Far From Perfect

by Holly Smale

  Blinking, I look down. A thick purple mist is covering the floor and it’s slowly creeping over my feet until I can’t see them any more.

  ‘No.’

  The mist rises until my legs have disappeared.

  ‘No.’

  It’s covering my stomach, my waist, my hands.

  ‘NO.’

  Now my arms, my chest, creeping up my neck, and I’m just a face and I can’t breathe and I can’t see and I’m disappearing and I’m not here I’m not here I’m not here—

  ‘NO NO NO NO NO.’

  With a loud scream, I turn towards my mirror. My face is unfamiliar, a collection of distorted features I don’t even recognise.

  ‘NO!’

  With a lurch, I pick up a chair and run forward, hurling it against the glass again and again and again. It doesn’t smash, but it cracks, cracks, cracks until all I can see is my reflection divided into thousands of shards.

  Smash.

  One piece is kind, one nice, one beautiful.

  Smash.

  One is a nightmare, a diva, a horror.

  Smash.

  There’s the victim and the icon, the bore and the goddess, the fake and the sweetheart. Smash smash smash smash— Until all I can see is a million girls trapped in the mirror: all the people they have to be, all the people they have to please, all the lives they have to live, all the lives they’re not living.

  Smash.

  And I don’t know what’s real any more. I don’t know which of these pieces I am.

  Knock, knock, who’s there?

  Smash.

  I HAVE NO IDEA.

  Breathing hard, I put the chair down and walk into my bathroom. I pick up my electric razor, plug it in and slowly run it down the middle of my head, round the front, on both sides. I keep going until I’m completely bald.

  I grab the white scrap of card out of my bag and pick up my phone.

  ‘Hi. This is Faith Valentine.’

  ‘Oh, hello. I was wondering when you’d call.’

  HEART. BROKEN

  Faith Valentine is speechless with despair (pictured left) after Noah Anthony’s infidelity (see here). Caught red-handed on their first anniversary, the pop-star philanderer was nowhere to be seen.

  LOSING THE FAITH

  Industry sources claim that Faith Valentine has withdrawn from Fright Fortnight due to ‘personal circumstances’. An official press release states, ‘Faith’s health and happiness are important to us. We wish her luck during these difficult times.’

  IT’S NOT OVER, SAYS NOAH ANTHONY

  ‘I’m not giving up,’ blasts pop star Noah Anthony in an EXCLUSIVE REVEAL. ‘Faith is the love of my life. I’ll get her back.’ His new single ‘Faith in Me’ remains Number One in the charts, and he claims that without Faith he would be ‘nothing’. Several girls have been cited as the ‘mystery blonde’, including Avery Evans, a backing dancer Noah has been photographed with on multiple occasions.

  You see, Kevin?! This is what happens when hot girls date millionaire idiots and not nice, normal guys, like me.

  It’s my turn to show Effie I’m The One! Watch this space, T-sters!

  GET THE VALENTINE LOOK! TEN RED LIPSTICKS THAT SAY ‘YOUR LOSS, MATE!’

  What’s the easiest way to get straight As?

  Use a ruler.

  I’m not one for grand gestures, but—

  ‘Screw it,’ I say, clambering out of my window like every teenager in every American film ever. Then I blink.

  The Valentine mansion has been home my entire life. I know every nook, every oak-panelled passageway, every marble mantelpiece. But, as I stand on the fire escape, I realise I’ve never seen it from this angle before. The damp inside the gutter; the moss on the roof tiles; a pair of ripped black tights hanging out of Mercy’s bedroom window, flapping aimlessly in the wind.

  Tugging my lime-green hood up, I perch carefully on the top rung, watching the driveway and waiting. Finally, the electric gates make a loud clanging sound and a battered orange Mini races across the gravel, squashes a flower bed of pink geraniums and knocks over a statue of Aphrodite rising out of her seashell.

  I exhale in sharp relief.

  ‘Oops!’ Scarlett Bell calls out of the window. ‘Smashed her boob! My bad! Your gate code is way too easy to guess, by the way!’

  Swallowing, I climb down the fire escape and push the love goddess back up again. Then I stare at Scarlett’s car. It’s patchy and covered in bright travel stickers – Paris, Venice, Mexico, Australia – like a battered piece of luggage.

