by Holly Smale
‘I’d get one of those,’ she smiles, kissing my forehead. ‘To put in my pocket for when you’re not around, Po.’
‘Exactly how much is this ridiculous Privilodge of Mum’s anyway?’ Max asks as Effie punches yet another complicated passcode into a metal box embedded in the stone wall. ‘Twenty grand a month? Thirty? It’s insane.’
The cottage door swings silently open.
‘We shouldn’t use that word here,’ Effie objects as we’re beckoned down a shiny corridor.
‘Mum’s not,’ I say quickly. ‘She’s just really tired.’
‘Sure. Because it must be so hard doing nothing all day for twelve weeks solid. I’m sure our mother is absolutely exhausted, sitting in a steam room, getting facials and drinking green tea. She must be worn out, poor thing.’
I’m glad Mercy understands. Obviously, Mum wouldn’t be here if she didn’t need to be; she’d be at home with us, or on a film set, or maybe on an extended holiday in the Maldives like last summer.
‘Selfie!’ Max demands loudly as we cluster outside a familiar door, holding his phone in the air. ‘I’ll post GONE TO SEE THE MAD WOMAN IN THE ATTIC LOLZ hashtag sadface.’
Effie shakes her head at him, then clears her throat.
‘Mum?’ she says softly, knocking on the door. ‘Can you handle some visitors?’
There’s a very long silence.
A few rumbling sounds of furniture moving and bags unzipping; the snap of a mirror compact shutting. Then a weak voice says: ‘Oh yes, I think so. Please do come in, my darlings.’
We push into an enormous suite.
Everything is shiny monotone, as if we’re in an old black-and-white movie. Even the huge vases of flowers on every available surface are white and silver.
Mum’s lying on a chaise longue positioned artfully in a flattering ray of sunshine. She’s wearing loose white silk pyjamas and is fully made-up. Her platinum-blonde hair is perfectly smooth, her eyes are closed and one hand is held delicately against her forehead. I’m deeply impressed. My mother really knows how to command a scene.
‘Oh, you have got to be kidding me,’ Mercy sighs flatly.
‘My darlings.’ Mum opens her silvery eyes with a flicker and stares at the ceiling. ‘It’s so good of you to come. I’ve missed you all so very much. Right in my bones, in the very essence of – oof.’
I’ve lobbed myself on top of the chaise longue too.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I say, trying to wrap my arms round her. ‘We miss you too! How are you? Have you been for a walk in a field yet? You should, because you’re a Taurus so it would be an excellent health remedy for your pacific constitution.’
‘Would it?’ Mum says, patting me vaguely with three fingertips as I scooch over to give her more space. She struggles to her feet. ‘Goodness.’
Calmly, she smooths out the crumples I’ve made in her silk pyjamas. Then she looks down at me.
‘Hope, darling,’ she says with a tiny frown, ‘you must sit up straighter. You’re going to get a curved spine and that is so difficult to correct at your age.’
I immediately snap to attention. ‘Sorry.’
‘Faith.’ Mum glides over and takes Effie’s beautiful face between her hands. ‘My love, are you using that cream I gave you? Your pores are looking quite large. Don’t forget that those high-definition cameras will magnify each flaw.’
‘Every night, I promise, Mum.’
‘Good girl.’
Now it’s Max’s turn. ‘And how is the Barbican, my dear? I know the ghost doesn’t have any lines, but it’s a solid part. I did try to call in a few favours, but a lot of it is down to your own acting skills, I’m afraid.’
My brother’s left eye twitches. ‘It’s good. I mean, I’m dead before the curtain goes up. That’s the dream, right?’
Mum ignores him and turns to Mercy.
‘Those leather trousers are glorious on you, darling. But have you considered a size fourteen? They look uncomfortable in a twelve.’
A muscle in Mer’s jaw goes ping. ‘They fit perfectly, thanks.’
‘Of course they do.’ Mum smiles wanly. ‘I’m only thinking of you, darling.’
‘Are you? That makes a nice change.’
There’s a silence.
‘Mum,’ Faith says, stepping abruptly forward. ‘You might want to move away from the window. Max brought the paps and they’ve got long lenses.’
Mum’s back straightens immediately.
‘Ah,’ she nods, gliding nearer to the window and opening the curtains wide. ‘Such vultures. Is there no privacy any more? No respect for our personal space? Do these coyotes do nothing but take, take, take while we give, give, give?’
