Meanwhile Jack's rehearsal schedule was absolutely frenetic. She hardly got to speak to him at all – just first thing in the morning and last thing at night and by then he sounded knackered and they barely got to speak. Valentine missed him, and missed his optimism. They talked about Piers and how Valentine might have to prepare herself for him never getting in touch – it had been over two months since she'd written to him. Valentine was starting to wish that her mum had never told her, as now she didn't have the distraction of work or of Jack, Piers's silence cast a shadow over her days. Her own father was not interested in knowing her. It wasn't the greatest boast to her self-esteem.
She also couldn't help feeling jealous of Tamara spending all that time with Jack and much as she tried to hold on to the thought that Jack had told her that she could trust him, it was hard. She had trusted Finn and look at what had happened there. She wanted Jack to bitch about Tamara and tell Valentine what an atrocious actress she was, anything to make Valentine feel better. Instead he told her that he felt sorry for her as she was so clearly out of her depth and that she was actually quite sweet. Not words guaranteed to cheer Valentine up. She could feel herself sliding into the blues.
Then when she was feeling particularly down about her acting career she bumped into someone she had been at drama school with. She had been browsing the hair care products in Boots as part of her ongoing quest to find something that would tame wild curls. While curly hair looked great on Sarah Jessica Parker for example, Valentine always thought that her own hair would look much better straight. As a child she had been obsessed with the fairytale of Rapunzel. She spent ages poring over her Ladybird book with its pictures of the girl with the beautiful, long, poker-straight, golden hair and kept asking her mother when her hair was going to look like that. Valentine knew in her heart that if she'd been Rapunzel the prince would never have been able to scale the tower because her curly hair would have bounced him off and she would have been stuck there for ever – just one more example of how the odds were stacked against the curly-haired.
She was absorbed in reading the many promises offered by a new product – perhaps finally this was the one, her hair's nirvana! – when someone called her name. She turned round and there was Stella. She had been two years above Valentine at drama school. She was so talented, a naturally gifted comic actress and everyone was convinced she would be a star. Though Stella hadn't had a big break, Valentine had always assumed that she was doing all right. 'Hi, Stella!' she exclaimed warmly, 'I haven't seen you for ages!'
'Valentine, how lovely to see you!' The two women hugged each other.
'You look so well,' Valentine said, standing back and looking at her, trying to work out what was different about her.
'Yes, I've put on a stone and a half since you last saw me.' Stella had always been incredibly skinny, too skinny in fact, and was rumoured to have an eating disorder, but that was no big deal in a profession that was ruthless about looks and size.
'Really? You look great; so what are you up to?'
Stella sighed. 'I thought you knew. I've given up acting. I work in PR now. Our main clients are some of the country's leading cosmetic dentists. Oh, don't look like that.'
Valentine snapped her mouth shut. 'I'm just a bit surprised, that's all. You're such a good actress, Stella. Why?'
At this Stella's pretty face hardened. 'Because I was sick of it! Sick of always feeling out of control, sick of never getting auditions, then being treated like dirt by directors when I did get them. And I was sick of never being able to eat anything apart from fucking rice cakes! The constant dieting, the constant feeling bad about myself.' There was a display of muffins next to the shampoos. With the speed of a frog flicking out its tongue to entrap a fly, Stella suddenly reached out, grabbed a double-chocolate-chip one and swiftly pulled off the wrapper. 'Now I can eat what I like!' she exclaimed, shovelling the cake into her mouth and showering crumbs all over her suit. Stella clearly still had issues.
'I do understand. It is really tough,' Valentine said sympathetically, anxious to pacify Stella, who really did seem on the edge.
Stella took another bite of the muffin and then continued her tirade. 'If I got a part, it was never a main one, but it was just big enough to give me a glimmer of hope that something better was round the corner, so I never quite gave up. But all the time I was being ground down. One day I woke up and thought, I'm twenty-fucking-nine and I've got no security whatsoever. And one day I would like to have children and I don't want to be living in a poky little flat above a kebab shop, working in a bar but saying that I'm an actress just because once in a blue bollocking moon I get to be in a play that no one comes to see and for which I get paid a pittance!' Stella was shouting now and Valentine was aware of the other customers walking warily around them, trying to avoid the crazy woman and the shower of crumbs.
'How about a cup of coffee?' Valentine suggested.
Stella shook her head. 'I have to get back to the office; I've got a really important press release to send out about the latest teeth-whitening technique. It really works, you know. It's up to twenty per cent more effective than other teeth-whitening products currently on the market.' At this she burst into tears, proper noisy sobs, snot and all.
Valentine took her arm and said gently, 'Let's just pay for the muffin and have that coffee.'
