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‘Not in a billion, trajillion years,’ she yawns. ‘It’s a dumb film, you’re annoying and I’m going back to bed. Go play fetch with Rabbit or something.’
I used to have an imaginary puppy when I was little, and my siblings still think it’s hilarious to mention him, even though I haven’t played with him for years. Obviously.
‘His name was Rocket,’ I say indignantly. ‘And if you just wait a minute maybe we could—’
Nope. They’ve already gone.
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RICHMOND, A SUNNY MONDAY MORNING
The camera scans over an enormous, stately red-brick mansion with fifteen bedrooms and a swimming pool set in the middle of large grounds. It’s surrounded by trees and an enormous wall, a long gravel drive runs up to the front door and a babbling brook winds through the bottom of the garden.
HOPE, fifteen, stands gazing out of a large front window, wearing a T-shirt that says I LOVE YOU A LATTE and pale blue jea—
PAUSE.
Quickly – before I lose the flattering lighting – I run to the laundry room and rummage through Mercy’s reject pile from last week until I find a gorgeous black Chloé jumpsuit, way too big, with a stain on the front, but much more appropriate.
Delighted, I tug it on, tie it up with a coat belt and snatch some towering pink suede Prada heels from the hallway. Then – inspired – I find a stray red Chanel lipstick in Mercy’s coat pocket, slick it on and totter back up the stairs again.
OK, universe, as you so rightly advised me, my best foot is now forward.
And – PLAY.
HOPE gazes out of a large front window, wearing a Chloé jumpsuit and red lipstick. She looks glamorous yet casual and laid-back, as if she can sit down easily at any given moment. Her expression is thoughtful, her posture excellent.
A HANDSOME BOY strides up the long driveway.
BOY
(looking up)
How have I walked this path so many times and never seen that girl before?
HOPE
(amazed)
How have I stood at this window so many times and never seen that boy before?
BOY
Beautiful girl, will you open the window and talk to me?
HOPE
What?
BOY
(makes gesture with hands)
OPEN. THE. WINDOW.
HOPE
Oh!
She opens the window.
HOPE (CONTINUED)
Sorry, I couldn’t hear you. I was just lost in my poetic thoughts that were focused over there in the far distance. Hang on.
Violins start to play. She runs down the stairs, opens the door. They gaze at each other for a few seconds.
BOY
It’s like we already know each other somehow.
HOPE
And yet you are also totally new.
He leans forward. They k—
‘HOPE!’ Mercy yells down the stairs. ‘TAKE MY CHLOÉ OFF RIGHT NOW AND STOP LURKING AT THE WINDOW. YOU ARE NOT IN SOME BASIC HORROR FILM.’
Her door slams.
Sighing – I’m in a romance, thanks very much – I return to my room to get changed. Any day now, a handsome newspaper boy or somebody gorgeous who works for Harrods food delivery is going to show up unexpectedly, but I won’t be at the window to bewitch him. I will blame my eldest sister for this tragic misdirection entirely.
Back in my jeans again, I click on my phone for more details of today’s horoscope. There’s a ping and a garish pop-up – IS LOVE ACTUALLY DEAD? EVERYONE’S FAVOURITE COUPLE IS OVER AND WE’RE CRYING – next to photos of my beautiful parents in their heyday. I immediately close the shameless journo-not clickbait.
Then I swap around my film posters so the giant one of a couple kissing is directly in front of my bed. The universe works in its own mysterious ways, but it might be open to direct hints, right?
Carefully, I rearrange my favourite bits of memorabilia: a clapperboard from Great-Grandma’s 1920s silent classic It Didn’t Happen Here!,Grandma’s silk gloves from Evening Rain, the long, jewelled sword Mum carried in The Hurtful Ones andthe director’s chair from Dad’s Golden-Globe-winning Waves of Time. (Although – if I’m being honest – I’m not entirely sure why it won: it’s about the navy and there isn’t any love story at all.)
Smiling, I straighten a little old photo of my grammy and grampy on Dad’s side – beaming outside the adorable frilly house they had in New Orleans – so they don’t feel left out.
I turn on The Heart of Us so it’s running very loudly in the background. Then I grab my phone and hit speed dial.
‘Hey there,’ a deep American voice booms. ‘This is Michael Rivers. If your call is work-related, try my agent at First Films. If not, go right ahead and leave your message after the beep.’
Beep.
‘Hello, Dad!’ I chirp, turning the film up two more notches and holding my phone out so he can hear the amorous ack-ack-ack of the opening gunfight. ‘How’s the filming going? You must be nearly finished, yeah?’
I prod his old director’s chair with my toe.
‘Anyway, I think it’s time for you to wrap it up and come home, OK? By Friday ideally. Also, can you bring me an expensive and irreplaceable memento from set? Like the leading lady’s shoes? Size six, although I can totally scrunch my toes into a five if I have to.’
Trailing my finger along the peacocks in the wallpaper, I wander vaguely back into the corridor.
‘So I’ll see you at the end of the week. Have a safe j—’
Out of the window I can see an enormous silver Mercedes crunching slowly up the driveway, followed by five much smaller cars in blue, red and black that I definitely don’t recognise. Holy horoscopes, the surprise sent by Saturn! The pleasurable one! Thank goodness my best foot is permanently forward.
‘Gotta go,’ I say, hanging up.
Then – with studied grace – I get right up against the glass, gaze into the distance and make my face as wistful as possible.
