Far From Perfect Read online

  Finally, I slip into the empty room, kiss the Post-it and stick it on the wall. Done. Then I glance at my watch and breathe out slowly: 8.23am.

  Just one more thing left to do.

  My little sister sleeps so easily.

  Whereas Mercy confronts darkness like an enemy to be clawed at, fought with and be finally overwhelmed by – and Max fires up and burns straight through it – Hope simply shuts her eyes and ignores it completely.

  Softly, I slip into Po’s room. She’s still passed out in a knotted heap, sunshine pouring through her wide-open red velvet curtains, fluffy black curls in chaos, arms wrapped tightly round her brand-new camcorder. Her left foot is kicking and she’s murmuring, ‘Cut! Cut! Cut!!’

  Love streams through me, uncomplicated and bright, entirely without shadows.

  ‘Po.’ I put a hand gently on top of her head. An alarm is beeping next to her, to no avail. ‘Wake up, baby.’ I promised I’d stop calling her that now she’s nearly sixteen, but … ‘It’s your big day.’

  Hope wiggles, murmurs, ‘Action!’, then opens her eyes and beams at me. Unlike the rest of us, it takes the youngest Valentine exactly zero time to wake up. She’s switched on and suddenly she’s all there, like a film starting.

  ‘And so the dream begins!’ Hope sits upright, stretches her toes and holds her arms out like a starfish. ‘Let the day pray seed.’

  I laugh fondly. ‘Proceed.’

  ‘Exactly.’ With a quick hop, Po bounces out of bed and starts spinning in dreamy circles with her arms above her head. It’s Initiation Day at her new school before she starts properly in September, and she’s been preparing since she got back from California last week.

  And, when I say ‘preparing’, I mean ‘practising elaborate speeches as Head Girl/Most Popular Person/Chief Party-thrower’ (it varies).

  My phone pings.

  Morning, beautiful. Wish you’d been there. The crowd was wild! Am I seeing you later? Love you N xxxx

  ‘Faith and Noah,’ Po sings as I smile and type back:

  Of course! Can’t wait! When works for you? xxx

  ‘Snogging in a tree. S-N-O-G-I-N-G.’

  Then my baby sister starts floating round the room, clutching all the bright new clothes I bought her a few days ago. ‘Everyone is going to see me coming a mile off,’ she sighs happily, waving them like flags. ‘Cancer’s a naturally popular star sign, Eff. We’re built very sociable. I strongly inspect everybody’s going to adore me.’

  Smiling, I take a pencil case off the mantelpiece. Hope has always been a happy soul, but ever since she came back from Los Angeles she’s been bouncier than ever. Except every time I ask her exactly what happened out there – especially with that boy – she adopts a weirdly secretive expression.

  ‘Oh,’ she grins. ‘You know, Eff. Just some driving.’

  She’s also taken to slamming doors and yelling at inappropriate moments, which is out of character and kind of adorable. Although I’m not entirely sure what Dad was doing, letting a fifteen-year-old control a car.

  ‘Maybe take something to help with the non-social side of school?’ I shake the pencil case. It’s totally empty, the little mousebear. ‘You know, for luck?’

  ‘Luck schmuck.’ Po shrugs. ‘We make our own destinies, Eff. Also, it’s a house of education. A church of learning. There must be a spare pencil lying about somewhere.’

  Then she shouts, ‘Ooh!’ and opens the window.

  ‘Ben!’ she yells through cupped hands. ‘Benjamin! Ben-jamin-o! We’re up here! Can you climb the drainpipe au itsy bitsy spider or do we need to come down and let you in?’

  Po turns and wiggles her eyebrows at me.

  I have a long-term boyfriend and I love him very much, and he isn’t the boy currently standing on our doorstep. Not that this small technicality makes any difference to my matchmaking sister.

  ‘Go and say hello.’ Hope starts pushing me towards her bedroom door. ‘Ben’s come all the way back from Edinburgh, Faith. That’s just good manners.’

  I’m nudged another few steps. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Also,’ my sister continues brightly, tapping my shoulders, ‘can we take uno momento to acknowledge how cute he’s got, Eff? Don’t you think Ben’s kind of gorgeous? He’s like a –’ she considers her options – ‘final-season Harry Potter or something.’

  There’s excitement all over her sweet little face. My sister loves me very much – and she likes Noah – but she loves a good romance story more. And Benjamin has been killing daisies and leaving them for me on the kitchen table since we were six years old. In her eyes, this is a solid love triangle.

