Far From Perfect Read online

  ‘… Kiss.’

  My parents were standing on the lawn, making a toast, and—

  ‘Kiss.’

  A clink of glasses and I looked round and—

  ‘Kiss.’

  Wait, is that my cue?

  ‘Ah.’ I blink at the woman from the party, and then at Teddy. I don’t remember kissing in the original script. ‘Kiss? What – who am I supposed to … kiss exactly?’

  Confused, I look round the room.

  ‘I’ll do it!’ A young guy at the back jumps up. ‘If you need someone to make out with Faith Valentine, I can do it! Just … you know. For now. To practise. Or whatever.’

  Teddy stares at the poor boy until he sits down again.

  I lick my lips. Do something, Faith.

  Impulsively, I close my eyes and start to make out passionately with the back of my own hand. I taste of sweat and fear and disinfectant cucumber wipes.

  ‘F-F-Fred!’ Kiss. ‘Don’t go!’ Kiss. ‘Please! I love you! Don’t leave me in here on my own!’ Kiss. ‘What will happen if— Oh no. Oh no, he’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone, he’s—’

  ‘And stop,’ says Teddy Winthrop.

  I stop.

  ‘What are you doing?’ The casting director frowns. ‘Do you not want this role? Do you find television beneath the illustrious Valentines?’

  ‘No!’ I flush in alarm. ‘Of course not. I really want this role, sir. Acting is my life.’

  ‘You could have fooled me.’ Mr Winthrop looks at the woman in glasses, then back at me. ‘You’re the only character left alive. For the audience, you are the film. You’re alone, you’re scared, something deeply unpleasant is happening and you need to hold the show. Command it.’

  ‘Would it help if I … move, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t care if you cartwheel, darling, just play this role with more charisma than a rotten wooden spoon.’

  Ouch. Be the Orange, Faith.

  Straightening my shoulders, I stand up; change my mind and sit down again; change it again and stand back up. I turn my head; turn it back again. My body feels like it’s being driven by somebody who hasn’t got their licence yet.

  Try harder, Faith. You are not trying hard enough. Give them more.

  Taking a deep breath, I scream: ‘NOOOOOOOO!’

  One hand in a fist clutched to my chest, I fall to my knees and close my eyes. ‘Fred! FREDDDDDD!!!!’ More. ‘FREEDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!’

  ‘Yes, I think we’ve seen enough.’

  I open my eyes, cheeks flaming.

  ‘Please, Mr Winthrop.’ Don’t be desperate. Don’t be desperate. ‘Is there anything else I can—’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Teddy says curtly. ‘Please send the next girl in.’

  Blinking, I clear my throat and calmly stand up. Then I dust off my dress, brush back my hair and smile. Because the curtain is always up, the audience is always watching and you must always take your bow, even if nobody is clapping.

  ‘Thank you for taking the time to see me,’ I say politely, dipping my head. ‘I hope to see you all again in the future. Goodbye.’

  I slip out of the room.

  The door is way too thin.

  ‘Well,’ Teddy Winthrop grunts from the other side, ‘the infamous Ice Queen might have the looks, but I’d rather hire my kitchen worktop.’

  I close my eyes once more.

  ‘Shame,’ agrees my parents’ old friend. ‘Such a nice girl. Can’t act for toffee, but my goodness: what a face.’

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  So, that was fun.

  My grandmother’s chauffeur climbs out of the car, tips his hat and opens the door for me as I launch into: ‘Gosh, that went so well! I’m not entirely sure I’m what they’re looking for –’ maybe a human who can convincingly portray another identical human – ‘but I really connected with the director and next time I think that—’

  The back of the car is totally empty.

  ‘They went shopping in Fortnum and Mason, miss,’ the driver says as my smile collapses in relief. ‘Then I believe your grandmother took a sudden liking for afternoon tea at the Hilton.’

  My grandmother is such a cartoon character. At some point, she took on the role of timeless Great British Dame – walking stick, imperious attitude, haughty expression, sudden likings for afternoon tea – and just never took it off again. It’s important to remind myself I’m half American and only half Downton Abbey.

  My phone pings.

  Baby, this album is kicking my butt. Come make it all better? :( Nx

  ‘Where now, miss?’ The driver climbs back into his seat. ‘Dame Sylvia said you’re welcome to join them.’

