by Holly Smale
Too far, Faith. Way too far.
‘Not my whole world,’ I correct, swallowing. Oh, for goodness’ sake. This is why you’ve been told to stick to the script. ‘Just a … healthy chunk of it. Like, ah … Russia. Or maybe China.’
Silence.
‘So. You’ve been described by Vogue as one of the most beautiful women on the planet.’ Rani looks at her notes without expression. ‘The face of an angel, another magazine states. Does that level of attractiveness feel like a burden or a privilege?’
I stare at her in amazement. What does she think I do? Stand in front of a mirror every morning and high-five myself? I look like me – a range of features and body parts I tend to ignore unless I’m picking at them or colouring them in.
It’s also a trick question. If I acknowledge it, I’m publicly accepting that I think I’m beautiful – huge no-no – but, if I protest, I look like I’m fishing for more compliments: also pretty unlikable.
So I smile and shrug. ‘Not sure really.’
We stare at each other for a few seconds.
‘Noah Anthony is quoted as saying you don’t think you’re a good actress.’ The journalist is unblinking; I sit up a little straighter. ‘A “terrible actress” are the words he used. “Lacks what it takes.” Is that true?’
Oh, for the love of – Grandma will kill me.
‘Well.’ I make my expression affectionate yet mildly frustrated – Boyfriends, What Are We Gonna Do With Them? – and laugh. ‘There’s so much talent in the Valentine family, it’s hard not to feel humbled now and then.’
I’m sure I’m missing something.
‘Like, for instance, my sister Hope,’ I add quickly. ‘She’s going to be a famous film director, just like Dad. Watch this space.’
Nothing is written down. Sorry, Po.
‘But –’ Rani is leaning back in the chair, watching me carefully – ‘what makes you you? That’s what our readers are keen to understand.’
‘Well.’ I smile serenely. ‘My favourite food is sushi, my favourite ice cream is salted caramel, my favourite season is summer and my favourite colour is—’
‘That’s not what I’m asking,’ the journalist interrupts.
My throat has started closing.
This woman I have known for literally nineteen minutes leans forward, directly into my personal space, and suddenly I deeply regret bringing her into my bedroom. This is where I sleep.
‘I’m wondering who the real Faith is?’ Rani continues. ‘Away from the spotlight and the headlines and the red carpets and the smoothie bowls inspo and the running selfies? Who is Faith Valentine?’
Fury whips through me. And – for a fraction of a second – I want to headbutt her. I want to pull this total stranger off her bottom and literally nut her in the face.
How dare she ask me that?
Instead, I dimple. ‘Oh,’ I say, biting the inside of my cheek as hard as I can. ‘I guess I’m just a very normal girl.’
What do you give a sick bird?
Tweetment.
Nailed it.
As soon as the journalist has gone, I return to my room and run through the myriad ways my answers could be construed, quoted and interpreted.
I’m pretty sure I didn’t say anything too dumb or controversial or fascinating. I wasn’t too warm or too cold. And I didn’t commit grievous bodily harm – hooray! – so maybe those Wednesdays with my grandmother were worth it after all.
Although my favourite ice cream is mint-choc-chip. And my favourite season is autumn.
Just saying.
Now I’ve got less than two hours to learn my new script for tomorrow, finish customising Noah’s anniversary present, shower, do my make-up, change into my anniversary outfit and get across London.
Genevieve – aware of the date – has sent (for my third post today) an image of me and Noah in Paris at Christmas. We’re standing underneath the glittering lights of the Champs Elysées, cheeks pressed together, grinning giddily – cold, dripping snot artfully photoshopped out.
She’s written a caption, but I ignore it and write my own.
And POST:
Happy anniversary! One amazing year with my bae. All the adventures we’ve shared! Can’t wait to share the next one with you xxxx
Within seconds, the hearts are going crazy.
OMG! This is just. So. Cute!!
Couple goals!
You guys are giving me LIFE. FAINOAH FOREVAAAA!
A photo pops up on my feed. Noah and I are on a blue VIP carpet, arms tightly round each other. We look glossy and smooth, me resting my head gently on his suited shoulder pad. I can’t help wondering if he got it from his PR too.