  ‘Umm,’ I say hesitantly as I’m pushed on to the landing. ‘Baby, I honestly need a shower before I see another human. I’m all stinky and sweaty, and I think I ran through some duck poop, so—’

  Hope leans towards me and sniffs. ‘Roses,’ she says matter-of-factly, spinning me round to face the stairs. ‘Roses and dewdrops and macaroons and kittens. It doesn’t matter what you do, Faith Valentine. You are always perfection.’

  Why did the robber take a bath?

  He wanted to make a clean getaway.

  ‘Just a second!’ I call through the keyhole.

  A clean getaway. HA! I wish.

  Quickly, I rub a posh scented candle on my neck, wipe my sweaty face on my T-shirt and try to arrange it into an I’m-just-an-old-friend-almost-like-a-sister-and-not-a-romantic-prospect-who-will-suddenly-see-you-in-a-new-light-stop-looking-at-me-like-that expression. Ben has obviously watched way too many romcoms.

  Then I fling the door open and my nonchalant, ‘Oh hello,’ is appropriately truncated to an, ‘Oh hell.’

  There’s a long silence.

  ‘Faith,’ Dame Sylvia Valentine says eventually, looking me up and down in steely-faced horror. ‘Is this some kind of … joke?’

  Blinking, I glance down the driveway. There’s no sign of Ben. Obviously, he saw my famous grandmother and her even more famous walking stick coming and dived into a bush. Smart boy.

  ‘Is … what a joke?’

  ‘This.’ Grandma waves her stick at me and sniffs like a scandalised bloodhound. ‘When I said prepare a natural look, I did not mean that of a long-term vagrant with –’ she leans forward – ‘undertones of bitter orange peel and lavender.’

  My nose twitches: this is a woman who knows her Liberty candles.

  ‘I thought you said ten o’clock and it’s only—’

  ‘You are a Valentine.’ She holds up a pale, heavily diamond-spangled hand. ‘We do not open doors in a dishevelled state, regardless of the relative position of the sun. What would you have done if I were a journalist? What if I were a crazed member of the public? What if I had a video-log?’

  I hold my head down so she doesn’t see my nostrils flicker again. Video-log? ‘Sorry, Grandma.’

  ‘We must always be in a state of readiness.’ I glance up. Grandma has begun projecting in her small-theatre voice. ‘There is no intermission, Faith. For us, the curtains are always up.’

  I dip my head further. ‘Sorry, Grandma.’

  ‘Get in the car, please,’ she says curtly. ‘I expect irreverent behaviour from your siblings, not from you.’

  Then she turns and marches towards the silver limo, disappointment radiating from her shoulders.

  Sudden guilt rushes through me. Those two hours weren’t mine at all. I should have been washing, scrubbing, shaving, plucking, conditioning, masking, moisturising, face-packing, contouring. I should have been filling in all the holes in me so that nobody else could see them.

  ‘Sorry, Grandma,’ I say for the third time. Three bags full, Grandma.

  Then I do exactly as I’m told.

  ‘… potential,’ Grandma reads as I lean back in the limo and scrub my face with a cloth that smells of cucumber. ‘With the coruscating beauty of a modern movie legend –’ she looks pointedly at me – ‘and half of this year’s hottest teen couple, Faith Valentine is poised to make h
er mark on the film industry. Movie offers are already flooding in from around the globe.’

  Genevieve hands me another wet towel from an enormous straw bag that appears to contain the entire contents of a day spa. She may at some point produce a hot tub and steam room. I start rubbing hard at my neck.

  ‘On which note, have you submitted your first post to the World Wide Web today?’ My grandmother raises her eyebrows. ‘Suitably aspirational and brand appropriate, I hope?’

  She makes social media sound like you have to send an application form with your passport and a stamped-addressed envelope to the tiny robots that run ‘The Internet’.

  ‘Yes, Grandma.’ I smile at Genevieve gratefully, then absent-mindedly poke the inside of my ear with a finger. ‘Over a hundred and thirty-two thousand likes in half an hour.’

  ‘Good girl.’ She turns a page in my gold scrapbook of media clippings (aka my Book of Shame). ‘Though the tabloids continue to focus on your difficulties with young Noah Anthony. This is not a good look for you, Faith.’

  She holds up a papped photo of me scowling at my boyfriend, a large glob of mayonnaise positioned neatly on my chin like a white goatee.