Mercy, Faith and Max glance at each other with lifted eyebrows.
‘Yeah,’ Mercy snaps. ‘Weird, that.’
Mum angles her beautiful high cheekbones towards the light, then stares bleakly into the far distance, silvery eyes shimmering. ‘Did you, perchance, happen to see anyone from the LA Times out there?’
‘Nope,’ Max grins. ‘But I did see the Telegraph. Wait, Grandma reads that, doesn’t she?’
Mum abruptly closes the curtains and steps away.
‘How … is she?’
‘She wants to know why you’re living here instead of at home with your children,’ Mer says, looking at her blood-red nails. ‘It’s a question we’re all quite eager to have answered, when you get a spare moment.’
‘Oh, my darlings,’ Mum says with a soft smile. ‘You are so sweet to worry about me. I will triumph, I promise you that.’ She perches neatly on the chaise longue, legs crossed elegantly at the ankle. ‘Although I’m afraid I’m feeling terribly tired. I have a two o’clock appointment with a very well-respected herbologist, so …’
There’s a silence while Mercy looks pointedly at her watch. It’s not quite ten in the morning yet.
‘Sure,’ Effie says, chewing on her bottom lip. ‘You must be wiped, Mum. We’ll see you next Sunday, yeah?’
Impulsively, I fling myself at Mum again.
‘Neptune is in retrograde,’ I whisper into her neck as she steadies herself on the plumped cushions behind her. ‘Which explains everything. So get lots of fresh air, stay away from the colour red and put this inside your pillowcase.’
Before my mother can respond, I sneak a little pouch of lavender into her hand, kiss her cheek and flit out of the room.
Exiting the scene beautifully.
LOCATION SETTING: REHAB RECEPTION
‘Well,’ Max says as my siblings and I stare at each other blankly. ‘That was quite a lot worse than I thought it would be.’
Faith nods. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Does she have no shame at all?’ Mercy screws up her nose. ‘It’s pathetic. Tragic. Sad.’
We’re reading from exactly the same page of the same script at the same time, like a seamless run-through of a Tony Award-winning sitcom.
‘So tragic,’ I agree emphatically, trying to grab all six of their hands at once in comfort. ‘So sad. Mum’s last big romantic film was so intense and so all-consuming that, to wall intensive purposes, it has totally worn her out. I think it’s time for Dad to hurry up and come back from LA as soon as possible.’
Max abruptly glances at me.
‘Hope,’ he says, studying my face carefully. ‘It’s for all intents and purposes. Mum’s not in rehab for bricks. And you do understand what’s going on, don’t you? You don’t actually believe—’
‘Effie,’ I burst out cheerfully. ‘That’s a good question. What are we going to do? We should compile our brainpower and find a way to stay positive. We need to keep Mum happy until Dad arrives home, because happiness is the most important thing there is. Apart from love, obviously. Any ideas?’
Max, Mercy and Faith stare at me.
‘I don’t have any,’ I say quickly, because they look very expectant. ‘You’re going to have to think too. I can’t do it all on my own.’
‘Blime-y,’ Max exhales
. ‘How were you even made, Po? Were you put together in a doll factory, wrapped in pink tissue paper and left randomly on our doorstep?’
‘Are you trying to tell me I’m adopted?’ I reply in amazement. ‘Because, if so, your sense of dramatic timing is truly terrible.’
There’s a light cough and I jump. An incredibly hot blond boy with deep brown eyes is hovering behind us.
You see? This is what happens when you take your eye off the ball: The One can sneak up while you’re not even pushing your chest out properly. Quickly, I flick my hair, open my eyes wide and bite the inside of my cheeks so my cheekbones look sharper.
Too hard. Ow.
Max laughs loudly. ‘I don’t think they put in enough bubblewrap, Fluff-pot.’
You know what? In my next life, I’m coming back as the oldest sibling and giving Max stupid nicknames in front of his soulmates too.
‘May I assist with transport?’ my new The One asks politely with a subtle dip of his head. ‘There are a range of options we could organise: a Bentley, motorbikes, a …’
Wow, he’s so powerful and efficient. I bet he’d know how to call me a rescue helicopter if I fainted subtly in his arms and everything.
Mer snarls. ‘Do you think we swam here?’
‘We have a car waiting,’ Effie says quickly, giving him a devastatingly gorgeous smile. ‘But thank you.’
