Far From Perfect

by Holly Smale

  With a burst of happiness, I lift my chin.

  ‘WHAT DID THE BUDDHIST SAY TO THE HOT-DOG VENDOR?’ I scream into the darkness, spinning in a circle. ‘MAKE ME ONE WITH EVERYTHING!’

  Above the lake, a flicker of lime-green twists across the sky.

  Ha.

  Knew that was a good one.

  Then – laughing – I turn and make my way back to solitude.

  How do you work out which direction the sun is coming up?

  It will dawn on you.

  ‘Faith?’ Berglind knocks on my door softly. ‘Are you dressed? It’s a long drive and the storm is coming.’

  Quickly, I tug on two pairs of leggings, a fleecy hoodie and Scarlett’s snow boots, zip the case up and grab my tote bag.

  By the time we’ve piled our luggage into the jeep, the sky above us has deepened to charcoal grey and thickened with clouds. We bounce down the gravel track, then start speeding along the straight black road.

  The empty landscape shifts with every mile, from flatness to mounds to hills to mountains. Volcanoes poke in jagged peaks into the gathering clouds, lined at the tips with dazzling snow. Neon-turquoise water runs next to us, streaming through lime-green grass, pooling into rivers and lakes, dripping down crags.

  As the car gathers speed, I watch the land rise and fall. Sharply, as if it’s breathing hard.

  Fields of once-molten lava have settled into expanses of flat blackness. To our right, a furious sea appears, smashing like a fist. The sky darkens further and bright water gathers in gullies until an enormous waterfall roars and pounds the rocks – so brutal it’s as if it wants to destroy everything in its way.

  Something lurches in my chest. This is beautiful but it’s not passive. It’s not pretty. It is bubbling and alive. Dangerous. Powerful. Iceland is a country that stares back.

  ‘I think maybe they see you.’ Berglind nods as if she can hear what I’m thinking. ‘The hudolfólk.’

  ‘The—’ I turn towards her. ‘Sorry, who?’

  ‘Hidden folk,’ she nods. ‘Elves. Imps. Fairies. They are super curious about strangers. Those rocks—’ She points at two enormous crags, connected briefly at the top. ‘They are trolls kissing, turned to stone by the sun.’ She lowers her voice with a secretive smile. ‘Trolls do not like us. They are very strong, but luckily not so smart.’

  I stare until the crags are behind us.

  ‘Do many people in Iceland believe in magic?’

  ‘Já.’ Berglind nods. ‘Most of us, I think. What else is there to believe in?’

  At any other time, in any other place, I might have assumed it was a joke I didn’t understand and would have attempted a polite laugh. But, if there’s magic anywhere, it’s here.

  The storm clouds build and Berglind – narrowing her eyes – speeds up even more.

  Drop by drop, rain starts to hit the window. Wind begins to howl.

  ‘Here we go,’ says Berglind calmly.

  And within seconds the sky cracks, shuddering as water descends in a sheet so thick that we can barely see the road. The car skids again, veering towards the grass as if it’s being pushed by an invisible hand. It’s so dark we have to switch the headlights on, even though it’s not yet midday. Lightning flashes across the sky; the air bellows.

  I glance at my driver.

  Sure, I’ve said I’m scared a lot. Scared to go onstage, to talk to strangers, to be filmed by a camera, to say the wrong thing to the right person and the right thing to the wrong person. But I’m starting to realise I was exaggerating because this is fear.

  I take a deep breath, hands gripped together.

  ‘We are …’ I exhale slowly. ‘Safe. Right?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Berglind says as the car swerves again. ‘People die all the time in Iceland. Storms are very, very dangerous.’

  OK, not totally the answer I was looking for.

  ‘Maybe we should … stop?’

  ‘Why?’ She glances at me in surprise. ‘I come from a village over there.’ A quick nod. ‘We live at the bottom of an active volcano. It was due to explode eighty years ago. We get ten minutes’ notice before it pops. Maybe fifteen.’

  My eyes widen. And I know it’s a dumb question, but: ‘What happens then?’

  ‘Fire.’ Berglind shrugs. ‘Lava. Ash. Village gone. Poof! Family is steam.’

  Oh.

  The sky cracks in half again; the car judders.