She spent the next hour trying to calm Stella down and get her in a fit state to return to work, which involved three lattes (two for Stella, one for Valentine) a large chocolate-chip cookie (Stella), a pain au chocolate (Stella), a slice of cherry cheesecake (Stella) and an almond croissant (Valentine, who simply couldn't hold out on the carbs any longer in the face of Stella's misery eating). Then she slowly walked back home, her spirits now as flat as her pumps. Stella might have been describing her acting career. How much longer could she hold on to the hope that her big break was just round the corner? Was she being completely deluded that her moment would come? She had been holding on to her dream that something would happen. But what if it didn't? She didn't want to end up bitter and frustrated like Stella. And God knew she had no interest in cosmetic dentistry. What should she do? Valentine was using up her store of hope. What if nothing happened? She was almost tempted to turn back and have another almond croissant. Instead she went back to the flat and got roaring drunk with Lauren.
She woke up the following morning with a hangover of evil proportions. The noble, self-disciplined side of her intoned, Must get up, go for a run and go swimming. She didn't move. Must lie in bed, eat peanut butter on toast, buy Red Bull, countered the undisciplined side of her.
'Are you still in bed?' Jack asked her accusingly when he called her at half nine, about to go into rehearsal.
'No!' she lied. 'I'm just doing some stretches before I go for a run.'
'You're such a liar, Fleming,' he replied.
'All right, I'm lying in bed completely naked, waiting for you and your big—'
'Don't tell me that,' Jack cut across her, groaning, 'I've been fantasising about you all night as it is. Please tell me you're coming up this weekend; I want you bad.'
She finished the call promising that she was going to go running and woke up to the sound of the doorbell, two hours later. Grabbing her lilac and gold vintage kimono (a present from Lily, who believed that a woman should always look glamorous in the bedroom and didn't hold with towelling) she staggered downstairs and opened the door. A smartly dressed thirty-something woman – pinstripe trouser suit, killer heels and crisp white shirt, sleek ponytail, expensive perfume – stood on the doorstep. She must have the wrong house; Valentine couldn't imagine Lauren, Lily or Frank would know anyone who would dress like an executive.
'Are you Valentine Fleming?' the smart woman asked. She was American, possibly a New Yorker.
'Yes,' Valentine mumbled behind her hand, not wanting to asphyxiate the woman with her hangover breath.
'I'm Greta Cox, Piers Hunter's personal assistant.'
'Oh my Go
d, is he here?' Valentine asked, anxiously looking past Greta. This was definitely not how she imagined meeting her father, dressed in her PJs, accessorised with breath that could kill a man at ten paces.
Greta shook her head and her ponytail swished. 'No, no, I need to talk to you before any such meeting. May I come in?'
Shit, what exactly was the state of the flat? The fragrant Greta was going to report back to her father that she was a complete and utter slob. Valentine nodded and led the way upstairs. She showed Greta into the living room, which thankfully looked reasonably OK apart from several mugs, two wine glasses and two empty bottles of wine.
'My flatmate,' Valentine lied. 'Would I be able to have a quick shower before we talk?'
'Of course,' Greta said graciously, sitting down on the sofa and letting out a yelp of pain before Valentine had a chance to warn her about the dodgy springs.
'Sorry! It's best to sit the other end.'
'I realise that now,' Greta replied sarcastically.
Valentine hit the shower in record time, got dressed and slapped on some make-up to stop her looking quite so much like one of the undead. 'Hi again,' she said to Greta, who was busy tapping away at her BlackBerry, probably telling Piers right now what a loser he had as a daughter. 'I'm usually up earlier than this, running.'
Greta looked sceptical.
'Can I get you a tea or coffee?'
'Do you have any herbal tea?' Greta asked. She pronounced it 'erbal,' which always gave Valentine and Lauren the giggles. Valentine didn't feel like giggling right now.
'We might have some ancient camomile tea, but to be honest I wouldn't risk it.'
Greta sniffed. 'OK I'll just have a cup of hot water and lemon.'
'Sorry, can you do without the lemon?' Honestly, where did she think she was, bloody Champneys?
Five minutes, two paracetamol and a black coffee later, Valentine was all ears as Greta explained the reason for her visit.
'Piers was most surprised to get your letter, Valentine. He had absolutely no idea that he had a daughter. In fact his first reaction was to imagine that it couldn't possibly be true.'
Valentine was determined to play it cool, but she found herself bursting out, 'Why would I want to lie about something like that!'
'You'd be surprised how many people would when there is the potential of making money.'
'Hold on a minute, are you accusing me of being some gold digger?' Jesus, where did she dredge up an expression like 'gold digger'? The alcohol must be destroying her brain cells faster than she'd realised.
'Valentine, no one is accusing you of anything, but you must consider Piers's position.'
Valentine made a big effort to calm down.
Greta paused to take a sip of her hot water. She pulled a face. 'Is this filtered?'
Valentine shook her head. 'London's finest.' Greta put down the cup with an expression of disgust.
'But Piers must know about me – my mum's written to him several times.'
Greta's perfectly made-up face and botoxed forehead gave nothing away. She ignored Valentine's comment and resumed her speech. 'Rather than make this a long drawn-out affair, Piers wants the matter resolved as soon as possible one way or the other. With that end in mind he would like you to take a DNA test. Then if you are his daughter, we can plan the next stage.' She handed Valentine a card. 'Here are the contact details of the clinic; if you give them a ring, they will arrange an appointment for you.' It seemed reasonable, if a little cold to Valentine's sensibilities. But maybe Piers had lots of long-lost children claiming to be his.
