Far From Perfect

by Holly Smale

  My phone pings.

  Hey. What do I have to do? Tell me. :( :( Nxx

  With a sharp twist of the stomach, I reply:

  I need a bit more time. Sorry. Fxx

  I’m hurting too – of course I am – but I still don’t know quite how I feel or what I want to say to him.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Please don’t go out with Dylan Harris. :(

  You know what? Maybe I do.

  Please don’t kiss other girls. Oh, whoops. Too late.

  Crossly, I jam my phone firmly into my pocket.

  Life is for today.

  ‘Heya, Letty!’ I call out, swinging open the front door. ‘So which way do you want to head this time? I was thinking we could hit the motorway, drive north and—’

  My stomach lurches: a different car is coming up the driveway. Silver. Big.

  What day is it? Tell me it’s not Wednesday. It’s totally Wednesday, isn’t it?

  No, no, no, no, no—

  ‘Quick!’ Slamming the front door behind me, I run through the pelting rain as fast as I can and jump into Scarlett’s passenger seat. ‘Go! Go! Drive! Drive!’

  ‘Wow,’ she grins, reaching for the gearstick. ‘I feel like your getaway driver. Do we get to split the cash you’ve just nicked?’

  What is taking so long?

  ‘DRIVE!’ I yell as she fiddles with the ignition (‘this old banger never starts first time round, hang on, there’s a knack to it, just gotta—’). ‘SCARLETT, DRIVE AWAY RIGHT NOW! GO! GO! GO!’

  It’s too late. Genevieve has stepped out of the limo and is standing calmly behind the Mini so we can’t go anywhere. The rain is hammering down and she’s soaking wet, motionless and unblinking – like something out of a horror movie.

  ‘RUN HER OVER!’ I yell. ‘No. Don’t do that. Just—’

  ‘Faith?’ Genevieve calls out through the rain. ‘I’ll need you to come with me.’

  What do you call bears without ears?

  B.

  Even a bear joke can’t save me now.

  ‘Hi, Genevieve,’ I say guardedly as the limo glides away with me inside it, yet again. ‘So … how are you?’ As if I didn’t just yell RUN HER OVER at the top of my voice.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ My grandmother’s assistant is in full old-lady attire: corduroy pencil skirt, frilly blouse, patterned shawl with tasselled fringe wrapped round her shoulders. It all looks brand new. Where is she even buying this stuff?

  ‘Good.’ I glance over my shoulder. ‘Good.’

  Scarlett is driving behind us, munching on a packet of biscuits. She waves chirpily – apparently steering with her knees – and holds a thumb and little finger up to her face: call me.

  Nodding, I grimace and turn back. So much for my freedom. My glorious holiday from reality is very much over now apparently.

  ‘So, umm.’ I swallow. ‘Where’s Grandma? Is she … OK?’

  ‘Your grandmother won’t be able to give you a lesson today, Faith. She’s been called away to discuss charitable events for next year.’

  I relax with a wave of intense relief back into the seat. Then I sit up sharply again. Ouch.

  ‘What the—’ I pull a gold necklace with a sharp, pointed pendant away from my lower spine and stare at it in bemusement.

  ‘Gifts,’ Genevieve says in a monotone. ‘Your agency forwarded them. They’ve been inundated with offers of romance over the last few days. Obviously, I’ve already weaned out the no-hopers.’

  I look in the vast tote bag the necklace fell out of. Inside is a creepy Steiff teddy bear, a platinum watch, a box of pastel-coloured macaroons, an amethyst bracelet, a bottle of perfume costing hundreds (they’ve left the price on) and a bunch of chocolates, flowers, etc. etc.

  ‘The no-hopers?’ I repeat in a faint voice.

  ‘Unsuitable candidates. Unattractive guys with no profile. The ones who send biscuits with gluten in them despite the risk of bloating, you know? Dame Sylvia has approved the shortlist.’

  The gold scrapbook gets opened to a new page. On the right are photos – shiny, handsome boys – and on the left their age, background, career, interest they’ve shown.

  I stare in horror.

  One guy told the Sun I’m ‘blisteringly hot’; another has publicly announced he’s ‘gagging for his chance’. I’m so grossed out I can’t read any further.

