Far From Perfect

by Holly Smale

  Hair in a cloud, I grab my dressing gown and fly down the stairs with it streaming behind me like a fluffy cape.

  ‘Here she comes!’ Max appears cheerfully in the kitchen doorway, eating strawberry jam directly from the jar. ‘Faith Valentine. Megastar, icon, siren. A morning vision, complete with greasy forehead and a booger in her left nostril.’

  Distractedly, I pick my nose and flick it away.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Alarmed, I grab my brother by the T-shirt. ‘Will you stop the persistent mockery and just tell me what’s happening?’

  ‘Don’t touch me with your crusty booger hand,’ he laughs, moving away. ‘You know, apparently people consider you vaguely attractive, Eff. A true mystery I cannot understand.’

  I’m clearly getting no answers from my idiot brother so I turn to my remaining siblings. Po is impatiently bouncing up and down at the kitchen table – dimpled and glowing – and Mercy’s face is literally the stormiest I’ve ever seen it. You can practically see the dark thoughts skidding across it like clouds.

  ‘What?’ I stare at them. ‘What??!’

  It’s extremely frustrating – I’m normally the one who actually knows what’s going on around me.

  ‘Oh my days!’ I shout to the ceiling. ‘WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME WHY MY PHONE IS ON FIRE!!!’

  Beaming, Hope opens a newspaper. Then she dramatically lays it down with an elaborate flourish; opens another one and does the same; and another; and another. My face is plastered over all of them, except this time I’m not scowling. This time I don’t have food on my chin.

  I’m poised, poreless – photoshopped to oblivion and Grandma-verified – and the headlines read:

  VALENTINE FOR

  ROLE OF THE DECADE

  HAVE A LITTLE FAITH!

  ICE QUEEN SET TO STAR

  BRITISH BEAUTY PIPS

  AMERICANS TO POST

  I stare at them, eyes wide.

  ‘You did it!’ Hope jumps up and wraps her arms round my midriff. ‘You nailed your very first audition. Effie, I’m so proud I could rupturify on the spot. I knew you’d be a Hollywood star on the floor, and now you’re one step closer! After you’ve won your Best Newcomer Oscar, will you be in my debut film? Please? I promise there will be top-notch sandwiches.’

  I glance at Mercy.

  ‘Well,’ she says darkly. ‘Genuine skill means nothing to the industry any more.’

  ‘Mercy.’ Max puts a protective hand on my shoulder. ‘For the love of unicorns, can you take a break from being a total monster? Just, like, five minutes to be happy for your little sister? Consider it a short recess. Give us a time-out so we can collectively regenerate.’

  ‘Fine.’ Mer scowls and stares at the table. ‘Well done, very exciting, what a well-deserved achievement, et cetera.’

  My head feels like I’ve stuffed it with a cashmere sock.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ My voice sounds foggy. ‘What role? Are they talking about Fright Fortnight? But I screwed that audition up. They said I did. I heard them.’

  ‘You heard wrong,’ my brother says jubilantly, holding out his jam jar. ‘Sugar? For the shock?’

  I pick up a tabloid and scan it.

  Knockout stunner, Faith Valentine, is confirmed as front runner for ‘the biggest teen role ever’. ‘It’s huge,’ a source confirms. ‘Fright Fortnight had buzz, but this launches it to the next level.’

  Daughter of A-lister Juliet Valentine and BAFTA-winning director Michael Rivers …

  I scan faster. Yes, we know my pedigree, thank you. I’m not a dog at Crufts.

  Hang on—

  ‘She’s a true talent,’ delighted boyfriend, Noah Anthony, confirms. ‘She thinks she’s a terrible actress! She worries she lacks what it takes. Crazy, right? Plus, she’s so beautiful. They’re lucky to have her.’

  When did they speak to Noah?

  ‘I see your charming boyfriend is at it again,’ Mercy says sharply. ‘How sweet of him to have an opinion before you did.’

  I frown at her – stop it – pick up my phone and hit DIAL.

  ‘Persephone?’ I turn away and stick a finger in my free ear so I can’t hear Max noisily flicking Mercy on the forehead. ‘Hi. Is this real? Did I get another audition?’

  Crackle, crackle, crackle.

