by Holly Smale
FAITH VALENTINE
ROBS THE HOOD
‘Oh God.’ My hand goes over my mouth. ‘I’m a thief?’
‘Absolutely.’ Scarlett scrolls down. ‘The most famous fox in the world. Read it.’
Frowning, I study the article.
This evening, Faith Valentine – granddaughter of esteemed thespian Dame Sylvia Valentine – handed £2.8 million worth of donations over to staff at a celebrity auction at the Dorchester. ‘I went in with £32 in my bank account,’ said 61-year-old waiter Tim McConnell. ‘I came out with a yacht. I’m not sure what else to say.’
After a standing ovation from the audience, Faith’s political stance is being widely supported by prominent members of the film industry. ‘It’s about time,’ an A-list actor tweeted. ‘Spread the wealth. Faith is an inspiration. Rename it Actors’ Redistribution and Support Society and I’ll donate right now.’
The up-and-coming actress, who also gave away a Tiffany diamond pendant, a priceless painting, a luxury holiday and a Porsche 911, disappeared immediately after the event. Her grandmother, also in attendance, was similarly unavailable for comment.
An official spokesman for RSS said: ‘THE “A” IS SILENT.’
‘Maybe you should have meltdowns more frequently, Valentine.’ Scarlett grins and squeezes my hand. ‘Maybe we all should.’
I grin and squeeze back, eyes suddenly stinging as I catch an unexpected expression on her face.
My phone starts ringing.
‘Scarlett?’ I cancel the call without looking and frown. There’s an unfamiliar sadness in her eyes, a tightness in her jawline, a wobble in her top lip. ‘Tell me, right from the start. Before the blood poisoning sets in.’
She laughs and blows out slowly. ‘Well … I’ve been invited to play Éponine in the touring US version of Les Mis.’
My breath disappears.
‘No.’ I’m on my feet. ‘No, Letty. No way! That’s … EVEN I KNOW THAT PART AND I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT MUSICALS! YOU DID IT!’
Who knew I could even squeal like this?
‘We’ve got a place in New York!’ I jump up as my phone starts ringing again. Cancel. ‘You can stay there! And I can visit, and we can go and see Broadway shows, and you’ll tour Boston and Colorado and Chicago, which has the best deep-pan pizza, and – and—’
She bursts into noisy tears.
‘Oh, Scarlett!’ I sit back down next to her, alarmed. ‘Don’t be nervous! America is super cool and you’re going to be brilliant! You are made for this role!’
‘I knowww I am!’ she howls into the air. ‘I’ve been singing “On My Own” into a shampoo bottle and swiping dirt on my face since I was three years old. It’s my part. Mine.’
‘So why—’
‘Because I can’t take it!’ She hiccups and wipes her eyes. ‘I start filming Fright Fortnight in Iceland next week, and I’m contracted for six months. They’d sue me.’
My phone rings for the third time. I cancel it again.
‘But can’t you—’ My brain spins. ‘There must be a way you can—’
‘No. I can’t. The network took a huge risk giving such a prominent part to an unknown. I can’t screw them over last minute. You know that, Eff.’
We both stare numbly into space.
I desperately want to comfort her in some way, but she’s right – pulling out now would be career suicide.
My phone starts ringing yet again.
Noah
I watch my boyfriend’s handsome face flash for a few seconds. Looks like he’s read the papers too.
‘Sooooo.’ Scarlett wipes her face and smiles faintly. ‘You gonna answer that or do I have to sit on the poor fellow again?’
I chew on my top lip guiltily.
‘I’m going to answer. Maybe. I don’t know. I asked for time, but …’ My breathing is starting to quicken, flatten, tighten. ‘I need to make a decision. I know that. He’s waited long enough. I just don’t … I’m not … I …’
Where the hell are my running shoes when I need them?
The call runs out and the blue light flashes. My friend gently takes my phone from my hands, puts it on the floor and stands up.
‘Before you decide, there’s something I want to show you.’
Why don’t skeletons fight each other?
They don’t have any guts.
Umm, now it’s time to start cleaning?
