by Holly Smale
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 on Faith’s door. Mercy was my dress rehearsal, but this is my opening night.
FADE IN: HOPE, FIFTEEN —
‘So,’ I say as it opens, leaning casually on the door frame. ‘How are we both preparing for this big glamorous party tonight that we both happen to be atten— Wait, aren’t you ready yet?’
Effie looks down at her shapeless lime-green T-shirt dress. ‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’
‘You look like a popped frog is what’s wrong with it.’ Shaking my head, I walk into her room with my hands on my hips. ‘Oh, Faith. Faith, Faith, Faith. Sooooo much raw potential, sooooo much natural beauty, but you never make the best of yourself. What on earrrrth will people think of us?’
Effie blinks a few times, then bursts out laughing. ‘That was a superb impression, you little mousebear. Brilliant.’
I have no idea who I was impressing, but I nod anyway.
‘Thanks,’ I say proudly, looking at my watch. It’s 7pm and the party starts at 8. ‘But we don’t have time for random pleasantries, Eff, so what are the other options? Let me be your fashion goo-roo.’
My sister points guiltily at her bed. It’s strewn with glittering Valentino, Armani, Dior, Givenchy and Chanel in blues and pinks and purples – thousands of pounds’ worth, lent for free – but, as per usual, my beautiful sister has selected what looks like an old nightie.
‘Take that thing off,’ I command. ‘You’re not Shrek. And instead …’ I pick out a beautiful, bright yellow, low-cut, halter-neck Elie Saab maxi dress. ‘Wear this. Tidy your hair. And don’t give me any of your sassy backchat, Faith Valentine.’
Effie nods, nostrils flaring. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Granny.’
Once she’s changed, I drag in my massive Rejects Makeover Kit (everything Mercy gets tired of and leaves scattered around the house). Then I prime and buff, powder and highlight, contour and blush, shade and enhance and gloss. I give Eff beautiful smoky eyeshadow and orange cut-ins and pink lips and huge fake eyelashes and eyebrows that are much more suitable for her face shape than the ones nature provided.
On an artistic roll, I smooth down my sister’s tight curls with serum and add a diamond headpiece, six rings, eight bracelets, an anklet, a necklace, dangly earrings and a little gold belt. A pair of sparkly electric-blue heels and a bit of glitter spray, plus three crystals on each cheek, complete the look.
Then I lead her proudly out of the room, down the stairs and into the hallway like my most prized pony.
‘Jeez-us,’ Mercy says, appearing from the kitchen in a black tux and burgundy lipstick. ‘Look at the state of you.’
‘Yes,’ Effie says firmly, raising her beautiful, brand-new eyebrows. ‘Look at the state of me, which our little sister has gifted so carefully, with much generosity and patience.’
Mercy looks at me, hesitates, then nods. ‘Good job, Poodle.’
Honestly, I’m so proud I could burst.
My sisters look like angels, although admittedly one of light and joy, the other of darkness and pain (there’s possibly a can of pepper spray hidden in Mercy’s spiky-heeled black boot).
‘Rightio,’ Max says, whizzing out of his room and down the stairs in black trousers and a white shirt, trying to do up a bow tie. ‘See you in the—’ He double-takes. ‘Blimey, what happened to youuuu—’ Faith widens her eyes ‘—uuurrr handbag? She’s going to need a handbag with that lovely get-up, Poodle.’
Quickly – oh, he’s so right! What a fool I am! – I run into Mum’s room and grab a gold Gucci one with a silver clasp and speed back downstairs.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be working tonight, Max?’ I point out, handing it over. ‘In the Shakespeare play? You know, your job?’
‘Oh.’ He coughs loudly and puts a hand on his forehead. ‘Yeah. I’m very sick for the next six and a half hours. Possibly dying. Possibly even dead already. Fingers crossed, tomorrow I’ll be able to play the ghost for real.’
‘No wonder they don’t give you any lines, Max,’ I say sympathetically. ‘You’re a terrible actor. I can help you with that if you like. Give you some professionalist tips.’
Max laughs and pinches my cheek. ‘Cheers.’
‘Thank you for your help, little one,’ Effie smiles, clipping a subtle fitness tracker to the waistband of her dress, transferring a handful of items from her sports rucksack to the handbag and giving me a bright pink kiss. ‘You’re the most helpful mousebear ever.’
Then my glamorous siblings head out of the front door – chattering and glittering and smelling like Christmas.
And I’ve only just realised that in all the excitement of getting Faith ready I totally forgot about me.
‘Guys!’ I shout at their retreating backs. ‘If you just wait a mi—’
But they’ve gone again.
OK, unexpected scene edit.
It takes only a few seconds to recalibrate: being able to respond positively to direction is one of my strongest life skills. In this version of events, I can focus on getting ready without any distractions. I can make my own way to the party at my own speed and thus ensure I turn up just late enough to make a dramatic entrance.
Those idiots are going to get there on time in a limo, like total keen-beans.
Ha! Amateurs.
‘Has Mercy double-locked her bedroom door, though?’ I wonder out loud as I lay place mats on the dining-room table. ‘Because if she has I’m going to need to climb on top of the conservatory and slip through her window that doesn’t latch properly.’
