The Valentines

‘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.