I watch in amazement as Scarlett begins to tidy her apartment: pushing the sofa bed to the wall, grabbing both sides of the coffee table and sliding it over. She rolls up the rug and props it against the door, moves a few cushions and shuffles a big yucca plant into a corner.
With a growing sense of confusion, I watch her clear a large space in the living room. I thought Scarlett enjoyed mess? Is she … going to make me wrestle her?
Once the room is almost empty, she begins to walk round her chaotic flat, picking up small objects: the remote control for the television, one gold Prada shoe, the wig, a cup of cold tea, a half-melted candle, a framed photograph, Stanislavski’s acting book, a small cactus, a yellow plastic toy robot.
She places each on the floor, one by one.
‘OK.’ Slightly out of breath, she puts a saucepan down and brushes her fringe back. ‘In the middle, please, Valentine.’
I stare at her, then at the shape she’s made on the floor.
OK, Scarlett Bell is probably my best friend and I think the world of her, etc. etc., but this is the kind of stuff Satan-worshipping cults do just before they sacrifice you.
‘There?’ I check, standing up dubiously.
‘It’s a circle, Eff.’ She laughs. ‘Geometrically, there’s only one middle. Stay there for the purposes of this exercise, please.’
Obediently, I enter the circle and sit down.
‘Do I have to block the whole world out now?’ I glance worriedly at the acting book. ‘Because I have to tell you that my grandmother has already tried to teach me that technique multiple times and I’m really not very—’
‘Oh, screw Stanislavski. Stay seated.’
Scarlett disappears into the kitchen and returns with a multipack of Mars bars, some ginger biscuits, crisps and a large bucket of jelly beans. Then she climbs up on top of a chair and starts eating them all noisily.
My stomach grumbles; a couple of really public meltdowns, no vol-au-vents and a long, barefooted hike across London can really sharpen the appetite.
‘Letty, can I please have—’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Be quiet, please.’
Ah, I get it. She’s going to deprive me of sugar until I’ll say just about anything.
‘So how long do I— OW.’
A lime jelly bean just smacked me in the face.
‘Oops,’ Scarlett says, shoving a biscuit into her mouth. ‘Didn’t mean to do that. My bad.’
With another very deliberate flick of her wrist, an orange jelly bean flies at my head and bounces off.
‘Hey!’ I stare at her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
This time a mini Mars bar gets lobbed hard, whacking me on the nose.
‘Scarlett!’ I jump up. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on or what kind of game we’re playing, but I—’
Now a ginger biscuit frisbees into my stomach.
‘Oh my God –’ a few crisps – ‘will you please stop throwing things at me? I know you like lobbing food at people, but—’
‘What’s the problem?’ Scarlett frowns and chucks another jelly bean. ‘You joined in last time.’
‘Yes, but—’
Making direct eye contact with me, she kicks the yucca pot plant over. Then she stamps on the plastic robot, boots the cup of tea so it splashes everywhere and flings the remote control at the wall. Savagely kicking out at everything. Grinning, she steps over the toppled houseplant.
With a terrifying, Joker-like expression, she begins to walk slowly towards me. My heart is thumping. My throat is tightening. Everything’s feeling itchy and hot. Whatever k
ind of dumb bonding game this is, I do not like it.
‘Letty—’
My friend prods me with a finger. ‘Hmm?’
‘Please stop prodding me.’
‘I’m not prodding you,’ she says, prodding me again.
‘You are and I’m asking you to stop, please.’
‘Well, newsflash.’ Prod. ‘This is my living room.’ Prod. ‘It’s my finger.’ Prod. ‘And if I feel like prodding it in your face—’ Prod. ‘Then that’s what I’m gonna do.’
There’s a lump in my throat and I feel like I’m about to start crying. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry—
Instead, I instinctively turn to run.
‘Legging it again, are ya?’ Scarlett grabs my wrist and pulls me back into the centre of her circle, holding me firmly. ‘Well, I’m not going to let you. So whatcha gonna do about it, Valentine?’
It isn’t a warm whoosh this time. It’s a cold knife.