  ‘I was hungry,’ I say, flushing. ‘We’re doing brilliantly, I promise.’

  Also I’m not entirely sure how to eat a burger in a way that says We Are Madly In Love But You Said No To Chips – Get Your Hands Off My Skinny Fries.

  ‘Valentines don’t wash their dirty laundry in public,’ Dame Sylvia reminds me severely. ‘We pay other people to do it in a secret and exclusive celebrity Launderette facility, preferably on the other side of town. Have I made myself clear?’

  I nod humbly.

  All millions of people can see is Noah – adoring and attentive – and me: a grumpy, greedy cow with no idea where my mouth is.

  Must do better, Eff.

  ‘On which note, I saw the Variety proofs this morning.’ The scrapbook page is turned. ‘You look very pretty, but say very little, Faith. Please do try to make an interesting comment. Nobody wants to interview a statue, even if it’s of a goddess.’

  ‘But Mercy and Max were taking all the—’

  ‘Then find a way to make yourself heard.’ Grandma flips another page, scans, then sighs. ‘The Daily Mail has once more referred to you as aloof and an Ice Queen. Darling, if you were a man, that would be a way of saying enigmatic. As a woman, it just means nightmare. You must try to come across as warmer. But not so warm that you look desperate, obviously.’

  Genevieve and I make eye contact.

  My grandmother’s assistant is in her early twenties, but she’s wearing a velvet jacket, midiskirt and ruffled blouse. It’s like an identical version of my grandmother has sprouted – the way you can take cuttings from plants and put them in small pots to make new ones.

  She nods with raised eyebrows. Warm up, Faith.

  ‘Sure. Sorry.’

  Our limo glides to a stop in the middle of the road – imperiously ignoring the frustrated beeps of the cars stuck behind us – and a wave of nausea whips through me.

  Maybe if I vomit all over myself they’ll send me home. Although something tells me I’ll just be handed another wet wipe, sprayed with pine-scented car freshener and sent on my way.

  My phone pings.

  Ohmygodohmygod, I forgot to say GOOD LUCK! You’re going to NAIL IT. YOU’RE A TOTAL PARASITE OF FEMININITY! Hxxx

  ‘Umm.’ Smiling briefly, I tug the white floaty dress I’ve been handed over my damp orange sports bra. ‘Grandma, can we … Do you think … Perhaps we could quickly go over what I’m supposed to—’

  ‘We’ve been studying drama every Wednesday for nearly a year, Faith.’ My grandmother frowns. ‘Have you not been listening? Did we not cover every key point?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read Stanislavski and Chekhov and Meisner and Adler – I know every word – I just—’

  ‘Then I do not understand the problem.’

  A short silence.

  ‘Acting is in your blood,’ clarifies Dame Sylvia Valentine, five-time Oscar winner, recipient of the BAFTA lifetime achievement award and British National Treasure. ‘A rare, valuable gift passed from my mother to me, to your mother to you.’

  The door is opened by the chauffeur as Genevieve hands me a printed script.

  A few more irritated beeps from behind us.

  ‘You are a Valentine, darling,’ my grandmother concludes with a tight smile. ‘The entire world has been handed to you on a plate. All you have to do is not screw it up.’

  FAITH VALENTINE SAYS PARKS ARE ‘NICE’

  That’s right, you heard it here first, T-zoners! During an EXCLUSIVE interview with gorgeous sleb Effie V, she EXCLUSIVELY admitted that she likes oak trees, sushi and the colour green! And I kissed her!

  For proof, KEVIN, click the video on the left.

  Don’t screw it up, Faith.

  Don’t screw it up, screw it up, screw it up, screw it, screw—

  The door gets simultaneously kicked from the other side as I pull on it, nearly smacking me in the face.

  ‘Whoa! Sorry.’ A short girl with cropped blonde hair and freckles rolls green eyes at me. ‘Cat on a pink bicycle, it’s you? What a waste of my flaming morning. Have fun with the unearned leg-up, Valentine. Must be nice.’

  Then she stomps out through the front door: dungarees, thick silver boots, little but somehow taking up so much space. Blinking, I watch her go.

  ‘Faith Valentine?’ the receptionist squeaks as I turn round. ‘OMG, you’ve arrived! And you’re even more beautiful than in your headshots! How’s your poor mother? I’ve been heartbroken about Juliet’s –’ she lifts her voice into a whisper-shout – ‘TRAGIC DECLINE.’