  ‘But –’ I look up, confusion mounting – ‘Noah’s still my boyfriend, Genevieve. Whatever happens, I’m not ready to—’

  ‘The world can’t see you as a walkover, Faith. If you don’t make it look like you’ve moved on, your reputation will forever be: Faith Valentine – Emotional, Discarded and Weak.’

  I open my mouth. ‘Except I haven’t moved o—’

  ‘On which topic, I notice you haven’t posted anything yourself online for nearly FIVE DAYS now.’ She holds up her mobile. ‘You cannot disappear. Silence speaks louder than words and people read between the lines – especially if there’s nothing there to read. Thank your lucky stars you’ve got me.’

  Genevieve presses SEND and my phone pings.

  A photoshopped picture of me pops up: at sunrise, lying on our swing-chair in the garden in a white lace jumpsuit, my arm stretched behind my head. I remember this shoot – Max said I looked like a Victorian invalid after a very large Sunday lunch.

  I look up. ‘But—’

  ‘I’m going with: If you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best. Positive yet sassy. Empowered. Respectful of the pain you’re in.’

  My nose suddenly twitches. If Scarlett thought a Dalai Lama quote was the last step before a full-blown public meltdown, reciting Marilyn Monroe must be the final death rattle.

  ‘But—’

  ‘This isn’t a negotiation, Faith.’ Genevieve narrows her eyes. ‘Your grandmother made her wishes extremely clear. It’s my job to ensure you follow them.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, looking down. ‘OK.’

  Without further ado, I post the photo and quote across all platforms. Seconds later—

  You are an INSPERATION! Xxx

  Head up, girl! You can do SO much better!!!!!

  OMG where is that chair from I love it

  There’s always someone with an eye on the soft furnishings.

  ‘I printed you a copy of the Boy List,’ Genevieve continues, holding out a piece of paper. ‘See what you think in your own time.’

  Short pause.

  ‘As long as that time is by tomorrow morning,’ she adds, tapping on her phone again. ‘We’ve got to keep the momentum going or the media will just make up their own version of events.’

  I stare at the list, feeling abruptly sick. Ed, Elijah, Timothy, Jim, Toby, Jeremy, Dylan, Robert – it’s like being at a pick ’n’ mix, except instead of sweets I’ve been handed a weird mixture of potential boyfriends, all gummy and stuck together.

  And I didn’t choose any of them.

  The limousine stops.

  ‘Umm.’ I blink through the dark window at a pretty London square: formal trees and ornate townhouses with stone steps leading up to them. ‘I don’t want to be rude or anything –’ RUN HER OVER – ‘but if there’s no class with Grandma … what am I doing here?’

  I’d assumed I was in the back of the car for a comprehensive wrist-slapping, but it looks like we’ve arrived somewhere specific. This better not be some random boy’s house.

  ‘As you know –’ Genevieve smooths her corduroy skirt with a vtttt sound – ‘your grandmother has many contacts in the film industry. Close personal friendships, developed over decades, that have resulted in discretion of the highest order.’

  Oh. Ohhhhh. I’m starting to see where this might be going.

  ‘It has been fed back to her that you may need … extra assistance. A small amount of encouragement beyond that which she currently has time to provide.’

  I close my eyes briefly. In fairness, I’m lucky I wasn’t dragged out of the last audition by my ha
ir.

  ‘She knows I suck at acting, huh?’

  Genevieve beams, and, for the first time in the full year I’ve known her, she actually looks her age.

  ‘Oh, Faith.’ She nods smugly. ‘She knows you suck big-time.’

  I know where we are now.

  For a brief second, I consider resisting – jumping out of the car and legging it across Soho – but why bother? If anybody needs professional help, it’s me.

  ‘The four-day acting workshop started yesterday,’ Genevieve explains as the chauffeur opens the limo door. ‘But your grandmother says it doesn’t matter if you arrive a day late. Everyone obviously knows who you are already.’

  I flinch. ‘Lovely. Thank you.’

  Anxiously, I say a polite goodbye, climb out and make my way to yet another reception desk. It’s quiet, but through closed doors you can hear shouting, screaming, laughing, crying. Anywhere else that would be a cause for concern.

  ‘Hello, Faith,’ the receptionist says as I open my mouth. ‘Seven B. Third floor, second to the right. Go in quietly, please. Class has begun.’

  As I climb the stairs, I’m starting to itch all over. By the time I reach the classroom, my throat has closed, my forehead is damp, my legs are shaky and my eyes are burning.