  ‘… yes.’ My agent is brusque. There’s an air of army sergeant about her: small talk permanently unwelcome. ‘Crackle – administrative error – crackle – final round – crackle – tomorrow morning. Crackle, crackle – details.’

  The reception in this kitchen is truly terrible.

  Holding my phone in the air, I try to climb in the gap between the fridge and the wall so I can hear Persephone better.

  ‘Yes,’ Po insists in the background. ‘I’m gonna film all the people I meet on my first day at school—’

  ‘But …’ I must have misunderstood the casting director. Did I hear a few key words and fill in the rest with my own negativity? ‘Do you really think I can—’

  ‘They’ve sent – crackle – different scene.’ Persephone hasn’t got time to stroke my ego. ‘Off-script – crackle – time to learn it.’

  ‘Actually, tonight is—’ I stop. ‘Sure. Of course.’

  ‘You’re not auditioning for buddies!’ Max is laughing at Po.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she indignantly replies. ‘How else will I know how they’ll work out when they star in the film of my life?’

  Louder laughter. ‘Not enough bubble wrap, little sis.’

  With a pointed glance over my shoulder – shhhhh – I tuck myself further into the fridge-gap.

  ‘… number of requests – crackle – interviews,’ Persephone is saying, ‘but – crackle – exclusive.’ A burst of phones ringing in the background. ‘So – crackle – with you in half an hour.’

  My eyes widen in alarm. ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘Traffic depending.’

  ‘With me?’ I glance round the kitchen: there’s peanut butter on the floor. ‘In my house? Like, here?’

  ‘Yes. To see how you live – crackle— Inside track on Faith Valentine.’

  My throat feels like it’s closing.

  ‘Ah. I—’

  ‘Faith, we can’t afford to pass this exposure up – crackle – you want to work in film. Formal profile pieces – crackle – right people pay attention. Just be yourself and the world’s your oyster.’

  I open my mouth.

  ‘Got to go,’ Persephone concludes briskly. ‘Tom’s on the other line, you know what he’s like – crackle – later!’

  The phone goes dead.

  Just be yourself.

  As if I don’t have a physical folder of pre-approved media question answers written by Grandma and rehearsed to perfection every single Wednesday for practically an entire year.

  Favourite colour.

  Favourite food.

  Favourite film.

  Favourite ice cream.

  Favourite dog breed.

  Favourite music.

  Favourite season.

  Being myself requires a huge amount of memory power, focus and hole-punched paper.

  Jittery, I glance at my watch.

  There’s no time to ring Noah so I quickly bash out a text:

  Crazy!!! Mad here but I’m meeting you later, right? What time, where?? xx

  Thirty seconds later:

  Sure, good-looking! See you 4pm, Covent Garden. Can’t wait. Love love love you xxx

  I smile and breathe out.

  Love love love you too xxx

  Then I firmly recommence panicking. Our housekeeper Maggie has been off all week while her son Ben’s visiting, and the result is …

  Well. I can see the resulting piece already:

  Inside their glamorous multimillion-pound mansion, the Valentines are slowly festering in a stew of their own filth.

  ‘Up!’ I say as Max flops on the sofa with his hands behind his head and watches me spiral frantically round the living room. ‘Get up!’
r />   He digs in, like a belligerent dog.

  ‘Oh, Max, please.’ With considerable effort, I haul my lanky brother on to the floor. There’s dried pesto pasta stuck between the cushions. ‘A journalist is turning up any second! They can’t see that we live like this!’

  ‘Why not?’ He laughs. ‘We might be famous, rich, beautiful – me in particular – but we’re actually teenagers, we don’t really like cleaning up after ourselves that much, hold the front page.’

  ‘No.’ I rummage again: a shrivelled carrot stick. ‘That’s not what I want us to be known for, Max. And Mum’s still upstairs. Remember? Do we really want to make it public that she’s clearly not OK when Dad’s not living here, either? That we’re essentially home alone?’

  There’s a short silence.

  ‘Valid point.’ Max jumps up and claps his hands. ‘Don’t want social services sending you guys to Celebrity Masterchef or whatever. I shall … go … do whatever it is people do with a vacuum cleaner.’