One year today with my beautiful girl. I’m the luckiest guy in the world. Love you so so much. Xxx
I hit the heart button.
Aaaagh. I can’t even!
YOU TWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOO. Congrats!!!!
All. The. Heart. Eyes.
We were at Mum’s premiere for blockbuster weepie Pinnacle. Noah fell asleep about five minutes in and stayed that way until I prodded him awake at the closing credits.
Which reminds me—
Sighing, I print out Persephone’s email attachment and try not to panic as the pages start reeling out: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight – hello, War and Peace.
Then I Sellotape all eleven pages of my new scene to the tiles of my en-suite and attempt to exfoliate, shave my legs, mask my face, condition my hair, dry it, apply primer, foundation, bronzer, illuminator, eyeliner, mascara, shadow, eyebrow gel … while reading out lines like:
‘Which way are we going? I’m sure the map said it was the other way—’ and:
‘What do you mean, my destiny?’
And: ‘No! Stop the car! This is madness!’
At least my character sounds confused and out of her depth. These are emotions I should be able to emulate.
Finally – scrubbed and gleaming – I grab the floor-length, tight, iridescent-white, sequinned Valentino dress Noah sent me a few days ago, tug it on, lower myself uncomfortably to the floor and attempt to finish his gift. One year is supposed to be paper, so I bought us a First Class trip to New York, for when his current tour is over. Except I’m realising that handing my beloved boyfriend a travel-agent’s envelope is a little bit … impersonal. So I’m quickly covering it in hand-drawn hearts.
Heart. Heart. Heart.
‘No!’ I murmur, doodling another one. Heart. ‘Stop the car! No, stop the car?’ Heart. ‘This is MADNESS. No.’ Heart. ‘STOP THE C—’
Ping.
Running late but should make it for 4:20!! Xxx
Maybe I can use those extra minutes exploring a way to pee while wearing this dress.
No probs! See you there! What are we doing?! Dying to know! Xxx
Haha. That would be telling ;) xx
With a final scribble – heart – I pop the envelope in my handbag. Grabbing my pack of Post-its, I stiffly rustle down the corridor and stick the bird one on the wall. Then I inch woodenly down the stairs.
‘Awwww.’ Hope is sitting on the landing by the window. She’s so desperate to start the glamorous Valentine life when she turns sixteen that my heart hurts for her. Even if part of me desperately wishes we could swap over. ‘Happy anniversary! You look exquisite, Eff.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile, spinning with my arms out. I feel weird, rigid and scratchy, like a doll. ‘It’s amazing what a twelve-thousand-pound dress and a pair of suuuuper-tight hold-in pants will do, huh? My internal organs are packaged like sausages.’
‘You should wear proper clothes more often,’ my sister says, dreamily skipping down the stairs as I hobble after her. I open the freebie cupboard again and grab a burgundy velvet Gucci coat and gold Prada heels. ‘Noah’s going to be stoked. It’s such a beautiful thing, mouldy sandwich love.’
I pause, holding one foot aloft. ‘What?’
‘Remember?’ Her eyes are bright as she beams at me. ‘You said a few weeks ago
that your love for Noah was like mould. That it grows best in the right conditions. I didn’t understand at the time, but now I think maybe I do.’
I blink at my baby sister. Mouldy sandwich love? Is that how I actually feel about him? Like a piece of damp bread with fungus on it?
What an eternal romantic.
‘Mmmm.’ I kiss her cheek affectionately. ‘Sweetheart, are you sure you’re going to be all right on your own tonight? You won’t be too lonely?’
‘Oh no, Ben’s coming over to watch videos,’ Po says cheerfully. ‘I’m going to make him watch each one three times. Once on their own, once with the official director commentary and once with my commentary. And what do you know!’ A theatrical, wide-eyed glance over my shoulder. ‘Here comes your not-so-secret love-triangle paramour now.’
My sister wiggles her eyebrows.
Something tells me she coordinated this on purpose, the little romance-obsessed ratbag.