  My hands tighten. ‘So … what do you do?’

  ‘We live every moment knowing it could be the last we have.’ Then she laughs. ‘Or maybe we get a job in the film industry.’

  The storm ends as abruptly as it started. The shift changes the entire landscape, as the sky clears until it’s sapphire.

  And finally – just after midday – Berglind drives into a packed car park. My stomach knots. Dozens of people in big coats and hats are setting up huge film cameras on tripods, lights, reflectors, metal trolleys with complicated equipment piled on them, heaps of wires, a guinea-pig-shaped clump of grey fluff on the end of a long black stick.

  Never mind Meisner, Chekhov, Stanislavski, Hagen …

  Why did I never learn what any of this stuff is called?

  What do all these people do?

  ‘Faith!’ Christian Ellis emerges from the crowd, still dressed in trademark director black.

  ‘Hello, Mr Ellis.’ I smile and stick my hand out. ‘Thank you for having me back. I’m so grateful to—’

  ‘Bring it in.’ Without asking first, he wraps me in a massive hug. ‘Let’s get the awkward out of the way. Did you smash the first audition? No. Did you smash the second audition? Absolutely not. Had we given you multiple auditions would you have smashed any of them? Highly unlikely.’

  He pulls back with a wry smile.

  ‘But free headlines are free headlines so let’s call it even, yeah? Stoked you’re here.’ My director waves at the crew. ‘EVERYONE! Faith Valentine, our brand-new star! Not Scarlett Bell, as per the memo.’

  Everyone looks up, waves and carries on setting up.

  I feel my shoulders relax. Nobody’s expecting me to be Faith Valentine here – in fact, the point is that they need me to be someone else.

  ‘We’ve got enough light left.’ Christian waves a pretty brunette over. ‘Can we get Frankie into make-up sharpish?’

  I grab the script from my bag.

  Thanks to Scarlett’s rehearsals, I know most of my lines. In fact, I reckon I can handle almost anything thrown at me.

  ‘So,’ I say in my most confident voice, ‘which scene are we starting with?’ I flip through the wad of paper. ‘The speech at the waterfall, or the breakdown in the hut, or maybe the—’

  The director laughs.

  ‘Today, you’ll be jumping out of a moving car.’

  Yeah, that’s not in the script I’m holding. Pretty sure I’d have noticed.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘We’ve made a few tweaks,’ Christian explains as the make-up artist leads me to the largest trailer. ‘Taken out a bunch of words. Added in a whole lot of action. You’re the sporty Ice Queen – might as well make the most of it!’

  That’s a joke, right? He’s joking.

  I totally didn’t spend my last two days with Scarlett and the entire journey here learning my lines so that they could be scrapped at the last minute.

  Again?

  Stumped, I stare at my director.

  ‘Yes!’ He claps his hands. ‘That’s the exact expression I’m talking about! Cold, emotionless, steely. Love it! Now – go get bloodied up, my frosty popsicle.’

  Couldn’t they have just texted me?

  ‘Mmm,’ I breathe as my blood boils.

  Then, with narrowed eyes, I glide coolly into the trailer with my head up and my back set in a cold, straight line. This is a job I’ve chosen and I’m playing a role.

  They need me to be athletic and strong? Done.

  They want me to jump out of a moving vehicle? I’ll do it.

  They think
I’m a frigid, distant nightmare? That’s what I’ll give them.

  I am Faith Valentine, I’m an actress and I can be whoever they want.

  The make-up artist replaces both pairs of leggings with ripped, muddy jeans, my fleecy hoodie with another much grubbier hoodie and my trainers with an almost identical pair. She sprays my face with a weird glycerine mix to make it look sweaty. With a huge amount of skill, she attaches a prosthetic top to my ear and moulds it so I look like I’ve been heartily snacked on.

  Then she grins and gets a bottle of red liquid out. ‘This is the best bit,’ she confesses happily. ‘Close your eyes.’

  I obediently do as I’m told and she carefully drips and smears red all over my clothes, my neck, my face, my ear, my hairline. ‘OK. Done.’

  I blink in the mirror. I’m drenched in blood – sticky and coated in thick red goo. Bar that first party at Scarlett’s, I’ve never looked more like a hot dog in my entire life.