  I politely pretend to consider this for a few seconds.

  Umm, eating scones in a busy, gilt-embossed room (‘Oh, have you met my granddaughter Faith? She’s the future of the Valentines, you know. Darling … not so much jam!’) or watching my cute boyfriend excitedly twiddle buttons on a huge control system like it’s a spaceship he’s only just learnt how to fly?

  With a wave of relief, I rummage around in the car door for my secret make-up bag and hold a tiny mirror up to my face. I look tired. But a few more dabs of carefully positioned pore-filler, highlighter, foundation, concealer, blush, mascara, eyeliner, bronzer and everyone will think I’m fine.

  I start expertly applying the make-up nobody knows about but me.

  Thank goodness for boyfriends.

  ‘Take me to Abbey Road, please, John.’

  Noah is waiting outside.

  As the limo pulls up to the world-famous recording studio, I see my sweet guy. He’s perched on a bollard, long legs bent, big black eyes narrowed in concentration while he taps a tune on his jeans with his fingers. You know that moment when you climb into a warm bath, and everything goes tingly and floaty, and you worry you’re going to melt and disappear, but you’re also kind of cool with it if you do?

  That’s how I feel every single time I see Noah Anthony. As if I’m disappearing and I don’t mind in the slightest.

  ‘Eff!’ He looks up as I step out of the car, and I finally feel myself beam without dimples. ‘Oh, thank chicken nuggets you’re here! I’ve been playing the same three chords all morning and I was literally about to rip my fingers out at the joints.’

  Noah’s nose is a tiny bit crooked from a brother’s punch when he was small, there’s a scar above his left eyebrow and his front teeth are a little misaligned from the braces he refused to get. But it’s the imperfections that make my boyfriend so gorgeous, that leave the eyes with somewhere interesting to land.

  My smile widens as I get closer. He shaved his hair off two days ago – an attempt to look ‘edgier’ – but it actually makes him look soft and vulnerable, like a tiny lamb.

  ‘Hey.’ I give him a gentle kiss and study his face carefully. ‘Is it going very badly?’

  He grimaces.

  Noah pretends to find the roller coaster of success overwhelming, but every dip and swerve excites him. He loves the pressure, but he also needs to play the reluctant, overburdened artist, so I pretend not to see it.

  ‘Dire,’ he sighs, rolling his eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder what I do it for, you know? I miss the days of sitting in my bedroom, just me and my guitar. The chords aren’t working for me today.’

  He makes a sad-emoji face, so I quickly search for an appropriate joke. ‘What do you get when you, er, drop a piano down a mineshaft?’

  Noah frowns. ‘Huh?’

  I hold my hands out, palms facing him. ‘A flat miner.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘A Flat Min-or,’ I say again, with slightly different emphasis. ‘It’s … a joke about chords, I think?’

  My boyfriend gives one short laugh – ‘Ha!’ – and kisses me on the nose, although frankly he might as well pat me on the
head. ‘Who says girls can’t be beautiful and funny?’

  Relieved, I kiss him back. ‘Pretty much everyone.’

  He grins. ‘Sad times.’

  ‘Noah?’ Out of nowhere, embarrassment wallops me in the stomach. ‘This morning …’ I wince. ‘The audition … it didn’t … go … brilliantly.’ Charisma of a rotten wooden spoon. ‘I don’t think I … exactly nailed it. I … might have come across as a bit … wooden.’

  I’d rather hire my kitchen worktop.

  ‘Don’t be daft, baby.’ Noah smiles proudly. ‘You’re always so hard on yourself, Eff. You need to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you.’ Here comes the inevitable wordplay. ‘Have a little faith in yourself, know what I mean?’

  He laughs. He always laughs at that.

  ‘No, I really mean it, Noah.’ My eyes are suddenly wet. ‘It was horrendous. Grandma’s going to be so cross with me, my agent will be furious and I’m not sure what to do if—’

  ‘Oh, please, as if anyone could turn this down.’ He steps back and gestures at me as if I’m a new goddess rising from the sea foam. ‘You’re literally the most beautiful girl in the world. And the sweetest. I mean, look at you, Eff. These eyes? This hair? This mouth. Those—’

  I roll my eyes and smack him gently. ‘Yes. Thank you, Noah.’

