Far From Perfect

by Holly Smale

  ‘Ow!’ my brother yelps, sitting on top of me. ‘Eff, did you just bite me? This is new – I’m both impressed and possibly infected.’

  ‘Get off me.’ I punch him. ‘What are you doing?!’

  ‘This is an inter-action,’ Hope explains solemnly, perching at my feet with huge eyes. ‘We are inter-actioning you, Faith Valentine.’

  ‘An intervention,’ Max corrects, standing up.

  ‘That too.’ My little sister nods in agreement. ‘What happens is that we vent in you, Eff, and then you can vent in us.’ She frowns. ‘Although shouldn’t it be vent at? At-a-vention. Somebody needs to sort that out.’

  I stare at my brother and sister in amazement and then at Mercy standing silently by the fire, fiddling with a candlestick.

  I snort in frustration. They’re doing this now?

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t need an in—’

  ‘You do.’ Mercy turns to stare at my dirty feet. ‘Where are your shoes? Where is your hair? Faith, this isn’t you. Smashing mirrors? Twitter fights? Ranting at the media on our front doorstep? Punching, yelling, biting? None of this is you.’

  ‘We know you’re heartbroken,’ Po says gently, patting my knees. ‘I can’t even imagine what it’s like losing Noah, your soulmate, the person you trusted over everyone—’

  I open my mouth and Mercy exhales loudly.

  ‘Stop it!’ Hope wheels round on her, furious. ‘Stop it, Mer! Just because your heart is all shrivelled and empty and black doesn’t mean that others can’t be hurt!’

  Our sister winces and looks abruptly at the floor.

  ‘This is not about—’ I start.

  ‘She’s right,’ Max says, frowning. ‘You haven’t been yourself since that kiss, Eff. We miss you. We just want the sweet Faith we know and love back again.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘We are here for you, Eff.’ Po grabs my hand. ‘Whatever will make you happy again we will do it. Just tell us how to fix you.’

  She squeezes my fingers and they all stare at me.

  Silence.

  ‘Can I speak now?’ I say, standing up. My siblings open their mouths. ‘Oh. Nope. Looks like you’re not quite done yet. Please, do continue. Would somebody like to sit on me again or are you happy to do that verbally?’

  They shut their mouths.

  My heart is starting to beat very fast. My breath catches, as if I’ve been running a really long way, for a really long time. Maybe I have.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ I snap. ‘I am so done with being the person you need me to be. Sometimes it feels like I exist just to balance you all out. Like you took the decent roles, and I’m just a blank secondary character for you all to bounce off.’

  Their eyes get a little rounder.

  ‘Do you think I want to be the Pretty One? The Good One? The Nice One? Do you know how boring that is? How it makes me feel like I can’t breathe?’

  My brother opens his mouth. ‘No, Max. I’ve listened to you, now you listen to me. You get to do whatever you like, go wherever you like, be whoever you like. You’re the eldest, but you don’t want the prestigious Valentine acting mantle. Too much hard work? Fine. Don’t worry about that – reliable old Faith will pick it up.’

  Max goes uncharacteristically pink and I turn to Hope.

  ‘Sweetheart.’ My stomach clenches with guilt. ‘I’m sorry, but I am so far from perfect. Everything I do is not right. Everything I think is not good. I make mistakes like every normal, screwed-up teenager. But I can’t move for fear of letting you down.’

  Po blinks a few times, then sits in the armchair I just vacated.

  ‘Gosh,’ she says in a small voice.

  I turn to Mercy.

  ‘And, Mer.’ The blood has drained from her face, but I can’t stop, I won’t stop. ‘You’re allowed to be you because I have to be me. You get to be sharp and mean because I am kind and sweet. You get to be the Black Swan because I am the White Swan.’

  My throat tightens.

  ‘But I didn’t choose this part and I never wanted it. I don’t want to keep spinning in circles in the spotlight, trying as hard as I can not to fall over with the whole world watching.’

  My heart is racing, my voice wobbling.

  ‘So maybe I’m not myself right now. Maybe I’m not the Faith Valentine you know and love. Maybe I wanted to see who I could be if I wasn’t.’

  ‘Faith—’

  ‘Please! I need you all to give me some space.’