‘Is that the time?’ I say, giving her a wry look. Nice try, sis, but no dice. ‘My goodness! Gotta go! Have fun!’
And I dive, glittering, into the waiting limo.
HEY, T-DRINKERS! NEWS!
After careful RESEARCH, I have discovered FAITH VALENTINE’S agent! I’m sending a letter of comfort before she is dumped, then asking Faith out on a ROMANTIC ICE-CREAM date! No, KEVIN, the age gap is NOT a problem. Boys mature faster, dumbo.
WATCH THIS SPACE!
My kingdom for some leggings and an XL hoodie.
White sequins scream look at me – I might as well be dressed in a bright yellow chicken suit, spinning a THIS WAY banner. No less than fifteen tourists stop to take my photo, looking for all the world like an ice skater about to get married.
It was sweet of Noah to send me something special to wear, but I’d be infinitely happier in a onesie and odd socks.
Exhausted, I hide behind a pillar and text:
Hey, babe! I’m here! Where are you? x
Then I check online again. I’m kind of hoping that this morning’s journalist might have somehow posted her copy already. Maybe—
Faith Valentine is a very normal, nice girl who is totally in love with her boyfriend and not a nightmare at all!
Or:
We are amazed by how non-diva-y Faith Valentine actually is!
I’d even take:
NEWS FLASH! Faith Valentine IS NOT A MONSTER!!
But the only new article showing up is the blogger from the park.
I mean, I appreciate the creepy, invasive support – who wouldn’t? – but I’m hoping Persephone doesn’t forward his ice-cream invitation. Also, I’m not entirely sure that his entire readership isn’t one boy called Kevin.
Ping.
Running late! Go in without me!
Sorry! xx
This is so Noah.
Where? You haven’t told me where we’re going! ;) x
Oh! Yeah. My bad!! Ballet! The one about the ducks!! xx
A whoosh of happiness shoots through me, lifting me on to my tiptoes.
Mouldy sandwich, schmouldy bandwich.
Swan Lake?!!!! You’re kidding me!! That’s my favourite! xx
IK! Nearly there! Catch you in a tick! Love you! x
Heart soaring, I raise my head. The Royal Opera House is just round the corner, so – with another jolt of excitement – I mince scratchily towards it with squished kidneys, beaming all over.
When I reach the huge, elegant white building, my heart leaps even further.
Oh, Noah.
I’ve adored this ballet since Mum took me to it when I was four years old. It was what made me love dancing in the first place. I can’t think of a more thoughtful gift.
Glittering inappropriately (it’s an afternoon matinee – everyone else is in jeans), I pick up my ticket from the gilded foyer and hobble up the stairs to wait in private.
Noah’s booked us a box. An entire six-person box. Right at the front of the stage. Wow.
It’s only when I get there that I realise what this means – until he arrives, it’s just me.
Sitting alone, in the most prominent seat in the whole building. Hanging not so subtly in the sky inside a gold container, with a million white sequins catching every bright light in the theatre each time I move, like a human disco ball.
Hi, guys! It’s me! Faith Valentine!
Sure enough, curious faces are already turning towards me. I hear whispers, giggles, see photo flashes. I hunker down and try to stay as still as possible.
My phone vibrates.
Traffic TERRIBLE. Will sneak in super quiet, I promise! Sorry! Love you! xx
I bite my lips.
Sure thing! No worries! xx
Almost immediately, my phone vibrates again.
Sooooooo, how’s the big romantic date going? x
Mercy must be feeling super guilty about what she said this morning. She never signs off with a kiss. Also, I guess it’s the only way to visually indicate that her text isn’t entirely sarcastic.
I type back:
Amazing! We’re watching Swan Lake!! :) x
Then I delete the last bit.
Amazing! N’s taken me to see Swan Lake!! :) x
Try again.
Amazing! N’s bought tickets to Swan Lake!! :) x
That’s technically accurate. SEND. A few seconds later:
He’s not there, is he
You know what? A lot of nice things are said about the sister bond. That special connection which allows you to see into each other’s hearts, to know each other’s minds, to read each other without words.