  ‘All I’m saying –’ he puts his hands gently on either side of my face – ‘is they’re not blind.’

  We gaze at each other affectionately.

  For a brief moment, I see my boyfriend as he was the night I met him at the BRITs after-party. He was celebrating his first big win, while I was crouched on the floor, helping the waiters clean up spilt hors d’oeuvres.

  I kind of had to. It was Mercy who’d knocked them over.

  ‘Noah,’ I start, then abruptly stop. His big dark eyes have got a slightly glazed expression and I can feel his fingertips twitching. ‘Noah, are you practising the piano on my face?’

  ‘What?’ He jumps back. ‘No. What?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I’m not! We are talking about your career, Eff, your destiny, your life path, the—’ A scratch of the shaved head. ‘Yeah, I was, but I think your little “joke” just fixed my chord problem! It’s an A minor, not a C. A minor! I cannot believe I didn’t realise that earlier!’

  I laugh, even if he did just mime bunny ears around my attempt at humour.

  It’s impossible to be angry with Noah. He has incredibly long eyelashes and a freakish ability to make his eyes look so huge and round you feel like you’re snapping at a baby cow.

  ‘Go.’ I playfully push him towards the studio. ‘Go get that note. Hit inspiration over the head with a baseball bat or whatever.’

  Noah tries very hard to look reluctant. ‘Sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Because, you know …’ He grabs my hand and pulls me closer to give me a kiss. I can feel his breath on my lips: sweet, warm, rich. He’s been drinking coffee with three sugars in it again. ‘You came all this way and the new album’s not that important. I could always settle for Number Two in the charts and stay out here a bit longer …’

  Nose twitching, I try to look stern. ‘Go record that song.’

  ‘Maybe even Number Three –’ he kisses my eyebrow – ‘or perhaps I could chuck my guitar in the bin and we could—’

  I push him away again. ‘Go.’

  He kisses my eyelid. ‘Make out all—’

  ‘Noah Anthony, go.’

  And that’s when I hear the clicks.

  I spin round. Cameras are trained on us like guns.

  ‘FAITH! NOAH!’ Paparazzi are bursting from every direction. Behind walls and bins, round the sides of cars, yelling, jostling, pushing: ‘THIS WAY! DOES THIS MEAN YOU’RE OFFICIALLY BACK TOGETHER?’

  ‘STILL ON THE ROCKS?’ More pushing. ‘ARE YOU SEEKING COUPLES COUNSELLING? HOW ABOUT A RELATIONSHIP PSYCHIC?’

  ‘ANYTHING TO SAY ON THE AVERY RUMOURS?’

  ‘FEELINGS ON THE SHIP NAME FOAH? FAINOAH? OR JOITH? JAITH?’

  ‘WHAT ABOUT NOITH? NITH?’

  Noah laughs. ‘Fainoah, that’s my favourite one – sounds like something hipsters eat with avocado,’ but my brain is already starting to spin, replaying the last few minutes on a frantic loop. How long were they there? What did they see? Could they tell I was nearly in tears? Did it look like we were fighting?

  I kept pushing Noah away, and he kept grabbing my hand.

  Oh my days, I smacked him.

  ‘COME ON, FAITH! GIVE THE POOR GUY A BREAK!’ somebody yells as a handy reminder.

  Horrified, I turn to stare at my boyfriend.

  ‘Whoops,’ Noah grins nonchalantly. ‘My PR people must have told them we were here. My bad.’

  My eyes are flickering wildly, seeking an exit.

  ‘Hey, hey.’ Noah grabs my hands. ‘Don’t get upset, baby. I mean, it’s all part of the fame game, right? I mean, I hate it too, with every bone in my body –’ he does not – ‘but what can we do?’

  I dunno – how about not give the paparazzi details of our every single move?

  What I really, really want is to give my boyfriend a quick hug on his break without millions of people casually assessing what it means over their cornflakes the next day. Without judging the minutiae of my facial expressions or hair or outfit; without entire articles analysing our body language. She pulled away: it’s a fractured relationship. Their feet facing away from each other? Lack of intimacy, right there. Did you see her eyes well up?

  This couple are in deep trouble. Pray for them, readers! Pray for FOAH!