  It also has L-plates.

  ‘Umm,’ I say stiffly, pushing aside a pile of chocolate wrappers from the passenger seat and climbing in. ‘Are you supposed to be … driving … without a … supervising adult?’

  I don’t want to sound judgmental, but that statue was thirty thousand pounds’ worth of love goddess.

  ‘Nah, it’s fine.’ Scarlett’s eating a packet of crisps: everything in a six-metre radius stinks of cheese and onion. ‘You’ve got a valid licence, right?’

  I stare at her in alarm. ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Her eyes widen. ‘You’re kidding me. Aren’t you, like, in your forties?’

  She’s joking. Is she joking? ‘I’m … sixteen.’

  ‘Really. Wow. Guess we’d better go super fast if we wanna avoid the cops, then.’ Scarlett grins, hits the accelerator, races back down the driveway and takes a left so sharply that she’s thrown into her car door.

  Then she glances at my expression and laughs.

  ‘I am joking, Valentine.’ Another handful of crisps: crunch crunch crunch. ‘I passed last month. The L-plates just give me a little extra space on the road. But your face, man.’

  I sit in emotional silence as we speed through Richmond. Where do I even start?

  So, my boyfriend of a year cheated on me and I’m being chased by the paparazzi and the papers are dissecting me like a frog and I can’t act and my future has imploded and I just smashed up my bedroom and I think I might be going insane and I called you because I had literally nobody else to call.

  Oh, and you’re a total stranger. How you doing?

  ‘Scarlett,’ I say finally, pulling my hood down and stroking my bare head. I feel strangely exposed and vulnerable, like a baby squirrel. ‘Did you leave your business card on the floor of reception for me on purpose?’

  She glances at me. ‘Of course I did,’ she grins. ‘Those things cost a freaking fortune.’

  ‘Why?’

  Scarlett thinks about it for a few seconds, then tilts her head back and pours the rest of the crisps into her mouth. She blows steadily into the packet until it’s ready to burst.

  Waving it – this is you – she smacks it hard against the steering wheel – BANG! – and I jump.

  I stare at her and at the empty, exploded packet. Then – with a huge sigh – I smile and rest my bald head back on the seat as my whole body collapses in relief.

  I don’t need to explain anything. Scarlett already knows.

  By the time the rusty Mini stops again, it’s dark. We’re parked in front of a block of flats: rectangular grey cement, grubby windows, laundry hanging off balconies.

  We sit in easy silence for a few more minutes, quietly watching the world spin.

  Hope used to have a gerbil when she was little. We all found it hysterical: how it would run, run, run, run, run on its little squeaky wheel, until it lost its footing and then went round and round before being ejected in a dizzy heap on the floor.

  That’s kind of how I feel right now: unbalanced, legs still whirring. Trying to work out where I’ve landed.

  My phone pings:

  I’m so sorry, Eff. It was just a kiss. Please talk to me. :( Nxx

  In an instant, my stomach tightens, my throat closes. I stare at Noah’s sad-emoji face. Should I call him? I should call him. It was just a kiss, he’s sorry and—

  My phone pings again.

  Hi, Faith. You’ve posted nothing online f
or twenty-four hours. For maximum follower satisfaction and algorithm success, it is ideal to post three a day so I have attached these options for you (in this difficult time). Genevieve.

  There’s a photo of me wearing a crop top, sucked-in stomach, staring distantly across an ocean (one of my many embarrassing photoshoots). Underneath it says: With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts – Eleanor Roosevelt #strengthfromwithin.

  Then another: me, smiling affectionately and holding a small, squashy-faced dog in my arms. Calm mind brings inner strength and self-confidence – the Dalai Lama #positivevibes.

  The third: me on the red carpet, hands on my hips. Mastering others is strength. Mastering yourself is true power – Lao Tzu #channelyourenergy.

  Umm.

  It’s been about six hours since the news broke. I haven’t even had time to work out how I feel yet, let alone how Eleanor Roosevelt might react in a similar situation. Genevieve might as well write FAITH IS HEARTBROKEN BUT NOT PATHETIC OR HAVING A MELTDOWN SHE’S DOING JUST FINE ALSO CHECK OUT HER ABS AND HOW GOOD SHE IS WITH ANIMALS WHAT A CATCH!