  Could I be allergic to the arts? Maybe it’s like an extreme version of hay fever – I’m so repelled by anything creative that simply being in this building is causing my entire body to break down.

  Gently, I push open the door. Outstretched on the floor are eight people roughly my age – flat on their backs, eyes closed, arms by their sides. For a second, it looks like the end of a Shakespearean tragedy, until I realise they’re all humming quietly.

  ‘Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.’

  ‘Come in!’ The teacher beckons me over with a whisper-shout. He’s almost entirely silver: salt-and-pepper hair and beard, grey jumper, charcoal trousers, like a thespian wizard. ‘Find a space! No talking!’

  I blink at the room. What space?

  Taking my trainers off, I tiptoe in socks through the outstretched humans. ‘Excuse me,’ I whisper. ‘Sorry. Sorry, just going to put my foot— God, sorry, was that your finger?’

  The teacher frowns, so I quickly lie down in the corner in a bent L-shape, close my eyes and start to obediently mmmmmmmmmmmmm.

  ‘Ooooooooooooooooooo,’ the teacher announces loudly.

  ‘Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo,’ says the class.

  ‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.’

  ‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.’

  ‘Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.’

  ‘Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.’

  ‘Go with the flow. Feel the sound change as it moves to different parts of your body. Each sound produces a new vibration – explore how you feel in each state.’

  ‘Mmmmmmmmmmm – oooooooooooo – eeeeeeeee—’

  Opening my eyes, I make an executive decision to sit out this nonsense and wait until the actual acting class starts. I already do yoga: there’s only so much hippy rubbish one person can take.

  ‘Right!’ There’s a loud clap. ‘Up! Walk round the room! Make eye contact! You’re walking down a road! The sun is out!’

  Bouncing to my feet, I obediently start walking in random semicircles. My classmates lock eyes with me one by one and blink, startled – What the hell is Faith Valentine doing here? – so I blush and stare at the floor.

  ‘It’s raining! Thunder! Lightning!’

  My peers immediately start running, holding imaginary coats over their heads, peering up at the skies, flinching at fictional rumbles. I copy them, even though all I can hear is a clunking generator outside.

  ‘You’re going somewhere you don’t want to be! You’re wasting time! You’re trying to be late!’

  Everyone slows down, so I do the same.

  ‘It’s boiling hot!’

  They all start peeling off jumpers, fanning themselves, wiping their brows. I do too.

  ‘You have eyes made of black marbles!’

  Squinting, fumbling, bumping into things.

  ‘Now make a circle!’

  I quickly loop my arms over my head, crouch down and try to make myself as circular as possible. Somebody snorts and I glance up – everyone else is standing in a loose circle round the teacher, staring at me.

  For the love of—

  Feeling humiliated, I stand up and join them.

  ‘Now!’ The teacher surveys us carefully. ‘Grab a chair! When I say GO, I want you to tell your chair you want a cup of coffee. And … GO!’

  Yup. I’ve definitely missed something.

  ‘I want a cup of coffee,’ a blonde girl with IVY on her nametag tells her chair.

  ‘I want a cup of coffee,’ ZACH demands.

  ‘I want a cup of coffee!’ A tall brunette – ZOE – is furious. ‘Give me a cup of coffee!’

  Blinking, I glance at the teacher.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ He wanders over with a broad, friendly smile. ‘Would you prefer to ask the chair for tea instead?’

  ‘No, no. Coffee’s … fine. It’s just …’ How do I put this politely? ‘I think, sir, I … might be in the wrong class.’

  I’m finding it hard to believe that Dame Sylvia Valentine – or my mother, for that matter – has ever asked a chair for a hot beverage. This is like an underground Starbucks training programme.

  ‘Acting for Film and TV.’ The teacher nods easily. ‘What is it that’s bothering you exactly?’

  I glance round the room.

  ‘I WANT A CUP OF COFFEE!’

  ‘I want a cup of … coffee?’

  ‘WHERE IS MY FLAMING CUP OF COFFEE?’ Zoe has lost it. ‘WHERE IS IT? WHERE? GIVE IT TO ME!’

  ‘Umm.’ I swallow. ‘It just feels a bit … silly.’

  The teacher laughs. ‘Of course it does,’ he agrees. ‘And that’s exactly why we’re doing it.’