I think it’s massively overrated.
Not yet, but he’s on his way!!! X
Sure he is. What a flaming douchebaguette.
Just because Noah is held up in traffic doesn’t make him a douchebaguette, Mer. He’ll be here.
You’re so gullible. He isn’t showing. Fact. You know he hates ballet – it’s B O R I N G.
Scowling, I shove my phone in my bag.
Get lost, Merciless.
Then I quickly rearrange my face into a bright, happy expression of anticipation. A wide-eyed, appreciative gaze that says: I love ballet, I love my boyfriend and I swear he will be here ANY MINUTE.
The last thing I need is a stray photo of me glaring grumpily at some poor ballerinas.
Loner Faith Valentine
HATES WOMEN AND ALSO JOY
The lights steadily dim until a rosy, candle-lit glow fills the hushed auditorium and I finally relax. An orchestra appears from the side of the stage and sits down. The conductor bows, baton held aloft. Sweet, mournful tones fill the air and I lean forward hungrily.
Darkness falls and the curtains open.
FYI, ballet is not boring.
It’s storytelling at its most athletic: strength and grace set to music. Prince Siegfried appears on stage – leaping and twisting as colourful courtiers and guests spin round him. It’s magic.
Though I will concede that a large proportion of Swan Lake seems to be the prince partying. Like, at least three-quarters of it.
My phone lights up.
Nearly there! How are the ducks doing? x
I smile. See, Mercy?
They don’t usually show for the first half-hour! You’ve got time! The prince is still trying to find a wife at the party. Something tells me he won’t manage it. LOL x
Isn’t that the plot of every fairy tale ever? x
Yup. This is essentially The Little Mermaid with wings x
Cool! xx
Relieved, I glance over the balcony. Frowns are pointed up at me, shining vividly in my blue phone light. Young celebs, so disrespectful, think the rules don’t apply to them, etc. etc.
I flush – sorry, sorry – put my phone back in my bag and focus on the stage again. Half an hour in, the music crescendoes and the curtains close: party over.
There’s dark silence. I subtly glance at my phone. Nothing.
Then the music starts again – gentle, more soulful – and the curtains open o
n a lake. It’s misty and blue, backed with beautiful painted mountains. A tide of thick cloud rolls across the floor.
The lights dim and, from behind the curtains, two rows of swans dance in smoothly and form a neat circle. Arms over their heads like necks, moving in perfect symmetry.
And there she is, the White Swan, Odette. A beautiful princess, cursed to spend her days as a swan, revealing her true human form only at night. She glides seamlessly on to the stage and we all breathe out in collective relief.
Finally.
As always, she’s wearing a white tutu, white shoes and a white feather headdress. Through minuscule, graceful movements she somehow is a bird: feathers ruffling, neck long and elegant.
Slowly, Odette pivots on one tiptoe in the pale blue light and I wrap my arms tightly round my stomach.
My phone vibrates:
Well?? Any sign?
I frown in frustration.
He’s going to be here any minute.
Sure he is.
For God’s sake, Mer, I’m at the ballet. Can you just let me enjoy it?
I’m doing you a favour. You’re such an old lady, Eff. How are the prince’s MANLY TIGHTS holding up?? LOL.
I look up to see Siegfried dancing with Odette. They’re wrapped round each other, infatuated and absorbed. There is nothing ‘old lady’ about this. It is hot.
You’re obsessed with his tights, weirdo. Is he another douchebaguette too?
Dunno. Never seen the ending.
ZZZZZZZZZZ.
I’m typing an indignant reply when the music crashes, the curtains close, the lights go up and I realise I’ve just missed the first half of my anniversary present, texting my sister.
Cheers, Mer.
Below me, the auditorium is buzzing and, with a sharp pang of envy, I briefly consider joining them. Use the toilet, grab an ice cream, maybe purchase a swan T-shirt and programme and chat about how glorious it is.
Except—
Faith Valentine! OMG! So cool to run into you! Can I have your photo? I’ll wait RIGHT HERE outside the cubicle while you pee. Don’t worry – I won’t listen!
Maybe I’ll just hold it.