mouth and heading towards the stairs. ‘Three whole lines to learn. Just in case Messenger Two literally breaks a leg.’
I look hopefully at Effie.
‘Not this morning.’ She winces as her phone starts buzzing. ‘Noah’s been touring Europe for weeks, which means he has to tell me about every single meal he’s eaten in exquisite detail.’
So I turn to Mercy, much less optimistically.
‘Not in a billion, trajillion years,’ she yawns. ‘It’s a dumb film, you’re annoying and I’m going back to bed. Go play fetch with Rabbit or something.’
I used to have an imaginary puppy when I was little, and my siblings still think it’s hilarious to mention him, even though I haven’t played with him for years. Obviously.