The Valentines: Happy Girl Lucky

Mercy, Faith and Max glance at each other with lifted eyebrows.

‘Yeah,’ Mercy snaps. ‘Weird, that.’

Mum angles her beautiful high cheekbones towards the light, then stares bleakly into the far distance, silvery eyes shimmering. ‘Did you, perchance, happen to see anyone from the LA Times out there?’

‘Nope,’ Max grins. ‘But I did see the Telegraph. Wait, Grandma reads that, doesn’t she?’

Mum abruptly closes the curtains and steps away.

‘How … is she?’

‘She wants to know why you’re living here instead of at home with your children,’ Mer says, looking at her blood-red nails. ‘It’s a question we’re all quite eager to have answered, when you get a spare moment.’

‘Oh, my darlings,’ Mum says with a soft smile. ‘You are so sweet to worry about me. I will triumph, I promise you that.’ She perches neatly on the chaise longue, legs crossed elegantly at the ankle. ‘Although I’m afraid I’m feeling terribly tired. I have a two o’clock appointment with a very well-respected herbologist, so …’

There’s a silence while Mercy looks pointedly at her watch. It’s not quite ten in the morning yet.

‘Sure,’ Effie says, chewing on her bottom lip. ‘You must be wiped, Mum. We’ll see you next Sunday, yeah?’

Impulsively, I fling myself at Mum again.

‘Neptune is in retrograde,’ I whisper into her neck as she steadies herself on the plumped cushions behind her. ‘Which explains everything. So get lots of fresh air, stay away from the colour red and put this inside your pillowcase.’

Before my mother can respond, I sneak a little pouch of lavender into her hand, kiss her cheek and flit out of the room.

Exiting the scene beautifully.

LOCATION SETTING: REHAB RECEPTION

‘Well,’ Max says as my siblings and I stare at each other blankly. ‘That was quite a lot worse than I thought it would be.’

Faith nods. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Does she have no shame at all?’ Mercy screws up her nose. ‘It’s pathetic. Tragic. Sad.’

We’re reading from exactly the same page of the same script at the same time, like a seamless run-through of a Tony Award-winning sitcom.

‘So tragic,’ I agree emphatically, trying to grab all six of their hands at once in comfort. ‘So sad. Mum’s last big romantic film was so intense and so all-consuming that, to wall intensive purposes, it has totally worn her out. I think it’s time for Dad to hurry up and come back from LA as soon as possible.’

Max abruptly glances at me.

‘Hope,’ he says, studying my face carefully. ‘It’s for all intents and purposes. Mum’s not in rehab for bricks. And you do understand what’s going on, don’t you? You don’t actually believe—’

‘Effie,’ I burst out cheerfully. ‘That’s a good question. What are we going to do? We should compile our brainpower and find a way to stay positive. We need to keep Mum happy until Dad arrives home, because happiness is the most important thing there is. Apart from love, obviously. Any ideas?’

Max, Mercy and Faith stare at me.

‘I don’t have any,’ I say quickly, because they look very expectant. ‘You’re going to have to think too. I can’t do it all on my own.’

‘Blime-y,’ Max exhales. ‘How were you even made, Po? Were you put together in a doll factory, wrapped in pink tissue paper and left randomly on our doorstep?’

‘Are you trying to tell me I’m adopted?’ I reply in amazement. ‘Because, if so, your sense of dramatic timing is truly terrible.’

There’s a light cough and I jump. An incredibly hot blond boy with deep brown eyes is hovering behind us.

You see? This is what happens when you take your eye off the ball: The One can sneak up while you’re not even pushing your chest out properly. Quickly, I flick my hair, open my eyes wide and bite the inside of my cheeks so my cheekbones look sharper.

Too hard. Ow.

Max laughs loudly. ‘I don’t think they put in enough bubblewrap, Fluff-pot.’

You know what? In my next life, I’m coming back as the oldest sibling and giving Max stupid nicknames in front of his soulmates too.

‘May I assist with transport?’ my new The One asks politely with a subtle dip of his head. ‘There are a range of options we could organise: a Bentley, motorbikes, a …’

Wow, he’s so powerful and efficient. I bet he’d know how to call me a rescue helicopter if I fainted subtly in his arms and everything.

Mer snarls. ‘Do you think we swam here?’

‘We have a car waiting,’ Effie says quickly, giving him a devastatingly gorgeous smile. ‘But thank you.’

My One goes red and blinks at my middle sister as if she’s suddenly spotlit – even though she’s wearing no make-up, a shapeless orange hoodie and neon-yellow leggings – and I immediately send him to my reject pile.

He failed the audition.

Next.

‘VALENTINES!’ the crowd shouts as the metal gates swing open again. ‘What happened? How’s Juliet? When’s she coming out? Can you tell us anything? Anything at all?’

There’s a nanosecond for me to give them my most enigmatic movie-star smile before Mercy’s jumper goes over my head again.