Hold it for five, four, three, two —
Then, hanging on tightly to the bannister, I swish down the stairs, still wearing the gigantic pink heels (I was told to take her jumpsuit off, but Mer said nada about footwear).
Next, I use my remaining few moments to prepare with dramatic breathing exercises the way Effie taught me: pulling air deep into my stomach and then letting it out with a loud SSSHHHH SSSHHHHH and an AAAAAAAHHHHH and a HA! HA! HA! HA! H—
‘Stop that,’ a sharp voice says from the other side of the front door. ‘What are you doing? This is not a zoo.’
Heaving the huge door open, I beam and hold my arms out. ‘Grandma! What a pleasurable surprise this is! I didn’t know you were coming!’
An emerald green velvet coat is dropped over my arms.
‘Yes,’ my grandmother says coldly, surveying the hallway. ‘Although I think you probably should have guessed.’
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You obviously know Dame Sylvia Valentine already.
But – to aid my very busy casting team – she’s exactly the same now as she is in her fifty-six films: small, rigid, with grey eyes, platinum-blonde hair in a bun and a withering gaze. (Except in real life she gets to invent her own lines and facial expressions so they tend to be even less friendly.)
‘How are you?’ I ask, expertly air-kissing – mwah mwah –so I don’t stamp her with borrowed red lipstick. ‘It’s not Wednesday yet, is it? Don’t you normally come on Wednesdays? And hello, Genevieve! You’re here too! What a wonderful addition!’
My grandmother’s assistant nods silently from behind her.
‘Darling, you’re far too enthusiastic,’ Grandma snaps, leaning on her walking stick. ‘Try to attain a higher level of ennui, especially so early in the morning. This Americanised zeal for living is utterly exhausting.’
‘I’m half American,’ I point out cheerfully.
‘An unfortunate fact I remain painfully aware of.’ Grandma picks non-existent fluff off her brocade skirt and stares round our vast dark hallway with her nose wrinkled delicately.
I have to say it: her posture is excellent.
‘Are your wayward siblings here? Or can I assume that they’re currently running amok, as befits a colony of teenagers with no parental guidance?’
I glance up the stairs. Mercy pokes her tousled head over the bannister, widens her eyes and pulls it back again.
‘Umm,’ I say loyally, looking subtly in the opposite direction. ‘I’m … afraid … they’re … not … here … right now … so …’
‘Come down, please!’ Grandma calls without raising her eyes. ‘Mercy, I presume.’
There’s a short pause, then Mer thumps down the stairs.
‘FAITH!’ she yells over her shoulder. ‘MAX! NANNA VEE IS HERE.’
My grandmother flinches with one eyelid. Nanna Vee is not on her approved list of terms of endearment.
Seconds later, Faith appears. And I swear I’m not editing this, but a ray of sunshine appears at exactly the same moment, settling on her skin and hair as if it’s literally coming from inside her. Unfortunately, it’s also settling on her electric-blue leggings, orange sports bra strap and huge lime-green T-shirt, and those really didn’t need emphasis. She already looks like a bag of highlighters.
‘Oh!’ Eff says sweetly, skipping down the stairs. ‘Hello, Grandma! Have we moved our lesson to today? I was just about to go for a long run, but it’s not a problem! Shall I go and get my books instead?’
Mercy rolls her eyes.
Every Wednesday since she turned sixteen, Faith has been getting secretive lessons in How To Live Forever As An Immortal and Internationally Beloved Movie-star Goddess (we assume).
All we know for sure is that Mercy definitely didn’t get them.
I’m excited to find out if I will.
‘Not today, Faith,’ Grandma says curtly, using her walking stick to punctuate her words on the stone floor. ‘We have more preoccupying matters to discuss, such as how this family ended up splashed across the front pages of the tabloids this morning like marauding soap stars.’
She says soap as if she’s just eaten it, and Effie and I glance guiltily at each other.
Mer sticks her nose in the air. ‘It was Max,’ she states defiantly. ‘He told them we were going to be there. I was just—’
‘Yes,’ Grandma says, holding up a pale, ring-spangled hand. ‘I believe we know what you were doing, Mercy. Where is your brother?’
Now we allshrug: ranks closed.
‘Let me make something very clear.’ Our grandmother tightens her lips. ‘We are not reality-television celebrities or popular musicians. We are not Beauty Loggers or what they call Tubers. We do not air our dirty laundry in public for the entertainment of the masses.’
Now is probably not the time to tell her that Max started his own channel nine months ago: 600k+ followers watch him give loud opinions weekly, often with no top on. Also, Beauty Logger makes it sound like they’re using lipsticks to cut down trees.
‘We are actors,’ my grandmother clarifies in her small-theatre voice. ‘Artists. And, while I appear to be unable to prevent your mother from throwing her emotional toys out of the perambulator, I will not allow the Valentine name to be cheapened further.’
Eyes closed, Genevieve is nodding as if in prayer.
‘My mother did not build this dynasty a hundrrrrred years ago,’ Grandma projects beautifully, now in her big-theatre voice, ‘for her prrrrrogeny to destrrrroy it with unscrrrrripted doorrrrstep drrrrama. Am I making myself abunnndddaaaaannntly clear?
‘VALENTINES. ALWAYS. ACT. WITH. CLASS.’
And there’s the family motto, somehow spoken in a different font.
We are suitably chastened.
‘Sorry, Grandma,’ we chime together. ‘We won’t do it again, Grandma.’
