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What does Mum say when she’s not listening?
‘I’m just multitasking,darling.’
‘Let’s see if we can single-task first,’ Mr Gilbert says, closing his eyes briefly. ‘Then we’ll consider branching out to more than one. And please don’t call me darling.’
He looks tired, which is strange because up until two years ago he had to teach all the Valentine kidsand now it’s just me. You’d think it would be a lot less hard work.
‘Shall we push on?’ Mr Gilbert coughs. ‘We write the molecular formula of the repeating unit in brackets, putting an n where—’
My eyes start wandering around the room.
I can’t believe I’m in here, surrounded by thousands of books in brown, beige and snot-green, when I could be out there, telling Variety my entire life story. What does a nearly movie star need with this information anyway?They’re not exactly going to quiz me on repeating units for a feature in Vogue Japan, right?
Bored, my eyes flick across the chintzy wallpaper, windows, wallpaper, books …
Finally, they reach a small, oily and deep grey/brown painting I haven’t paid attention to before because it was made before they invented proper colour paints.
‘Is she dead?’ I ask abruptly. ‘Or sleeping?’
Mr Gilbert pauses from polywhatsits and rubs his face. ‘Who?’
‘That woman. The one lying in the boat.’
I peer more closely. She’s got long blonde hair, her eyes are shut, she’s covered in flowers, people are crying … and I may have just answered my own question.
‘That’s Elaine,’ my tutor says in an exhausted voice. ‘She was in love with the knight Lancelot, but he loved Queen Guinevere who was married to King Arthur.’
He says this in a flat tone, as if it’s not the most interesting thing he’s ever told me.
I lean forward. ‘And then what happened?’
‘She was trapped in a tower, cursed to only watch the world through a mirror.’
‘And then?’
‘Lancelot rode past and Elaine spun round to see him.’
Mr Gilbert has no ability to tell even a basic story properly. ‘And then?’
‘The mirror breaks and she dies.’
My heart is swelling; my eyes are losing focus. ‘That is … the most … beautiful … and … romantic … film … I have ever …’
‘It’s not a film, Hope. It’s The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson – we studied this poem last month. Have you been listening at all?’
Umm, no.
Honestly, I heard a lot of dull stuff about barley and rye, and figured it was a vegetable-based poem about baby onions. This is exactly why titles and visuals are so very important.
I’d have called it Lancelot’s Lover is Dead and it would have been huge.
‘OK,’ my tutor sighs, shaking his head. ‘So where were we? Hydrogen atoms, Hope. How many electrons do they have?’
Kill me. ‘Five?’
Mr Gilbert and I are in tune: he clearly wants to kill me too.
‘One. And, because they only need one more to complete the first shell, they seek out other easily available atoms to combine with, which means they’re weaker and less stable …’
‘But … what if they’re not.’ I lean forward and jab the page with my finger. ‘What if they’re meant to be with other atoms, Mr Gilbert? What if they want to be? What if it’s their atomic destiny?’
‘It kind of is, Hope,’ my tutor nods, unexpectedly delighted. ‘Chemically speaking. Well done.’
I glow at him, even though I was obviously talking about myself.
‘So,’ he continues, ‘hydrogen perox—’
There’s a soft knock at the door.
‘OH NO!’ I shout, jumping up. ‘It must be someone from Variety, come to disrupt my pivotal lessons! They’ve realised I am an integral part of the interview and they can’t go on without me! What an unexpected twist! What will I do?’
Effie’s head appears. ‘Sorry for butting in, Mr Gilbert.’ Then she grimaces at me. ‘Bad luck, Po. I tried my best to talk Grandma round, but … you know what she’s like. If it helps, I can’t answer without Mercy or Max interrupting me.’
I sit back down again with a sigh. ‘At least you’re not an ostrich.’
Faith blinks. ‘An … ostrich?’
‘Yes.’ I nod sadly. ‘I have been ostrichsized by my own family.’
‘Do you mean ostracised?’
‘That is what I said.’
Opening the door fully, Faith laughs and swishes towards me – shimmering and gold – and kisses the top of my head. ‘You’re my favourite,’ she whispers into my hair.
‘Is it over now?’ I ask hopefully, tidying my ponytail again. ‘Can I come out? Is the … photographer’s assistant still there? I just … thought he might need … help. With his little black box or … other photography-based props.’
I am prepared, on very careful reflection, to give him a second audition.
Not everyone nails it first time round.
‘We’re not done yet,’ Faith says with a small twist of her mouth. ‘It’s just they … uh.’ She hands me a bag full of my crumpled jeans and T-shirt. ‘They need the dress back, sweetheart.’
Devastated, I look down at my beautiful purple Vera Wang gown.
Can’t I even study chemistry flawlessly?
Sighing, I walk behind a jammed bookshelf and clamber back into my jeans and T-shirt. Four months, only four months, although frankly, if my family don’t stop using up all the attention, we’re going to run out.
Then I hand the beautiful dress to my sister.
‘Do you want to hang out tonight?’ I ask as Faith heads towards the door. ‘Maybe watch Waves of Time together? Then we can quiz Dad on all the behind-the-scenes information and ask him why there isn’t a single kiss in it.’