  Cheeks hot, I run upstairs and take my passport out of the safe in the landing and shove it in my handbag. Then I head to the back door.

  It swings open before I reach it.

  ‘Effie!’

  ‘Noah?’

  ‘Eff, I’m so glad you’re here! The media are going crazy out front and I’ve rung like a million times, but you won’t talk to me so I figured I’d have to—’

  ‘No,’ I say, walking straight past him.

  ‘Umm.’ Noah follows me. ‘No … what? I know I should’ve been to see you before now, but I am on tour, Eff, and I did text you a lot. It’s not like you haven’t been busy – I’ve seen the papers – trying to make me jealous with that Dylan guy and—’

  ‘No.’ I keep walking.

  ‘I don’t understand. What are you saying?’

  Noah speeds up until he’s standing in front of me – blocking my path – and in a rush of sadness I can suddenly see the entire year we’ve spent together.

  All the times I went where he told me to go, wore what he told me to wear, became whomever he told me to be. All the times I nodded and smiled and dimpled on cue.

  All the times he didn’t listen to how I was doing, or even ask. All the times I tried to tell or show him what I needed and he ignored me, all the times we both put what he wanted above what I did.

  All the times I said yes or OK or fine when I meant—

  ‘No.’

  ‘But—’ Noah races after me again. ‘I love you, Eff, you’re—’

  ‘You don’t love me,’ I say simply. ‘I’m sorry, but you love Faith Valentine, and that’s not the same thing.’

  My boyfriend of a year frowns in confusion. Even now, he can’t see the difference.

  ‘But …’ He pulls desperately at my sleeve. ‘Is this still about that stupid kiss, Eff? Because I am telling you, for the millionth time, it didn’t mean anything. Just forgive me, and I know we can go back to exactly how we were.’

  I stare at him. He. Does. Not. Get. It.

  I don’t want a mouldy sandwich love. I don’t want a relationship where it feels like I’m disappearing and that’s OK. I want to be with someone who lets me say no, and Noah is not that person. Because he was happy when I didn’t.

  I shake him off.

  ‘No,’ I say for the final time, climbing through the bushes. It’s not about the kiss – it never actually was. ‘I’m sorry, Noah. But this is very much over.’

  My agent picks up immediately.

  Through the hole in the fence at the bottom of the garden – the secret hole Valentines have been escaping out of for nearly a century – I can see the roof of my home, partially visible over the trees.

  It’s my life and I get to make the rules.

  ‘Hi, Persephone,’ I say. ‘Did you mean it when you said I could pick any role I wanted?’

  The next move is my choice.

  And I know exactly who I want to be.

  LEAP OF FAITH

  Following weeks of speculation, Faith Valentine is officially reconfirmed as the lead in Fright Fortnight. The British Ice Queen, who had previously withdrawn from filming for personal reasons (see Chart of Shame), publicly admitted that she had ‘made mistakes’.

  ‘We are delighted to have Faith Valentine back,’ a spokesperson announced. ‘She was always our first choice.’

  Scarlett Bell – the unknown actress who has been axed from the show – is said to be ‘in total shock’ at this last-minute switch.

  Finall
y, the newspapers nail it.

  Scarlett is indeed in shock for forty-eight hours straight, from the second I turn up at her flat.

  ‘I just— I can’t—’ Letty keeps wandering around in bewildered circles, like a gerbil with a head injury. ‘I didn’t mean for you to— It doesn’t— I cannot believe that you—’

  I laugh and eat another piece of cold lasagne.

  It’s been two days since I walked out on the Valentines. There are no queen-size beds, no pure silk duvet covers, no dawn birds singing sweetly, no yoga sessions, no marble en-suites here. The threadbare sofa bed is scratchy and at one point I roll over and the whole thing folds in half with me inside it, like a burrito. The towel I’m using smells of unwashed socks; the pillow has lumps in it and I don’t know what they are.

  At 3am, Scarlett’s upstairs neighbours start screaming.

  At 5am and 6:10am, a baby joins in.

  But – even in the chaos – it still feels like I made the right decision.

  ‘Scarlett,’ I laugh, stuffing more lasagne in my mouth. ‘Stop with the pacing. A wise girl knows her limits; a smart girl knows that she has none.’