Anger rushes through me so sharply and so cleanly that I could hold it out and slice the room in half. With a set jaw, I shake Scarlett off.
Moving away, I crouch down and start furiously snatching up all the kicked or thrown items: the teacup, the pot plant, the remote control, the broken toy robot, the wig, the candle, the gold shoe. I grab a few more things for good measure: cushions, a laptop, a handbag.
Then, shiny with rage, I move to the spare part of the room and start placing them on the floor around me.
Scarlett takes one big step towards it.
‘NO!’ I yell, jumping up.
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I SAID NO!’ I hold my hands out like a ninja, trembling with icy, clear fury. ‘I do not like having things kicked or thrown at me. I do not like being told to shut up. I do not like being prodded. I do not like being pulled at or grabbed. I asked you to stop, but you didn’t. So STAY OUT OF MY CIRCLE!’
Breathing hard, I pick a red jelly bean off the floor next to me and lob it into my mouth.
‘MMMMMMMM!’ I add, chewing defiantly. ‘DELICIOUS.’
There’s carpet fluff attached to it – I swallow anyway.
We stare at each other.
Come on, then. I lift my chin and set my jaw. Come on. Fight me. FIGHT ME, SCARLETT. DISRESPECT ME JUST ONE MORE TIME AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS.
With a satisfied laugh, she begins to clap slowly.
‘Exactly.’ She walks over until she’s standing at the edge of my neat little ring. Her face is soft again, the Joker expression gone. ‘It’s not about pretending there’s nothing outside the circle, Eff. It’s about making your own circle and then deciding what you let in.’
Scarlett bends down and picks up the crushed toy robot.
‘You’re allowed to ask for what you want. You’re allowed to say stop and no. It’s called having boundaries. You keep going “crazy” because you don’t have any, so everyone just pushes and pulls at you until you either explode or run.’
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
‘It’s your life, Faith.’ Scarlett gently pushes the little robot into my hand. ‘Which means you get to make the rules.’
In my pocket, my phone has started ringing loudly again and I reach for it on autopilot. My head feels like it’s about to explode.
‘Faith?’ Persephone is clipped. ‘Where are you?’
‘At a friend’s house,’ I whisper.
‘The location, please. We’re sending a car. You need to get home right now.’
You’re allowed to ask for what you want.
‘… could have done a lot of damage. Faith, you must check with me before you—’
You’re allowed to say stop and no.
‘… had a huge impact on peers and public. Everyone is rallying behind—’
It’s called having boundaries.
‘… given your brand an unexpected edge. You’re no longer the generic beautiful girl—’
You keep going ‘crazy’ because you don’t have any.
‘… in PR terms you’ve pulled a one-eighty—’
So everyone just pushes and pulls at you.
‘… offers flooding in – pick any role you want—’
Until you either explode or run.
‘… the world is your oyster—’
‘Do you know where that saying comes from?’ I interrupt.
Then I put Persephone on speakerphone and prop my mobile on my knees. I stare blankly out of the taxi window into the darkness. ‘It’s from Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor. I watched it six times when Mum played Falstaff in an all-female production.’
It’s the first thing I’ve said this whole journey.
‘Well, yes!’ Persephone sounds waaaay more enthusiastic than she normally does. ‘And it’s true! It’s—’
‘Do you know what it means?’ The taxi turns a corner. ‘It means you have to struggle to prise life open with a knife and even then there’s only a tiny chance of finding a pearl.’
‘How interesting—’
‘But we stick The World Is Your Oyster on everything as if it means that we can have anything we want, whenever we want it. And it’s not true.’
‘That’s very—’
The taxi pulls up outside the gates of the Valentine mansion.
‘Sorry, but I’ve got to go,’ I say, ending the call.
There are more paparazzi here than I have ever seen before in my life. Dozens and dozens huddled together in the dark. As soon as they spot the taxi, they start yelling, waving their arms, taking photos.
Flash flash flash flash.
I swallow, hard.
‘Miss Valentine?’ The taxi driver glances at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Do you want me to take you somewhere else?’ Flash flash flash. ‘Literally anywhere else?’