‘I … would.’ Effie smiles slightly. ‘But Noah’s cooking dinner so I need to get there before the papers rifle through his bins to work out if we’ve split up yet.’
I nod resignedly because Max will be at the theatre and Mercy will be Out.
‘Cool,’ I say as the door closes. ‘That’s cool.’
It’s at times like this that I really miss Rocket.
‘Right,’ Mr Gilbert says, tapping the book. ‘Where were we? Hydrogen peroxide.’
(#ulink_5616baf7-950a-5619-afda-0b52780e1963)
Cancer: June 21–July 22
Jupiter is in transit, which should bring luck and growth. But, as a water sign with Pisces rising, you might be feeling extra sensitive this week so try to avoid unnecessary confrontation and find harmony.
I wouldn’t call the rest of this week a classic. Honestly, if Monday to Thursday was a film, I’d have given it one star – Where’s the narrative arc? What direction is this going in? – and switched it off by now.
I’ve stayed upbeat by focusing on Friday night – the premiere for Mum’s new film (the third most expensive movie ever made).
On Tuesday morning, Mars and Saturn kick in and I get my pleasurable surprise:
Sorry, snowed under! Will catch up at the weekend! Love you. Dad xx
Finally.
Nearly two days late, yes, but I’m not going to be churlish about it. The universe has a lot to get through on any given day, what with all the moving about it clearly has to do.
Either way, my father will be arriving on a First-class flight from America late on Friday afternoon, just in time to collect Mum from rehab, take her shopping for a new dress and grab a bite of dinner at The Ivy before they arrive at the launch together. At which point there’s going to be a huge family reunion, photocall and announcement to kill off the rumours and set the paparazzi straight.
So obviously I haveto be there too.
Mum was thirteen years old when she attended her very first premiere. There’s a photo on her bedside table of her next to Grandma, skinny, slightly shiny and beaming on the red carpet – two full years younger than I am now – and if that’s not proof that just one enormous celebrity party won’t damage me for life then I don’t know what is.
‘No,’ Max says when I finally track him down on Friday evening. He’s been out of the house pretty much all week, doing I don’t know what because his role lasts literally twenty-six seconds. ‘Nope.’
I open my mouth.
‘Not happening.’
‘But—’
‘Nu-uh.’
‘If he could just—’
‘No way.’
‘All I want is to—’
‘Nooooooooo.’
My brother is laughing while eating peanut butter out of a jar. He’s using the spoon to conduct me as if I’m an orchestra.
‘YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY.’
‘I do, Poodle, because you’ve been dropping the world’s least subtle hints all week. Now you’re just going to straight up demand that you attend tonight’s party for just a second because you’re so nearly sixteen and Mum was only thirteen and we’re all going without you and it’s not fair I tell you it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair.’
‘Pffft,’ I say, walking out of the kitchen with dignity. ‘I was only going to say it’s not fair twice. Idiot.’
Then I climb the stairs and stand outside Mer’s bedroom.
For a split second, I can see a much smaller girl grinning goofily, her hair in a crazy, curly cloud and missing a sock. I blink, then rap hard on the door.
‘WHAT? I’M BUSY.’
Apparently, my big sister has become nocturnal: sleeping all day, disappearing every night and having her activities logged by tabloid newspapers every morning. She’s having the Valentime of Her Life,according to Thursday’s headlines.
Quickly, I gather my best acting skills in one bundle.
As Mum said when she was preparing to play Anne Boleyn at the Old Vic, you can’t pretend to be the Doomed Queen: you have to fully embody her, find a way to step into her skin and walk around. It’s an acting technique Faith calls Being the Orange. My sister says if you can convince yourself you’re an orange then you can basically convince anyone you’re anything.
‘Oh,’ I project through the keyhole. ‘Are you getting ready for the launch tonight, Mer? Me too. Premieres are so difficult to dress for, aren’t they? So important to strike the right note.’
A pause, then her door opens. ‘You’re not going.’
‘I am,as it happens.’ Be the Orange, Hope. ‘I actually got permission from Mum this morning, so—’
‘Stop leaning on door frames.’ Mercy scowls at me. ‘It doesn’t make you look casual. And you didn’t get permission because Friday is silent day at the clinic, you lying little toad. There’s no way I’m letting you snot under my jumper tonight, Desperado. Try asking somebody who gives one.’
The door slams so I knock again.
‘GO. AWAY. MORON.’
Undaunted – that went exactly as expected – I wander down the corridor and knock on Faith’s door. Mercy was my dress rehearsal, but this is my opening night.
FADE IN: HOPE, FIFTEEN —
‘So,’ I say as it opens, leaning casually on the door frame. ‘How are we both preparing for this big glamorous party tonight that we both happen to be atten— Wait, aren’t you ready yet?’
Effie looks down at her shapeless lime-green T-shirt dress. ‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’
‘You look like a popped frog is what’s wrong with it.’ Shaking my head, I walk into her room with my hands on my hips. ‘Oh, Faith. Faith, Faith, Faith. Sooooo much raw potential, sooooo much natural beauty, but you never make the best of yourself. What on earrrrth will people think of us?’
Effie blinks a few times, then bursts out laughing. ‘That was a superb impression, you little mousebear. Brilliant.’