  My friend narrows her bright green eyes.

  ‘Imperfection is beauty,’ I nod with my mouth crammed full. ‘Madness is genius, and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.’

  She puts her hands on her hips.

  ‘We are all of us stars.’ I throw my arms out at her, wiggling my eyebrows. ‘And we deserve to twinkl—’

  A cushion is thrown at my head.

  ‘Stop Marilyn Monroe-ing me,’ Scarlett laughs, brandishing a takeaway box. ‘I’m grateful, Eff, but not that grateful. Who wouldn’t want to move to a frozen lava field in Iceland for six months?’

  A hand claps over her mouth and she goes back to pacing.

  ‘Oh my days.’ Scarlett pauses. ‘You’re moving to a lava field in Iceland for half a year because of me, Eff.’ Another circle. ‘I’ll be partying in the US and you’ll be … I cannot believe that I— You—’ She suddenly disappears from the living room and returns laden with clothes.

  ‘Scarlett,’ I smile. ‘You don’t need to—’

  ‘I know,’ she declares, thrusting the heap at me. ‘Warm coat. Snow boots. Thermal vests. Jumpers. Gloves. Scarves. Sunglasses. Take it. Please. It’s going to be cold out there. It’s going to be lonely. It’s going to be empty and dark and bleak and icy and—’

  With a mew of distress, Scarlett jumps on the bed and wraps her freckled arms round me tightly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

  ‘Look, you may not know this,’ I say, patting the top of her bleach-blonde head, ‘but I am very, very rich and very, very famous. I don’t need you to give me free clothes. Especially not from …’ I look at a label. ‘Primark.’

  ‘Sale,’ she adds earnestly. ‘Take the suitcase too.’

  ‘And,’ I laugh, ‘this is what I want. I’ve thought about it carefully and I think you underestimate just how much I’m looking forward to getting out of England. Moving my circle away for a bit. Cold, icy, empty, bleak? I’m the Ice Queen, Letty. My favourite colour is grey. Iceland has got me written all over it.’

  Scarlett grins widely.

  ‘You know, that’s kind of true. It’s your spirit home, you beautiful, inhospitable goddess.’ Then she drags a huge wad of papers out from under the sofa and lobs it at me. ‘Here. This is yours too.’

  My stomach twists abruptly: the script.

  It’s the only thing I’ve been trying not to think about. I’m happy to leave my home, fly to another country, get set up in the middle of nowhere. But, when I get out there, I’ll still have to … you know.

  Act.

  ‘Cool!’ I smile and nod. ‘This looks fun!’

  ‘OK, the fake happy expression is wasted on me,’ Scarlett sighs. ‘Pour some of this talent into the job you just nicked off me, please.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I laugh. ‘Nicked?’

  ‘Generously borrowed – please don’t give it back.’ Scarlett snorts and opens the chunky script. ‘We’ve got two days before you leave for the airport, so we’d better start now.’

  We study for the next forty-eight hours.

  Together, we camp out on the sofa with a series of pizzas and give it everything we’ve got. Scarlett goes through my scenes with a highlighter, drilling the lines until I know them, until I understand them, until I remember what each reaction should be. She writes notes in the margins: don’t cry here; internalise the pain; flicker of alarm; how does she show fear?

  And, slowly, my new character starts to slot together, until Frankie starts to feel … almost real. Honestly, my friend teaches me more about acting in two days than my grandmother did in a full year.

  A sharp twist of guilt. Grandma.

  I turned my phone off straight after leaving home, and I haven’t turned it back on again since. I used Scarlett’s to call Persephone again and make my travel arrangements. But my grandmother’s face at the auction is still imprinted on my brain – ghostly white and full of disappointment.

  And Mum?

  I can’t even think about Mum right now. It’s time my siblings did their share. I-I just … can’t.

  ‘Right,’ Scarlett says, dragging my bulging Primark suitcase into the lift. The studio car is patiently waiting outside. ‘This is it, I guess. Next time I see you, you’ll be standing in Reykjavik airport, asking why I’m video-calling because you only left a few hours ago and I need to get a life.’