  ‘Cool.’ My nose twitches. ‘Thanks.’

  Then I take a deep breath, leave the trailer and walk calmly towards my director and his crew with an expression of pure steel. ‘Good afternoon.’ I nod, my voice flat. ‘Point me towards the vehicle you’d like me to leap from, please.’

  Christian stares at me for a few seconds. ‘You’re going to do it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’ll be going at seventy miles an hour.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re going to jump from a moving car at seventy miles an hour on to a tarmac road with no training whatsoever?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He blinks, then bursts into laughter. ‘Oh, I like you. Tough as nails, just like your grandmother. I was messing with you, Faith. Obviously, you’re far too expensive to kill on the first day. Meet your extremely talented stunt double, Dominique Weston.’

  Confused, I turn round. A girl is standing behind me: tall, brown-skinned, toned. Huge hazel eyes, a little nose, full lips. We’re wearing exactly the same outfit, her left ear is similarly noshed on and even the fake blood seems to be in precisely the same splash marks.

  She’s also completely bald.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, holding out a hand. ‘Westie. And don’t worry. I was financially compensated for the haircut. I’m kind of digging it, though. Do people keep trying to touch your head too?’

  I laugh, then remember I’m supposed to be humourless. ‘No.’

  ‘Huh. My skull has never been so popular.’

  I wait until Christian’s looking the other way, then grin at her, nod and mouth: Yes, all the time. She chuckles and fist-bumps me.

  ‘Westie’s done her cut already.’ The director walks me towards a long, cordoned-off section of road. A small white car is parked in the distance, and about a hundred metres away is a tight knot of crew and equipment. ‘We just need the close-up.’

  I nod, my inner swan-feet starting to thrash.

  Flip flip flip fli—

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As soon as the car reaches that marker –’ he points at a chalk line – ‘I want you to hit the ground, Faith. Don’t worry too much about an emotional reaction. Physically slamming the tarmac should be enough for us.’

  His expectations of my acting skills are literally zero.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Christian steps back. ‘EVERYONE QUIET ON SET! Final touches!’

  A wave of hushed activity starts: cameras turning on, lights shining, final set-ups, the fluffy guinea pig on a stick being held up. I have got to find out what that’s called.

  ‘Finals are done!’ somebody yells back.

  ‘Lock it up!’

  ‘Sound?’

  ‘Sound speed!’

  ‘Mark it!’

  ‘Marked.’

  ‘Camera ready?’

  ‘Camera rolling!’

  ‘Scene forty-two, take one.’

  ‘ACTION!’

  A clapperboard clacks and I take a deep breath.

  The car begins to rev in waves. The wheels screech. And – with an enormous roar – it accelerates down the road. It seems to take forever to reach me. But I can do this. I can do this.

  Just fall, Faith. Let go and fall.

  Fall fall fall fall fall fall fall fall—

  The car hits the mark and my legs give way. I slam to the ground. The force knocks the wind out of me and my head whacks the tarmac. I lie – stunned – for a few seconds as the ground spins in circles.

  I did it.

  ‘And CUT!’ Christian steps forward. ‘Again!’

  I hit the floor fifteen times.

  Over and over again, until the pain and shock become very real, and also possibly some of the blood.

  The last CUT is yelled. I stand up stiffly. It’s only when somebody wraps me in a large sheet of tinfoil and hands me a mug of tea that I realise I’m shaking.

  ‘OK?’ my director asks, walking over.

  I look him coolly in the eyes. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gotta confess, I’m impressed. Teddy will be furious.’ He smiles warmly. ‘Now I suggest you get as much rest as you can tonight, Faith. We’ve got a very early start and we need you in peak physical condition.’

  What’s it going to be? Bungee jumping, rock climbing, skydiving …

  ‘Right. Do I need to prepare anything?’

  ‘No.’ My director grins wolfishly. ‘Tomorrow, you run.’

  What kind of shoes are made from banana skins?

  Slippers.

  Running I can do.

  Just before dawn, I am driven to an isolated spot in the darkness. I’m given identical clothes to yesterday and briefed quickly on the story context. Then, surrounded by a reduced camera crew, I run. Sprinting through low grass, high grass, and up and down mountains; across thick mud and freezing streams; over hills and fences; round trees and horses and sheep and logs.