  Meanwhile, Po is drifting round the room, trailing her hand along dusty surfaces. ‘I know it’s not my interview, Eff, but do you think you could mention my upcoming projects? Just drop it in casually. Like, My Sister, Important Director Hope, or maybe: My Sister, Future Genre-defining—’

  ‘Hope.’ I grab her by the shoulders. ‘Sweetheart. I love you and I promise I will mention you, but please can you go and lock the kitchen door?’

  ‘May wee!’ she agrees cheerfully. ‘That’s French for I’m so excited, I might wee.’

  When she’s gone, I look up.

  Mercy is on her knees, quietly cleaning up the tea stains Hope made yesterday. My heart twangs again. This is how my big sister apologises. She doesn’t say sorry for insulting your boyfriend or being nasty about your abilities, looks, personality.

  She’s careful not to wake you when you’re fast asleep. She gets to work with a damp J-cloth.

  Mer glances up from under her dark brows and glowers.

  I throw her a grateful smile. Then I run into the hallway, rip off my dressing gown, stick on a tailored shift dress from the designer freebies cupboard, let my curls down, bite my lips and pinch my cheeks like I’m in Gone With the Wind.

  I’m at the front door just in time for the bell to chime. Swallowing, I pause with my hand on the door.

  Remember, Faith. You are the future of the Valentines. It’s a relay race a hundred years in the making, and now it’s your turn to take the baton.

  Just. Don’t. Drop. It.

  Pulling my shoulders back, I ease the door open. Today’s journalist, Rani Basu, is a fierce-looking woman with thick-rimmed black glasses, a blue-black bob and an earnest expression. She looks nice. Serious. More importantly, she looks – I realise with a sudden burst of optimism – like someone who’s actually going to listen.

  This could be my chance. No more quotes from Noah, or assumptions, or ‘honest’ photos that get it all wrong. It’s my interview and I get to say what’s written. This is what I’ve been trained for.

  Finally.

  ‘Hello,’ I beam triumphantly. ‘I’m Faith Valentine.’

  ‘… And this is the lower hallway,’ I say, holding a graceful hand out. ‘Over here is a grandfather clock bought by my great-grandmother Pauline back in—’

  The kitchen door creaks open and Hope’s expectant face peers out. I take a few quick steps so I’m behind the journalist and give Po a little nod. She disappears again.

  ‘—1920, just after she won the first of her multiple Academy Awards.’ Smoothly, I lead Rani towards the living room. Grandma was very clear about the order in which I should present the rooms: there’s a highlighted map and everything. ‘Over here we have the formal parlour. This is where the Valentine family gathers for Christmases, birthdays,’ screaming matches, ‘celebrations and so on.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the journalist nods, making a note. ‘I did want to ask about that. Your mother is recently out of rehab. But as far as I can tell she hasn’t been seen in public since – is she still very ill? And your father is in America, correct? With rumours of an affair and upcoming divorce?’

  I smile brightly. Thanks for that.

  ‘My mother is doing splendidly.’ Lie One. ‘She’s been considering upcoming scripts.’ Lie Two. ‘There has been no affair and there will be no divorce –’ Lie Three – ‘and everything is absolutely fabulous.’

  HahahahahaHAHAHAH.

  With my head held high, I glide towards the cinema room and open the door. ‘As one of the most celebrated movie dynasties in the world –’ Grandma will be pleased I got that in – ‘the Valentines have an entire room dedicated to our love of theatrical arts, in particular—’

  ‘It can’t have been an easy time,’ Rani insists belligerently. ‘Isn’t it exactly two years since—’

  ‘In particular,’ I repeat firmly, waving my hand around, ‘our home cinema, where we often congregate to review performances together …’

  I shut the cinema-room door. Ugh, I hate it in there.

  ‘And here we have the library,’ I say, opening another door. ‘As artists, our love of books and plays—’

  WOOF WOOF ARRROOOOOOOO!

  ‘You have a … dog?’ The journalist looks round sharply. ‘I don’t think I knew that.’

  I don’t think I did, either.

  ‘Yes,’ I nod quickly. That was actually Max’s ‘secret’ alarm call – has been since he was about five years old. ‘Two dogs. Huskies. Ah—’ I glance behind her. ‘Rocket and … Book.’ A dog called Book. Nice one, Eff. ‘They’re … very private dogs, I’m afraid.’

  Max is halfway up the stairs.