‘Is it exhaustion?’ I hear a journalist yell through the fluff. ‘Depression? Insanity? Total mental collapse?’

‘Have divorce papers been issued? What about reports that your dad’s engaged to another actress already?’

‘Will Juliet be at her film premiere next weekend?’

‘Where are those boots from?’

That last question must be aimed at Mer because Max, Effie and I are all wearing trainers covered in Nike ticks. Mercy has stiffened, so – curious – I rummage around inside her jumper until I can peer out of an armhole.

Slowly, eyes blazing, my big sister turns to face the crowd.

‘This,’ Mer says coldly into a sudden silence, ‘is an intensely private matter. While the three of us may live our lives in the spotlight, it is not a spotlight of our choosing. We owe you nothing and you do not own us. Please try to remember that …’ She pauses for a fraction. ‘We are just teenagers, trying to … hold on to our mum.’

There’s a tender crack in her voice and Mer’s chin quivers as her eyes fill with tears. The journalists are completely still, Dictaphones frozen in the air.

I stare at my sister in amazement.

‘Please,’ Mercy continues, her voice hoarse. ‘Let us deal with our heartbreak in peace. Let us be, for a moment, the normal family we are.’

She blinks quickly, then turns, but not before we all see a tear trailing down her left cheek. ‘Gucci,’ she adds quietly. ‘My boots are Gucci, although I don’t see why on earth it matters.’

And she disappears into the limousine.

Stunned, the rest of us climb in after her.

The second the doors lock, I rip the jumper off my head and wrap myself round my sister’s neck.

‘Oh, Mercy,’ I whisper, patting her left ear awkwardly in an outpouring of compassion. ‘Don’t you worry – Mum’s going to be fine. She’ll be home any day now. They’re just horrible rumours. But we’re here for each other. I love you so much and—’

There’s a shout of laughter.

‘You total cow,’ Max chuckles, taking his sunglasses off and rubbing his eyes. ‘You almost had me there for a second, Mermaid. God, you’re good.’

I pull away, feeling slightly sick.

Mercy wipes the single tear off her face with a red nail and flicks it away. ‘Runs in the family,’ she shrugs, smiling tightly. ‘We’re very skilled at pretending to be something we’re not.’

She stares out of the darkened window.

‘Well, what are we waiting for? Drive the hell on.’

Cancer: June 21–July 22

Mars and Saturn send thunderbolts today, leaving you feeling slightly restless. But a pleasurable surprise is on its way, so harness that energy and put your best foot forward!

The next morning, it’s all over the papers:

HEARTBREAK FOR THE VALENTINES

There’s a large photo of Faith’s face – luminous in its orange hood – much smaller photos of Mercy and Max, and a blurry insert of Mum staring wistfully out of the window.

And – ooh! – there’s my left arm peeking out in the corner!

Elbow looking good, if I do say so myself.

‘Seems like you had quite the day yesterday.’

Our housekeeper, Maggie, dropped off the papers first thing, then made us all a large breakfast. Now she’s drinking a coffee and leaning against the Aga, calmly watching us stuff our faces.

‘Right? Listen to this.’ Max piles egg into his mouth and waves a full-page article in the air. ‘Wait –’

He stands on a chair and flings his arms out.

‘After months of silence, following a brutal dumping by prominent African-American film director husband, Michael Rivers, the full mental breakdown of now single and lonely Juliet Valentine, one of Britain’s most beloved stars of stage and screen, has been confirmed—’

I 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.

‘His name was Rocket,’ I say indignantly. ‘And if you just wait a minute maybe we could—’

Nope. They’ve already gone.

RICHMOND, A SUNNY MONDAY MORNING

The camera scans over an enormous, stately red-brick mansion with fifteen bedrooms and a swimming pool set in the middle of large grounds. It’s surrounded by trees and an enormous wall, a long gravel drive runs up to the front door and a babbling brook winds through the bottom of the garden.

HOPE, fifteen, stands gazing out of a large front window, wearing a T-shirt that says I LOVE YOU A LATTE and pale blue jea—

PAUSE.

Quickly – before I lose the flattering lighting – I run to the laundry room and rummage through Mercy’s reject pile from last week until I find a gorgeous black Chloé jumpsuit, way too big, with a stain on the front, but much more appropriate.

Delighted, I tug it on, tie it up with a coat belt and snatch some towering pink suede Prada heels from the hallway. Then – inspired – I find a stray red Chanel lipstick in Mercy’s coat pocket, slick it on and totter back up the stairs again.

OK, universe, as you so rightly advised me, my best foot is now forward.

And – PLAY.

HOPE gazes out of a large front window, wearing a Chloé jumpsuit and red lipstick. She looks glamorous yet casual and laid-back, as if she can sit down easily at any given moment. Her expression is thoughtful, her posture excellent.

A HANDSOME BOY strides up the long driveway.