  I laugh and step into the elevator. Tomorrow, Scarlett flies to America and all I can feel is a blur of bittersweet happiness and gratitude. She somehow saw the real me without needing to crack me in two first. She gave me the chance to open up slowly, because I wanted to, and it has changed … everything.

  In a wave of love, I jump out and hug Scarlett tightly.

  ‘Whoa,’ she smiles, raising her arm as the lift doors try to shut on us. ‘What is this out-of-character display of warmth? Careful, Eff, or your icy reputation will be in tatters.’

  I laugh and wipe my eyes. ‘Have fun in America.’

  ‘Have fun in Iceland.’

  ‘Hey.’ I step back and blink. ‘I thought you said the lift was broken?’

  Scarlett flashes her sharp, wide grin as the doors begin shutting between us.

  ‘Jokes, Valentine. It’s all jokes.’

  WELCOME BACK TO A VERY SPECIAL PRONOUNCEMENT FROM THE T-ZONE.

  After careful consideration, this blog is closing down.

  Thanks for all the followship – see you at break outside the chemistry block, Kevin.

  Love and dragons. Tim x

  PS What actually IS a T-zone, does anyone know?

  Silence.

  I step into the cold.

  It’s night-time in Iceland when I arrive, and the crisp air is clean and somehow bright-smelling, even without daylight. The few remaining passengers mill quietly through Reykjavik airport, passing through the glass doors and into the car park. No journalists, no cameras, no questions. Tentatively, I take my sunglasses off.

  The sky seems somehow further away, faintly tinged with orange light from the city. With a small sigh, I close my eyes and tilt my head back. Deliciously fresh air rushes up my nose and down the back of my throat, so icy and clear it feels like water.

  Blinking, I inhale again.

  And again.

  Again.

  ‘Miss Valentine?’

  A blonde woman in a puffy green parka stands in front of me, her fur-lined hood pulled round turquoise eyes. She wears an official production lanyard and holds a large laminated sign saying Scarlett Bell – Fright Fortnight.

  I smile and take another long, deep breath. Where has all this air been hiding?

  ‘I’m Berglind.’ Her voice is soft, accented. ‘I’ll be helping you to be settling into Iceland. But you are coming with me now.’

  Without another word, she takes my suitcase and starts rolling it towards a black
jeep.

  For a second, I don’t want to move. I just want to stand here, breathing, feeling the emptiness and the stillness and the cold rushing in and out of me.

  Biting my lip, I pull my phone out of my pocket, turn it on and wait for the messages, the emails, the missed phone calls, the notifications, the headlines, the ping ping ping ping ping.

  NO SERVICE

  With a smile, I take another long, frozen breath. And I turn my phone back off again.

  We drive for hours.

  Away from the lights of Reykjavik into an expanse of darkness: just two yellow headlights shining on a long black road. Berglind doesn’t say anything so I stare out of the window, trying to work out where we’re going. With every minute, the night gets darker, the countryside emptier, the road lonelier. Finally, we pull on to a gravel track.

  The jeep crunches and bounces through nothing up to two tiny wooden cabins – square, painted black, barely visible.

  ‘We stay here one night,’ Berglind announces.

  She gives me a key and a flashlight, points to the furthest hut, waves goodnight and that’s that: assistance over. Swallowing – this country doesn’t have its own genre of horror movie for nothing – I make my way through the pitch-black, open the wooden door and turn the light on.

  Plywood nailed to the walls, an exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling, one grey chair, one white cup, one single bed, one pillow. One wall is a sliding glass door and through that I see a lake. Silver water edged with stick-like trees outlined in the moonlight.

  I drop my suitcase. I have traded all the gold and velvet and marble and silk of the Valentines for a single bulb hanging in front of a pale grey lake.

  Opening the glass door, I walk towards the water.

  I can’t see or hear a living thing. Even the shrubbery seems bony and dead. The solitude is a rattling, wind-blown emptiness.

  I reach the lake and look up at the sky. It’s so black it’s almost blue. It pulls away, stretching back from the ground like a lid being lifted. A mass of white stars are sprayed across it, the wind is fresh, the silence aches and I feel …

  Clean. Calm. Free.

  And slowly I begin to experience it again – that loosening, untethering.