  None of which accurately reflects the fact that every time I think about Noah it feels like I’m having my insides raked through with a garden fork. And hearing from him then feels like having them scooped out with a spade.

  But rules are rules so—

  ‘What are you doing?’ Scarlett frowns and leans across the passenger seat. ‘Ugh. What a terrible photo. Why are you staring at the ocean like that?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘And that one’s worse. Is that even your dog?’

  My cheeks are suddenly hot. ‘We borrowed it to make me look … sensitive. I’m allergic to them. It gave me hives.’

  ‘Hah. Do you even know who Lao Tzu was?’

  My whole face is on fire. ‘No.’

  ‘He’s the ancient Chinese philosopher who founded Taoism.’ She laughs. ‘Newsflash, but I strongly suspect the universe will survive without your selfies and misappropriated wisdom. Also, if quoting the Dalai Lama in swirly writing isn’t a desperate cry for help, I don’t know what is.’

  My nose twitches. That’s what I thought too, but—

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I explain as Scarlett starts ringing her eyes with black eyeliner in the rear-view mirror. ‘I’m a Valentine – everyone is watching to see what I do next … I’ve got millions of followers … I have to maintain a positive self-image … be a role model … show strength in adversity and dignity and … and …’

  Scarlett’s staring at me with her eyeliner poised. I’ve never felt more fake in my entire life. Not even when the make-up artist was spray-painting abs on to my stomach.

  ‘And you always do exactly what you’re told to, do you?’

  Silence.

  ‘Yes,’ I say finally.

  ‘Righty-ho.’ Scarlett grins and swings open the car door. ‘Let’s start there, shall we?’

  As a rickety old lift carries us up to nearly the top floor of the block of flats, I can hear loud noise. Screaming. Shouts. Laughter. Thudding bass. People. My heart starts to beat faster and faster, panic steadily rising.

  The lift doors squeak slowly open.

  Bewildered, I stare at a girl vomiting heartily over the balcony while someone else holds her hair; a boy is sitting on the floor, crying; another is being piggybacked – screeching – down the corridor by a girl with a pink Mohican.

  Stiffly, I step backwards into the lift.

  Run.

  ‘Well,’ I say with a polite smile, ‘it’s been so nice to meet you properly, Scarlett. Thank you for coming to collect me – what a pleasure this has been. I’ve just realised I have an important social engagement on the other side of town that I really must attend.’

  I reach out and jab the lift button, hard.

  Jab.

  Jab.

  Jab-jab-jab-jab-jab-jab—

  ‘Stop that,’ Scarlett says firmly, pulling me out of the lift again. ‘You’ll break it and then everyone’s going to have to use the stairs.’

  I look at the floor. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Wow.’ She examines my face. ‘You’re a proper swan, aren’t you? On the surface you’re all serenity, but under the water your legs are busy going –’ she makes frantic paddling motions with her hands – ‘flip flip flip FLIP.’

  My mouth falls open in surprise.

  ‘It’s just a little get-together,’ she says, steering me gently through the front door of a tiny flat. ‘No big deal. You’ve been to parties before, right?’

  Blinking, I stare at the chaos.

  The flat is dark and hazy, lit only by fairy lights strung across the walls. At least three types of music are blasting, confetti cannons are popping, bottles and plates are scattered everywhere, nearly fifty people are laughing, screaming, shouting, dancing. It’s jam-packed, sweaty, hot, pounding.

  This isn’t a party. Parties have a red carpet and guest lists, designer outfits, chandeliers, waiters, vol-au-vents, weird levels of eye contact and inappropriate questions. I automatically begin smoothing myself down, blanking myself out, getting my lines ready. With a smile, I bite the inside of my cheek and—

  ‘Get rid of that fake dimple,’ Scarlett says easily. ‘You’re going to give yourself a mouth ulcer.’

  Amazed, I stop smiling.

  ‘OY!’ she screams over the music. ‘EVERYONE! THIS IS EFF! SHE’S NEW! SAY HELLO!’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘All right!’

  ‘Nice one!’

  The party continues.

  ‘See?’ Scarlett grabs a bright pink drink and hands it cheerfully to me. ‘Nobody cares here, Valentine. Nobody. Gives. One. Iota. About. Who. You. Are. Or. What. You. Do.’ She grins. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’

  Be. Cool.