BOY

(looking up)

How have I walked this path so many times and never seen that girl before?

HOPE

(amazed)

How have I stood at this window so many times and never seen that boy before?

BOY

Beautiful girl, will you open the window and talk to me?

HOPE

What?

BOY

(makes gesture with hands)

OPEN. THE. WINDOW.

HOPE

Oh!

She opens the window.

HOPE (CONTINUED)

Sorry, I couldn’t hear you. I was just lost in my poetic thoughts that were focused over there in the far distance. Hang on.

Violins start to play. She runs down the stairs, opens the door. They gaze at each other for a few seconds.

BOY

It’s like we already know each other somehow.

HOPE

And yet you are also totally new.

He leans forward. They k—

‘HOPE!’ Mercy yells down the stairs. ‘TAKE MY CHLOÉ OFF RIGHT NOW AND STOP LURKING AT THE WINDOW. YOU ARE NOT IN SOME BASIC HORROR FILM.’

Her door slams.

Sighing – I’m in a romance, thanks very much – I return to my room to get changed. Any day now, a handsome newspaper boy or somebody gorgeous who works for Harrods food delivery is going to show up unexpectedly, but I won’t be at the window to bewitch him. I will blame my eldest sister for this tragic misdirection entirely.

Back in my jeans again, I click on my phone for more details of today’s horoscope. There’s a ping and a garish pop-up – IS LOVE ACTUALLY DEAD? EVERYONE’S FAVOURITE COUPLE IS OVER AND WE’RE CRYING – next to photos of my beautiful parents in their heyday. I immediately close the shameless journo-not clickbait.

Then I swap around my film posters so the giant one of a couple kissing is directly in front of my bed. The universe works in its own mysterious ways, but it might be open to direct hints, right?

Carefully, I rearrange my favourite bits of memorabilia: a clapperboard from Great-Grandma’s 1920s silent classic It Didn’t Happen Here!, Grandma’s silk gloves from Evening Rain, the long, jewelled sword Mum carried in The Hurtful Ones and the director’s chair from Dad’s Golden-Globe-winning Waves of Time. (Although – if I’m being honest – I’m not entirely sure why it won: it’s about the navy and there isn’t any love story at all.)

Smiling, I straighten a little old photo of my grammy and grampy on Dad’s side – beaming outside the adorable frilly house they had in New Orleans – so they don’t feel left out.

I turn on The Heart of Us so it’s running very loudly in the background. Then I grab my phone and hit speed dial.

‘Hey there,’ a deep American voice booms. ‘This is Michael Rivers. If your call is work-related, try my agent at First Films. If not, go right ahead and leave your message after the beep.’

Beep.

‘Hello, Dad!’ I chirp, turning the film up two more notches and holding my phone out so he can hear the amorous ack-ack-ack of the opening gunfight. ‘How’s the filming going? You must be nearly finished, yeah?’

I prod his old director’s chair with my toe.

‘Anyway, I think it’s time for you to wrap it up and come home, OK? By Friday ideally. Also, can you bring me an expensive and irreplaceable memento from set? Like the leading lady’s shoes? Size six, although I can totally scrunch my toes into a five if I have to.’

Trailing my finger along the peacocks in the wallpaper, I wander vaguely back into the corridor.

‘So I’ll see you at the end of the week. Have a safe j—’

Out of the window I can see an enormous silver Mercedes crunching slowly up the driveway, followed by five much smaller cars in blue, red and black that I definitely don’t recognise. Holy horoscopes, the surprise sent by Saturn! The pleasurable one! Thank goodness my best foot is permanently forward.

‘Gotta go,’ I say, hanging up.

Then – with studied grace – I get right up against the glass, gaze into the distance and make my face as wistful as possible.

Hold it for five, four, three, two —

Then, hanging on tightly to the bannister, I swish down the stairs, still wearing the gigantic pink heels (I was told to take her jumpsuit off, but Mer said nada about footwear).

Next, I use my remaining few moments to prepare with dramatic breathing exercises the way Effie taught me: pulling air deep into my stomach and then letting it out with a loud SSSHHHH SSSHHHHH and an AAAAAAAHHHHH and a HA! HA! HA! HA! H—

‘Stop that,’ a sharp voice says from the other side of the front door. ‘What are you doing? This is not a zoo.’

Heaving the huge door open, I beam and hold my arms out. ‘Grandma! What a pleasurable surprise this is! I didn’t know you were coming!’

An emerald green velvet coat is dropped over my arms.

‘Yes,’ my grandmother says coldly, surveying the hallway. ‘Although I think you probably should have guessed.’

You obviously know Dame Sylvia Valentine already.

But – to aid my very busy casting team – she’s exactly the same now as she is in her fifty-six films: small, rigid, with grey eyes, platinum-blonde hair in a bun and a withering gaze. (Except in real life she gets to invent her own lines and facial expressions so they tend to be even less friendly.)