  I run for hours, and – as the sun comes up – I feel it.

  A familiar roar in my chest. The burn in my legs, the thump of my heart, the heat in my cheeks and the rhythmic whoosh of my lungs. As the sky lifts from black to silver, and my feet pound through the landscape, something starts to shift in me.

  Because I’m not a Valentine when I run. I’m not an ex-girlfriend or a big sister or a little sister; I’m not a daughter or a disgraced granddaughter; I’m not a heartbreaker or the heartbroken.

  But I’m not nobody, either. I’m me. And oh, I have missed this.

  ‘CUT!’ Christian cries as I hurtle out of a wood so fast it feels like my feet are on fire. ‘Blimey, Faith. I thought we’d have to do some heavy editing, but you’ve got this sprinting thing nailed, haven’t you?’

  I exhale and swipe at a scratch on my cheek.

  ‘Though you’ve barely broken a sweat,’ he sighs, gesturing at the make-up artist. ‘Somebody spray her with something shiny. And can you breathe harder, please? You’re supposed to be running from zombies, but it looks like they’re running from you.’

  A laugh escapes me. ‘Got it. Let’s go.’

  I keep running, and the landscape splits into black, white and blue. With a frown of concentration, I sprint over a car park, up a hill and across a ridgeway, one camera following at a distance, another waiting for me at the top.

  I reach the peak and exhale sharply. In front of me, a snow-topped black volcano sits quietly behind a glacier lake. In the flat turquoise water are hundreds of giant electric-blue icebergs: opaque, like broken pieces of frosted sea glass. Grey seals laze on top of them – lolling around like sunbathing holidaymakers – and on the grey sand by the water’s edge lie hailstones the size of golf balls, footballs, beach balls.

  It’s so beautiful – and so cold – my tears well up and immediately freeze – little razors of ice prickling my lashes.

  I blink and the cameraman gets really close. I bet he thinks I’m acting, but I actually just forgot he was even there.

  ‘CUT!’ Christian yells, th
en waits until I’m back at the bottom of the hill. ‘Awesome! Hop in the car and take a quick break. You’ve got one more run to do today.’

  Wordlessly, I climb in and fall back against the seat.

  My feet are numb, my clothes are soaking and my face is thumping. And I am absolutely freaking starving. I’m trying to work out how Scarlett would have handled today. Double pepperoni and extra cheese, I reckon.

  ‘Here.’ A tuna baguette is lobbed at me and Christian climbs in the back. ‘You must be hungry.’

  I shove half of it in my mouth before nodding thanks.

  ‘Good work today,’ he says as the car trundles on to the main road. ‘Tomorrow’s less physical and we’ve tweaked the script again to fit you a little better, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

  With my mouth full, I manage a garbled: ‘Shankkkz.’

  ‘I’m emailing it to you now so we can run through some of the changes after this shoot, then you can practise more at the hotel.’

  I uneasily gulp down the baguette.

  ‘Umm. Is there a … paper version I can use? I … prefer … the look … and … feel … of a real … script.’

  ‘Sure, Faith. I’ll go and get that seal over there to print it out for me.’

  What?

  ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere,’ Christian clarifies with vague amusement. ‘It’ll be easier to read onscreen anyway.’

  With infinite slowness, I retrieve my phone from my bag.

  With the exception of that thirty seconds at the airport, my mobile has been turned off for nearly a week. I was hoping I’d be able to extend the silence a bit longer, but it appears that my self-inflicted exile is over.

  Wincing with my whole body, I switch it on.

  Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping—

  ‘Blimey,’ Christian says. ‘Is that a phone or a bike just before it hits you?’

  I stare at all my missed calls.

  Noah. Hope. Hope. Hope. Max. Grandma. Genevieve. Dad. Dad. Hope. WEIRDO: DO NOT ANSWER. WEIRDO: DO NOT ANSWER. Max. Grandma. Dad. WEIRDO: DO NOT ANSWER. Noah. Genevieve. Grandma. Max. Hope. WEIRDO: DO NOT ANSWER. Persephone.

  Then at the messages:

  Where did you gooooo? Please come home! Don’t leave us! Xxxxxx