  Except now I sound surly and ungrateful – super unattractive – so I quickly dimple as hard as possible.

  ‘Can we—’

  ‘Unless,’ Noah interrupts thoughtfully, eyes starting to shine again. ‘I mean, if they’re going to write about us, Eff, we might as well give them something to write, yeah? Have some fun?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I nod enthusiastically. ‘Good idea!’

  My boyfriend gives me a wink and whispers, ‘Ready?’

  I nod.

  And he kisses me, hard. One hand on the small of my back, the other entwined in my hair, bending me backwards until I physically have to cling to him. I’m warm and breathless and curiously weak.

  It’s a movie kiss. A poster kiss. A front-page kiss.

  Click click click click click click.

  Flustered, I kiss him back.

  ‘Now be gone!’ Noah shouts when we finally stop. ‘Off with you, pap-ouschkas! Shoo! Give us some privacy! Look how beautiful she is, dagnammit! I need some alone time!’

  The paparazzi laugh. Noah loves fame – courts it, woos it, flirts with it – and so it loves him straight back. Whereas I carry my fame on my back like a reluctant snail and, no matter how hard I dimple, the paps can see that too.

  ‘Love you very much,’ Noah whispers under his breath, squeezing my hand. ‘You know that, Eff. OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ I relax and smile. ‘I love you too.’

  ‘I’ll ring you tonight? After the gig?’

  Better set my alarm for midnight: he’s so hyper and coffee-fuelled, it’s going to be another very late video call. ‘Yes. Am I still seeing you—’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Noah grins. ‘Of course, baby. The date’s engraved right here.’

  He taps my hand on his chest, then drops a soft little kiss on my forehead. Nobody takes a single photo. A forehead kiss is of no interest, unless it’s to illustrate: Has Fainoah Lost Its Spark?

  ‘Good luck,’ I say to my boyfriend’s back as he disappears into the studio, fingers already twitching with invisible music.

  Taking a deep breath, I hold my head high. Not too high. Not arrogant high; not snotty high; not I’m-better-than-you high. Just high enough to look like a confident, grounded girl who is secure and happy in her long-term relationship.

  The limo door is opened for me.

  Head up, head up, head up, smile, smile, confident, confident – I clim
b in, the door clicks shut and I slump into an exhausted heap behind the blacked-out windows.

  ‘Home?’ John the driver asks.

  ‘Yes, please.’ I close my eyes. ‘Home.’

  I’m still wearing white.

  Except now it’s a bedsheet, knotted at the back of my neck, a large white hat of Mum’s flopping too far forward and battered white tennis shoes that are much too big for me. I’m standing on an upturned cardboard box in the centre of the room, partly hidden – partly hiding – behind the hat’s huge brim.

  Holding a … candlestick?

  ‘And where –’ the boy straightens his bright emerald scarf – ‘were you at six thirty-eight pm last night? It’s a very simple question, madam.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Don’t answer that!’ A small girl in a huge turquoise sweater jumps to her blue-socked feet and waves a vacuum-cleaner pipe in the air. ‘It’s an atrosicky! You don’t need to answer anything!’

  ‘You’re not this good lady’s lawyer, Mrs P.’ A small chuckle. ‘You’re another suspect.’

  ‘Well … so are you! Also your … spanner sucks … donkey ears, so there.’

  ‘Brutal, birdy. Get him.’

  I tilt the brim with one finger to see better as a small pink tongue gets stuck out at the other boy wearing bright yellow fur, holding a mustard skipping rope.

  ‘Can we get on with it?’ Under an extravagant red hat, a plastic dagger is studied casually by glowing eyes. ‘The show’s tonight and everybody who’s anybody is coming.’

  ‘I was …’ I clear my throat and look round the dusty attic. Everyone is staring at me. Familiar panic is rising. Where was I at six thirty-eight last night? Who does this candlestick belong to? What’s it doing in my hands?

  Was it me? Did I do it?

  ‘I was … I was … I …’ My breath is getting faster, my cheeks hot. Abruptly, my hands go over my face. ‘I didn’t … I don’t … I don’t remember!’

  A short silence.

  ‘She knows she didn’t actually do it, right? Like, it’s written down in the script. Is she about to confess to a gruesome murder she didn’t even commit?’