  But also warm, Eff; don’t tip into Ice Queen territory.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Loo,’ Scarlett announces. ‘Must pee.’ Without further ado, she disappears.

  Swallowing, I edge forward until I’m standing at the doorway of a tiny living room: dark, packed and heaving with sweaty, grinding, shouting strangers. Lights are flashing, music I don’t recognise is blasting and there’s no rhythm, just a poorly coordinated mass of bobbing, jumping, swaying, gyrating.

  ‘You dance?’

  I turn rigidly to a boy with red hair who’s pumping his arms enthusiastically like one of those birds on a nature documentary. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said YOU DANCE ?’

  ‘Yes!’ I nod and glance back at the impromptu dance floor. ‘Ballet! I find it very peaceful and grounding. It’s a form of exercise I’ve enjoyed since I was—’

  I pause my official answer and look round the room at the loose-limbed, joy-filled crowd.

  ‘No,’ I admit, flushing. ‘Not really.’

  ‘So dance with me!’ The boy grabs my hand and starts swinging it around while he chops invisible bats out of the air with the other. We bop awkwardly for a few minutes while I search for a way to make this weirdly intimate interaction a little less uncomfortable.

  ‘UMM!’ I yell over the music, leaning towards him. ‘WHAT DID THE DANCING BANK ROBBER SAY?’

  ‘WHO?’ The boy has his eyes shut now.

  ‘THE ROBBER.’

  ‘HUH?’

  ‘EVERYBODY GET DOWN!’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘IT’S A …’ My cheeks are hot. Massive joke fail. ‘Never mind! Very nice to meet you! Thank you for the dance! I’m going to find some refreshments! Goodbye!’

  The boy nods and beams, eyes still closed.

  Stiff as a spoon, I attempt to make my way through the living room towards a kitchen area, tucked behind a bookshelf. ‘Excuse me,’ I say sweetly, tapping on oblivious shoulders. ‘Excuse me, please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, excuse me, do you mind if I just …’

  Then I stop with a jolt.

  A boy with floppy black hair is sitting on the edge of the sofa, bent over a guitar. He’s playing earnestly, even though the other music’s
far too loud for anyone to hear a single note.

  I take a step towards him. ‘Noah?’

  The boy looks up and of course it’s not: wrong guitar, wrong stance, wrong clothes, wrong party, wrong hair, wrong smile, wrong boy.

  But his smile slays me.

  Noah.

  And suddenly that grainy after-show photo is not just a picture any more – it’s happening in front of me. The shape of the lips I know so well; the taste of coffee on his breath. Did Noah know her already? Had he been watching the blonde girl through the whole after-show? Had she been watching him?

  When she smiled at my boyfriend, did he smile back? How long was I forgotten?

  Because there’s no such thing as just a kiss. If there was, I’d be able to walk across this room right now, put my hands on either side of this stranger’s face, pull him towards me and kiss him too.

  The cute guitarist waves and nods at the sofa – come sit with me – and I take a few steps back, stomach twisting.

  I can’t, I can’t, I—

  ‘Watch it!’ a girl scowls as I step straight into her, sending prawn crackers flying across the room. ‘Oh nice one, Famous. That was the last packet.’

  I blink and she strops off to a cupboard.

  Still reeling, I get on my hands and knees and start picking up crackers, putting them neatly back in the bowl. The floor’s a mess, so I gather up some crisps and pop them in there too. Dip has been dropped, so I grab a paper napkin off the table and start wiping that up, then I have a go at a bit of spilt cola in the middle of the—

  ‘Umm. I leave you alone for, like, six minutes and you’re on the floor doing what exactly?’

  I look up at Scarlett. ‘Cleaning.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that.’ She folds her arms. ‘I clearly meant why.’

  I pause with the balled-up napkin in my hand.

  ‘I made a mess,’ I say slowly. ‘So I cleaned it up. Then there was … a bit more mess, so I … cleaned that up too.’ My cheeks are getting hot. ‘Honestly, a few seconds now will stop it from getting trampled into the carpet for the poor host to deal with in the morning. It just makes sense.’

  ‘So … it’s not even your mess.’ Scarlett rolls her eyes. ‘You are not responsible for everything, Faith Valentine.’