As soon as Greta left Valentine called Jack, desperate to tell him her news. They had both come to the conclusion that Piers didn't want to know, and now this! She got his voicemail. She tried Lauren but her phone was off – she was probably doing something tantric with Nathan; her mum was also on voicemail. She went downstairs and knocked first on Lily's door, to no reply, and then on Frank's – no reply either. It was so frustrating. She really needed to talk to someone.
While she was in the middle of buying a Red Bull and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps from the off-licence – surely she could not be expected to run at a time like this – her phone beeped with a text message. Really need to see you. Fx. She had ignored Finn's want you text of a few days earlier, so she could ignore this one as well. She marched back to the flat, phoned the clinic to arrange her DNA appointment for the following day, tidied up (i.e. picked up mugs and wine glasses and dumped them in the sink), put on a little more make-up, fiddled with her hair, lay on her futon reading Pinter's The Homecoming, then had to switch to Grazia as her head was hurting too much and all the while the siren call of Finn's message was in her head. What did he need to talk to her about? Was the engagement off ? Was he phoning to declare his undying love for her? He could declare away; she wasn't interested.
It was pathetic, weak and showed no backbone whatsoever – she knew all of that – but an hour later when she had read the same page on this summer's must-have beauty products about five times without taking in a single word (her make-up was going to be so last season), when she had called Jack yet again and left another message, she called Finn.
'V! Thanks for calling me back.' He sounded so pleased to hear from her, and in spite of her best intentions Valentine was pleasantly surprised. 'Any chance we can meet today? I really need to see you. Can I take you out for lunch?'
'What about Eva?'
'Oh, she's filming in Edinburgh. Please V, we don't need to talk about her or Jack. It'll be just about us.'
Finn had fed her the perfect line. 'There is no us, Finn,' Valentine retorted, then added, 'I can see you briefly, but I can't stay long. I've got so much to do.' She was impressed by how assertive and kick-ass she sounded.
'Have you got an audition?' Finn said, impressed. 'That was quick work.'
And then because Valentine really was so desperate to tell someone her news she blurted out the whole Piers Hunter long-lost-father story. Finn was suitably impressed.
'V, that is amazing news! This could seriously change everything for you. It could be your big break – no more fringe plays, but movies, V!'
'What do you mean?' Valentine asked.
'If he's your dad, just think of the film roles he can give you!'
'I hadn't thought of it like that,' Valentine replied. 'I don't know if I'd want to be in one of his films on those terms.'
Finn laughed. 'Oh don't give me that "I want to make it off my own back" shit! Our world isn't like that. If you've got connections you need to use them! Everyone else does.'
Valentine didn't like how calculating Finn was sounding. She was saved from having to answer by her phone alerting her to another call. 'Finn, I'm going to have to go. And actually I can't make lunch.' Finn protested but Valentine cut him off and took the other call. It was Jack. It was a relief telling him. In contrast to Finn his only concern was how she felt – no mention of film roles. But it was only a quick call and ended with Valentine hearing Tamara in the background saying that they had to go.
'Are you out somewhere with NTM?' Valentine asked, suddenly wary.
'Just a quick coffee.' He lowered his voice. 'She's having a hard time fitting in. I feel sorry for her. And the stuff she's told me about how her mother treated her – Jesus, that woman sounds like a witch. Did you know she put Tamara on a diet when she was seven?' Valentine was all set to give him the many reasons why he should absolutely not feel sorry for NTM when Jack said, 'I'm sorry, I've really got to go. I'll call you later.'
Valentine was left feeling decidedly unsettled and slightly jealous. She rather wished she had gone out for lunch with Finn after all.
11
A Kiss is Just a Kiss
A week later Valentine was standing outside a huge wrought-iron gate topped with vicious-looking spikes to deter any would-be burglars, while a CCTV camera clicked and whirred above her. She pressed the intercom and a woman with an East European accent asked her who she was, then buzzed
her in. The iron gates smoothly opened and Valentine walked along the drive towards the imposing black front door. Piers Hunter's front door. Her father's front door; the front door to his enormous four-storey Victorian mansion, complete with several wings and turrets. The results of the DNA test had come back last week. It was official. She was Piers's daughter. She had expected Piers would want to see her straight away but Greta had informed her that he was away filming for a week and not even a long-lost daughter could distract him. The film was already way over budget.
As she drew closer to the house she noticed that every single window had bars across it, marring the beauty of the house. The front door was opened by a middle-aged woman, looking very upstairs downstairs in a black dress and brilliant white apron and rather eccentric white cotton slippers. 'Good afternoon, Miss Fleming. Do come in. I am the housekeeper,' and the owner of the East European accent. 'Mr Hunter has been detained in a meeting but says he will be with you within the hour.'
'Oh, hi.' Valentine stretched out her hand in welcome, which appeared to startle the housekeeper, who cautiously put her hand out to shake Valentine's. She was in her forties and had a serious, unsmiling face.
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