  I want a cup of coffee.

  For the next hour, I bellow, scream, whisper and plead to no avail. I just don’t sound like a real person. I’m too flat, too loud, too squeaky, too breathy, too deep, too high. The sentence speeds up, slows down, surges, lifts, breaks. The six words keep shifting and wriggling until they don’t mean anything at all.

  By lunchtime, I’m so frustrated I just want to rip the chair’s legs off. It’s my voice; why can’t I control it?

  ‘Right!’ The drama teacher – his name is Mr Hamilton – claps his hands. ‘Good! Take a break, everyone.’ He grins. ‘There’s a drinks machine at the end of the corridor.’

  I look up blearily. I’d actually forgotten there was anyone else in the room. I’m starting to understand why Mum was always so absent-minded during filming.

  Nervously, I turn to face my classmates. All eight immediately head towards the sofas and sit there: whispering, eating crisps, covertly staring at me and pretending not to. For actors-in-training, a lot of them are surprisingly bad at it.

  Awkwardly, I pull out my phone. Ping. Google alert.

  ‘Faith Valentine is my dream girl!’ says Dylan H—

  ‘Hey, newbie.’ Ivy waves at me, then gestures shhhh at the rest of the group. ‘Why don’t you come and sit with us?’ She elbows a guy in orange jeans. ‘Move over, dingbat.’

  ‘It’s Diego,’ he mumbles, pointing at his chest. ‘I am wearing a nametag.’ But he shuffles over so there’s a tiny space.

  Embarrassed, I put my phone back in my pocket, smile and take the half-seat, perching stiffly on the edge of the sofa like a Harrods mannequin.

  Silence.

  I mean, of course silence: I was clearly the topic of conversation before I sat down, and my awkwardness would have ruined it even if I wasn’t.

  ‘Uh,’ soft-spoken Mia starts. ‘How—’

  ‘Sooooooooo—’ Theo in glasses and a crumpled denim shirt leans towards me. ‘You are you-know-who, right? Zach thinks it can’t be you, but then Jem said it definitely was, and I’m, like, divided.’

  ‘She’s not quite h
ot enough,’ blond Zach explains. ‘I mean –’ he turns to me – ‘not being rude – you’re obviously hot and stuff – but your boobs are tiny.’

  I smile: not being rude—

  ‘Oh, mate, you are so deluded. You couldn’t score this girl in a million years, regardless of who she is.’ Curly-haired Jemima shakes her head. ‘And it is her. No question. Look.’

  There’s a short silence while she passes her phone round. Everyone looks at the screen.

  Then at me.

  Then at the screen again.

  Then at me.

  ‘Soooooo –’ Zoe suddenly scooches over so she can examine my face more closely – ‘seriously, what the heck are you doing in this am-dram class? It’s like watching Angelina Jolie play the dog in a school panto.’

  ‘WHO!’ Rafe – in brown vintage suede – suddenly explodes. ‘WHO IS SHE? I DO NOT RECOGNISE THIS GIRL.’

  ‘You don’t recognise Faith Valentine?’

  ‘WHO?’

  ‘Faith Valentine. Rafe, mate, if you wanna be an actor, you’re going to have to put down the New Yorker once in a while and pick up a tabloid. It’s straight-up weird you don’t recognise her. You don’t live at the bottom of the ocean.’

  They all turn to stare at me again with wide eyes. My entire face is on fire.

  ‘Ah.’ I swallow and pull off my beanie. ‘You can call me Effie.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Jemima jumps up and punches the air. ‘Yesssss. In your face, Zachary. You blew that one. She’s newly single and you have totally screwed up your shot.’

  ‘Darn.’ Zach scratches his head and frowns at my chest. ‘Sorry. Photoshop and Wonderbras and stuff. It’s very confusing.’

  ‘This is sooo cool,’ Zoe says, still examining my face. ‘I’ve been following the Valentines for years. How’s Mercy? How’s your mum? And how’s Max?’ She turns to the group with a sigh. ‘Her brother is an actual god. Picture her but taller and older and a boy.’

  ‘And an idiot,’ I add without thinking.

  They all laugh.

  ‘Is this research for some undercover role?’ Mia frowns. ‘Are you filming a movie about an acting class …’ She glances around and lowers her voice. ‘Are we being filmed right now?’