I polish two champagne glasses by breathing on them and rubbing them on my jumper.
‘If not, a hairslide should do the trick.’
Five white candles are placed in the middle of the table.
‘I’m thinking the long black Prada, or maybe the short Calvin Klein, and definitely her favourite McQueen heels.’
Two glasses of fresh orange juice are poured and I put two croissants on plates next to them.
‘Or maybe she’s left something in the laundry again, although honestly I’m really looking for something without deodorant stains all over the—’
‘Hope? Who are you talking to?’
I blink at Maggie in the doorway.
‘Oh.’ I glance round the empty room. ‘Umm. Monologuing skills should be practised wherever possible, Mags. It’s important to nuance your cinematic voice, and also prepare for award acceptances, interviews, charity announcements – that kind of thing.’
Also, my imaginary friends just sounds weird.
Maggie lifts her eyebrows into her hairline as she looks at the awesome breakfast setting I’ve laid. It’s my big surprise for Mum and Dad, giving their first morning home together a nice romantic start.
With a flourish, I make a big heart out of pink petals in the middle of the tablecloth, then – with Ma
ggie still watching – quickly grab the newspapers from the week and head up to my room with scissors. There’s so much news to catch up on and I need to do it fast.
On Monday the moon entered Gemini, which resulted in an energetic shift inwards (I was particularly thoughtful that day), then on Tuesday Jupiter started traversing and my sixth house of health was highlighted (I sneezed, like, three times). Wednesday, Saturn and Mercury were in conjunction – that’s probably why I failed that maths test – and yesterday’s transit inspired a lot of chocolate eating.
I mean, it’s not that I completely believe in horoscopes. As Max said, it does seem highly unlikely that there are only twelve personalities on the planet, allocated by the time our parents procreated, but …
That’s also exactly what a Leo would say.
Checking my watch – I’ve still got another hour and a half before I have to leave in time to be perfectly late – I quickly scan Max’s fate for the last few days, then Mercy’s (Aquarius) and Faith’s (Pisces). They’re having quite nice weeks, which is reassuring. Then I cut out my own horoscopes for this week and stick them round the glowing bulbs of my Mirror of Destiny so I can keep track of what’s going on.
It goes without saying that I’m a Cancer, aka the Crab: imaginative, loyal, emotional, sympathetic, intuitive, easily attached and sentimental. There are some other qualities – less attractive ones about scuttling away and hiding – but they don’t seem to match me so they’re not important. I also have Pisces rising – another water sign – which is probably why I officially don’t have a favourite sibling but I do and it’s Effie.
‘Hope?’ There’s a knock on my door. ‘I made you a cup of tea.’
‘Come in!’
I’m flicking through this morning’s paper: I totally forgot to check today’s forecast. Sometimes I get them online, sometimes from the paper – it really depends which prediction I like the best. ‘Thanks!’
Maggie walks into the room and puts my FUTURE OSCAR-WINNING ACTRESS mug down on my dressing table. Then she automatically goes over to smack my long red velvet curtains. Apparently, they collect a lot of dust, but that seemed like a small price to pay for year-round Hollywood glamour.
‘Casablanca’s wonky again,’ Mags sighs, straightening the framed kissing couple on my wall. ‘These two are so unnecessarily passionate that they must keep pushing each other over.’
I cough and nod: that, or I sometimes stick a photo of my face on top of Ingrid Bergman’s to see how I look in an intense make-out session.
Pretty romantic, it has to be said.
Smiling, I keep flicking through the paper, pausing briefly on page six – taken up mostly by Mercy falling out of a taxi – then whizzing past a blurry, long-lens shot of Dad jogging next to a brunette under the headline Rivers Runs Through It.
‘You know,’ Maggie says, gazing at my Marilyn poster, ‘it must be hard when you’re stuck at home on your own like this.’
‘Not really,’ I say cheerfully, scanning through the zodiac: Aries, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius … ‘I’m very happy. There’s lots to keep me busy. And there’s only four months left before I’ll be out all the time so this way I get to build my strength up in preparation.’
Capricorn, Leo, Gemini, Aquarius—
‘Still,’ Mags continues, ‘it must get lonely.’
‘Oh no.’ Taurus, Virgo, Pisces. ‘I mean, there’s always a film to watch or a horoscope to—’
Cancer!
As Venus moves, so your love destiny moves with it. Someone very special is on their way, Cancerian, so keep your eyes open or you’ll miss them. Romance is calling!
My heart just stopped.
Quickly, I scan the horoscope again: someone very special someone very special.
Someone. Very. Special.
Every hair on my arms is standing on end. Deep down, I knew it was coming. I could feel it – the change in the air, the planets aligning, the stars shifting in their course, a build-up of dramatic tension – and I was RIGHT.
This is it.
Because, honestly, who cares about Saturn and Pluto? It’s Venus – the Goddess of Love – I’ve been patiently searching for every morning.
And now she’s finally here.