  He WOOFs again, then points upwards: Mum’s on the move. Mum – one of the most famous women on the planet, in her grubby nightie, with dishevelled hair, empty eyes and fun new habit of randomly screaming at people – is about to come into direct, unprepared contact with a member of the national press.

  ‘Private dogs?’ Rani says doubtfully.

  ‘Ah,’ I say, spinning her round to face the other way. ‘Yes. Keep themselves to themselves. Antisocial, bordering on misanthropic. Do you know what? I think you really need to see—’

  There’s a noise at the top of the stairs.

  Juliet Valentine, Oscar-winner and beloved star of The Heart of Us, has officially gone bat-poop crazy – here’s the evidence!

  ‘My bedroom!’ I finish desperately. It’s completely against the rules – Grandma says it’s highly inappropriate to take journalists into our private quarters – but what choice do I have? It’s that or giving a tour of the laundry room. ‘Why don’t you come and see my bedroom! It’s an exclusive! Never seen before!’

  Mum appears, so frail she has to hold on to the bannister.

  ‘Darlings,’ she calls in a voice as light as a feather. ‘Is somebody—’

  ‘Come with me!’ Panicking, I grab Rani’s shoulders just as she turns to look upwards and twist her in the opposite direction. ‘Via the exciting secret servants’ staircase!’

  And I pull her away as fast as I can.

  Softly, I close my bedroom door behind me and exhale in relief. Then I pretend to fiddle with the lock while I reorganise my panicked face into a serene, calm, placid smile.

  This journalist very nearly saw the madwoman in our attic.

  I turn round.

  ‘So.’ I beam warmly at Rani. ‘Welcome to my sanctuary. My haven. My retreat. This is where I come to process the demands of my day and just … be me.’

  The journalist glances around and sits down by my dressing table.

  ‘I like to dance,’ I continue. ‘My parents had this mirror and barre fitted when I was a little girl, and I practise every morning. My bedroom faces the garden so I wake to the sound of dawn birds singing. It really helps keep me—’

  ‘Lovely.’ She’s not listening. ‘So … this new role.’

  I nod and perch slowly on my pillow in an attempt to hide Mercy’s eyeliner stains. ‘Yeeeees.’

  ‘It�
��s set to be one of the most expensive shows ever made. We’re talking billions.’ I’m suddenly uncomfortably aware of how piercing this journalist’s eyes are. ‘How does it feel to be considered for such a prominent role? Your first-ever job, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ I need to be humble. Grateful. But also confident. A girl who values herself. But doesn’t overvalue herself. The perfect amount of self-value. ‘It … would be my first job. It’s lovely. I’m very happy.’

  I breathe out: safe.

  ‘And you’re trained by your grandmother, Dame Sylvia Valentine?’

  Don’t sound entitled. Do sound appreciative. ‘Yes. I am.’

  There’s a long pause.

  Suddenly it feels like I’m playing Battleships: one wrong quote and – BOOM! – game over.

  ‘So what appeals to you about the world of acting?’ The journalist frowns. ‘Obviously, you’re born into it, but what tempts you to follow the family line?’

  Ooh, I know this one. ‘Acting is a path I’ve been eager to tread since I was a child.’ I dimple sweetly. ‘To be so many people, to live so many lives, to tell so many stories … there is a kind of –’ I pretend to search for the right word – ‘magic in it.’

  Silence.

  ‘I see.’ Rani frowns again. ‘You’re sixteen years old, Faith, yet I don’t think I’ve opened up a media source in the last year where you haven’t been featured somewhere. What’s that like?’

  I nod, keeping my expression as flat as possible.

  Horrendous.

  ‘I’ve been well prepared so it feels natural.’ I maintain steady eye contact like Grandma taught me to. ‘I have an incredibly supportive network of friends and family. My boyfriend, Noah Anthony, is such an important part of my life. We’re very close – unshakable, rock solid – and lucky to share the experience of rising fame together.’

  Rani writes something down and I relax a touch. Go ahead and print that, lady.

  Maybe a few extra details will help with the headlines. ‘In fact, today is our one-year anniversary! Noah’s planning a big romantic date. He’s very sweet, and does that sort of thing a lot.’

  Do I sound like a demanding princess?

  ‘I do nice things too, of course,’ I add quickly. ‘Our relationship is very equal. Balanced. Evenly matched. I love him very much. Very, very much. He’s my whole world.’