  At my name, every girl in the room looks up, narrows their eyes and looks back down again.

  ‘She’s—’

  ‘That’s just so great!’ The receptionist stands up and waves away the actress waiting nervously outside the casting room. ‘You, sit down. I’m under strict instructions to send Faith Valentine straight in. Please, Faith, do let me!’

  She opens the door and bows slightly, as if she can see I might need professional help getting in and out of rooms. Humiliated, I swallow and step forward.

  Be warm, Faith, but not too warm.

  Enthusiastic but not desperate; calm but not dull; funny but not try-hard; quirky but not crazy; feisty but not aggressive; beautiful but relatable; elegant but not icy; confident but not arrogant; feminine but not girly; nice but not boring.

  Yourself but – you know … someone else.

  My grandmother and I have spent the first ten minutes of each Wednesday lesson practising the Stanislavski method. You draw an imaginary circle round yourself and block everything else out, keeping you safe and private, no matter what’s happening.

  Yeah, I can’t do it.

  I’m standing in front of an entire roomful of strangers who are assessing me carefully. Taking me apart so they can evaluate the individual components: my mother’s eyes, grandmother’s nose, father’s mouth and height … Until I’m just little pieces of people who aren’t even me. A composite of recycled beauty handed down by others and instructed to look after carefully, like an old clock or a vintage handbag.

  ‘The middle Valentine,’ an older woman with tortoiseshell glasses announces to the room. ‘Mike and Juliet’s girl!’

  ‘Remarkable,’ somebody says, taking notes. ‘Exotic but also classic. The camera’s going to love her.’

  On cue, I switch myself on.

  ‘Hello!’ Walking forward, I smile with a dimple in my left cheek. ‘It’s so very nice to meet you.’ I’ve learnt to subtly bite the inside of my mouth without anyone noticing. Nobody knows my dimple is fake. Not even Noah.

  ‘Hi,’ I say to each person in turn. Dimple. ‘Hi there.’ Dimple. ‘Hey.’ Dimple. Dimple. Dimple. Dimple. The inside of my mouth has started bleeding.

  ‘Hello.’ I’ve reached the famous casting director, Teddy Winthrop. He’s so old and cru
mpled he makes my grandma look like a Manhattan debutante. ‘It’s a privilege to meet you.’

  Dimpling again – ow! – I hold out my hand.

  ‘Established.’ Teddy nods, unimpressed. ‘We’re all very much greeted now. Shall we get on with it?’

  He flicks rheumy blue eyes at the empty chair in the middle of the room and I glance down at my script.

  ‘Off-page,’ the casting director demands in an icy voice. ‘Please.’

  I look up in horror. ‘But my agent said—’

  ‘Yes, but as I have been informed, repeatedly and relentlessly, you are one of the Valentines. I think you can manage a single short scene, don’t you?’

  I’m suddenly not so sure that my family connections are working in my favour. He may have already met Mercy.

  ‘Of course.’ I obediently drop the script on the floor. ‘Yes. No problem.’

  Then I sit in the chair as two enormous lights abruptly switch on. I flinch. Find the circle, Eff. It feels like I’m some kind of rare lizard in a bright terrarium.

  ‘Where would you like me to—’

  ‘Bang,’ the woman wearing glasses abruptly says. ‘Crackle. Ooooh-eee-oooooh. Woo. Woo. Wooooooooooooo. Yeeeeeha. Yeeeha. Woof woof meow oink arrooooooooga.’

  I stare at her blankly. What the—

  ‘Oh!’ I glance to the side and see that the green light on the camera is blinking. ‘Have we started? We’ve started. Umm. Fred! What was that? I heard something – there’s someone outside!’

  ‘There’snobodythere,’ the woman reads in monotone.

  ‘We’ve made a mistake,’ I say, voice trembling carefully. ‘We should g-go – we should l-l-leave. Wait, I think I’ve got enough battery in my—’

  ‘It’sjustasheeporsomething.’

  ‘But sheep don’t sound like that.’

  ‘Acowthen.’ The woman peers at me with raised eyebrows. ‘AgoatwhatevertheyhaveouthereI’llgoout justwaitforme—’

  Wait. Do I … know her?

  A memory clicks. A party my parents threw nearly a decade ago. Music, laughter, flowers, a large white tent in the garden, and we were all sitting on the stairs together, listening to the—