‘… difficult couple of years … You’ve all been through so much … it’s not surprising that you feel so …’
Clutching the paper, I jump up and run to the window.
Where is he? Who is he? Maybe a floral order is on its way and he’s driving the van? A newspaper or milk delivery? Maybe he saw my elbow in the papers, fell in love instantly and spent the entire week tracking me down. Oooh, I wonder what he’s going to look like, what he’ll be wearing, what he’s going to say, what I’ll say back …
‘… things will get better … your time will come … You’re still so very …’
Except … Of. Course. He’s at the premiere tonight, isn’t he?
Keep your eyes open or you’ll miss them.
Alarmed, I glance at my watch – it’s already nine thirty. All the other Cancers have been out there all day, meeting their Special People and falling in love for hours and hours. What if I’m so cool and late that one of them takes mine?
What if – oh no! – they’ve already taken him?
A wave of panic surges through me. I can’t believe I might miss my soulmate because I was trying to make a dramatic entrance.
‘… so I’ve texted Ben and he said he’d like to pop over in a bit – keep you company. Maybe you can watch a film together …’
Blinking, I stare into my Mirror of Destiny.
We only get one opportunity for true love. What if my soulmate turns up to meet me and I’m not there yet?
What if Venus gets bored and doesn’t come back again until I’m, like, thirty-six and it’s too late?
What if, for the sake of a couple of hours, I get a second-rate boyfriend or – worse – end up single forever?
If you thwart The Stars, they might get really offended and give up permanently. There is no more time to waste.
Quick as a flash, I run into my walk-in wardrobe and slip on the dress Mum wore in the end scene of The Heart of Us, just before she got (spoiler) blown up by a hand grenade. It’s a pretty, vintage, knee-length dress in silvery grey. I tie the satin belt and quickly stick some cotton-wool puffs down my bra.
Then I slick on some lipgloss and head towards the door. I’ll have to do this barefaced. It’s a shame, but my Special Someone is going to think I’m beautiful anyway because that’s how it works.
‘… over in half an hour, after he’s been to the … Hope? Where are you going?’
I spin back to Maggie.
‘Mum’s premiere,’ I say, tugging on some of Effie’s sporty pumps. I’m going to need to run to meet my fate – this is no time for heels. ‘There’s someone I’m supposed to meet.’
Because it’s official: romance is calling.
And I’m going to answer.
HOPE sprints along the banks of the River Thames. The night is warm, the air is fragrant, the stars are shining. A HOT BOY—
OK, I think I might be running the wrong way.
And reshoot.
HOPE sprints along the banks of the River Thames in the opposite direction. A HOT BOY, busy examining the stars because he has a poetic soul, slams into her.
BOY
(blinking in amazement)
I thought all the beauty of the universe was above me, yet nothing could compare to the wonder standing in front of—
No, he has to play a bit hard to get.
BOY
(angry)
HEY! Watch where you’re—
Just rude.
BOY
(embarrassed)
I’m terribly sorry! Can I make amends by taking you for a long, meaningful walk in the moonlight?
Ooh, I like that one.
Obviously, this scenario is ridiculous. I’m going to meet Him at the party, not running as fast as I can from Waterloo S
tation. But it’s a good idea to prepare my shocked-but-humble-yet-illuminated expression.
Once I meet Him, I might need a brief sit-down and maybe an energy drink.
Plus, it’s such a great setting.
Twinkling lights are reflected in the river, a busker is playing the violin and kissing couples are scattered like rose petals every few metres. My epic romance is on the verge of starting, I can feel it. By tomorrow, half of one of those couples is going to be me.
Tingling, I arrive at the Tate Modern.
It’s impressive – immense and squat with thin windows and a long chimney sticking out of the middle like a nose. And it’s 10pm so the party’s in full swing. The floodlights are blue, the trees in the grounds are blue-lit, there are blue lasers shooting into the air and there’s an ice-blue carpet running up to the front doors. It’s surrounded eight-deep by my future adoring public, patiently screaming and cheering and clapping.
Somewhere inside this very building are Mum, Dad, Mercy, Max, Faith …
And Him.
Huffing and slightly sweaty, I shove with effort through the crowd, shrug off Mercy’s coat and hand it to a bouncer.
‘Will you look after this, please?’
I pull my shoulders back. Posture: excellent.
‘Please don’t crumple it! It’s Prada and not mine. Thank you so much.’
The bouncer’s mouth drops open.
Then I dip under the blue rope, put a hand on my hip and sashay rapidly down the carpet, waving and nodding, pausing once or twice so people can take my photograph. I’m in deep trouble once Mum and Dad catch me here, but I might as well enjoy this moment of glory while I can.
‘WHO EVEN ARE YOU?’ somebody yells.
‘It’s top-secret!’ I call, blowing them a kiss. ‘But check the papers in about four months’ time and my identity will be revealed!’
With a dazzling smile, I slip through the glass entrance.
The windows are dark, and there’s yet another bouncer. This one’s got a clipboard and a list of names – time to Be the Orange again, Hope. Quickly, I inflate my already heaving diaphragm, lift my chin and make sure I truly embody my role of very-much-invited-party-attendee.