‘It’s OK, thank you.’ With shaking hands, I smooth down my dress. ‘I’ve got this.’
I reach out of the window – flash – and type in the security code on the gate pad, and, with a click, the gates swing open.
The paps swarm through and the taxi crawls up the driveway with them all running next to us. They’re shouting, banging on the car doors, racing towards the elaborate front steps of my home.
We stop and I take a slow, deep breath. Then I open the taxi door and climb out, holding the little plastic robot tightly in one clenched fist.
You get to make the rules.
‘FAITH! FAITH! RSS IS THREATENING TO TAKE LEGAL ACTION – DO YOU HAVE A RESPONSE?’
‘HAVE YOU SPOKEN TO DAME SYLVIA?’
‘WAS THIS A POLITICAL MOVE? HOW LONG DID YOU PLAN IT?’
‘DID DYLAN HARRIS HELP YOU?’
Slowly, I walk barefoot through the paparazzi in my floaty, filthy evening gown until I’m standing on the top step. Then I turn to face them.
‘OR,’ someone yells helpfully, ‘ARE YOU HAVING A FULL MENTAL BREAKDOWN, JUST LIKE YOUR MUM?’
There’s silence while I search for my own words. Because this time there’s no script and no pre-approved answers. This time I won’t be hushed or talked over, I won’t be spoken for and I won’t keep my mouth shut any more.
My voice is mine. It’s up to me to use it.
‘Hello,’ I say clearly. ‘I am Faith Valentine.’ Flash flash flash flash. ‘I’m introducing myself because we’ve never met before. Yet here you are, in front of my home.’
I look across the mass of unknown faces.
‘Everyone here has probably had their heart broken,’ I say slowly. ‘We’ve all cried, and laughed, and been scared or unhappy. We’ve all said the wrong things, worn the wrong things, dated the wrong people.’
My eyes travel over the crowd.
They land briefly on the T-zone blogger from Richmond Park, standing towards the back with his phone in the air. He gives me an excited wave and I smile slightly.
‘But how many of you have your most painful, treasured or humiliating moments turned into entertainment for strangers?’
Silence.
I draw myself up as tall as I can. ‘Every day, for nearly a year, I have been chased, judged, criticised, questioned and exposed. You have commented on my body and graded my face. You have mocked my personality and my love life. You have called me names and taken photos of me without my permission. You have put me on a pedestal and knocked me off it again.’
A few older journalists shuffle uncomfortably and I see the blogger from the park stuff his phone into his pocket.
‘I am sixteen, and you’re treating me like a doll you can squabble over until you break me. At which point, you’ll throw me away and move on to another girl who’s shiny and new.’
I think of my mother lying in her darkened bedroom. No longer shiny. No longer new.
‘But—’ A journalist holds his Dictaphone up. ‘Faith, surely with the fame you’ve been born into, with the privilege, comes—’
‘Payment?’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘For a life I didn’t choose or ask for? You are deciding who I am before I’ve even decided myself.’
I know I’m incredibly lucky to be born into an extraordinary life of opportunities and fortune. But the world is not my oyster.
And right now it’s me that’s being prised open; me having the pearl ripped out and sold without my permission, over and over again. Look what we found! Do we like it? How much can we get for it? Was it worth it? Should we keep searching for a new one? Everybody, look!
Maybe the oyster wanted to stay shut. Maybe it just wanted to keep its secret treasure to itself and for everybody to leave it the hell alone.
‘None of this is real.’ I gesture at myself. ‘Not my social-media posts. Not my quotes. Not my interviews. Not the clothes I wear or the people I date or the places I go. You have no idea who Faith Valentine is.’
The door behind me opens and a large hand appears.
Quick, quick, quick—
‘So I’m asking you, please, to—’
In one swift motion, I’m pulled into the house.
—STOP.
‘Right,’ Max says, carrying me into the living room and dropping me into an armchair. ‘Enough of that, Little Miss Scrappy McScrappison. Don’t make me get the imaginary dogs.’
Livid, I kick and then bite him.