My One goes red and blinks at my middle sister as if she’s suddenly spotlit – even though she’s wearing no make-up, a shapeless orange hoodie and neon-yellow leggings – and I immediately send him to my reject pile.
He failed the audition.
Next.
‘VALENTINES!’ the crowd shouts as the metal gates swing open again. ‘What happened? How’s Juliet? When’s she coming out? Can you tell us anything? Anything at all?’
There’s a nanosecond for me to give them my most enigmatic movie-star smile before Mercy’s jumper goes over my head again.
‘Is it exhaustion?’ I hear a journalist yell through the fluff. ‘Depression? Insanity? Total mental collapse?’
‘Have divorce papers been issued? What about reports that your dad’s engaged to another actress already?’
‘Will Juliet be at her film premiere next weekend?’
‘Where are those boots from?’
That last question must be aimed at Mer because Max, Effie and I are all wearing trainers covered in Nike ticks. Mercy has stiffened, so – curious – I rummage around inside her jumper until I can peer out of an armhole.
Slowly, eyes blazing, my big sister turns to face the crowd.
‘This,’ Mer says coldly into a sudden silence, ‘is an intensely private matter. While the three of us may live our lives in the spotlight, it is not a spotlight of our choosing. We owe you nothing and you do not own us. Please try to remember that …’ She pauses for a fraction. ‘We are just teenagers, trying to … hold on to our mum.’
There’s a tender crack in her voice and Mer’s chin quivers as her eyes fill with tears. The journalists are completely still, Dictaphones frozen in the air.
I stare at my sister in amazement.
‘Please,’ Mercy continues, her voice hoarse. ‘Let us deal with our heartbreak in peace. Let us be, for a moment, the normal family we are.’
She blinks quickly, then turns, but not before we all see a tear trailing down her left cheek. ‘Gucci,’ she adds quietly. ‘My boots are Gucci, although I don’t see why on earth it matters.’
And she disappears into the limousine.
Stunned, the rest of us climb in after her.
The second the doors lock, I rip the jumper off my head and wrap myself round my sister’s neck.
‘Oh, Mercy,’ I whisper, patting her left ear awkwardly in an outpouring of compassion. ‘Don’t you worry – Mum’s going to be fine. She’ll be home any day now. They’re just horrible rumours. But we’re here for each other. I love you so much and—’
There’s a shout of laughter.
‘You total cow,’ Max chuckles, taking his sunglasses off and rubbing his eyes. ‘You almost had me there for a second, Mermaid. God, you’re good.’
I pull away, feeling slightly sick.
Mercy wipes the single tear off her face with a red nail and flicks it away. ‘Runs in the family,’ she shrugs, smiling tightly. ‘We’re very skilled at pretending to be something we’re not.’
She stares out of the darkened window.
‘Well, what are we waiting for? Drive the hell on.’
Cancer: June 21–July 22
Mars and Saturn send thunderbolts today, leaving you feeling slightly restless. But a pleasurable surprise is on its way, so harness that energy and put your best foot forward!
The next morning, it’s all over the papers:
HEARTBREAK FOR THE VALENTINES
There’s a large photo of Faith’s face – luminous in its orange hood – much smaller photos of Mercy and Max, and a blurry insert of Mum staring wistfully out of the window.
And – ooh! – there’s my left arm peeking out in the corner!
Elbow looking good, if I do say so myself.
‘Seems like you had quite the day yesterday.’
Our housekeeper, Maggie, dropped off the papers first thing, then made us all a large breakfast. Now she’s drinking a coffee and leaning against the Aga, calmly watching us stuff our faces.
‘Right? Listen to this.’ Max piles egg into his mouth and waves a full-page article in the air. ‘Wait –’
He stands on a chair and flings his arms out.
‘After months of silence, following a brutal dumping by prominent African-American film director husband, Michael Rivers, the full mental breakdown of now single and lonely Juliet Valentine, one of Britain’s most beloved stars of stage and screen, has been confirmed—’
I roll my eyes and Maggie frowns at him. ‘Max …’
‘Wait, Mags, it gets better. Mercy Valentine, Up-and-Coming It Girl and Professional Big Nose, whose eyes filled with eloquent tears yesterday—’
‘It’s not my fault you’re not quoted,’ Mer shrugs, savagely pulling apart a croissant. ‘If you didn’t want to be outshone, you probably shouldn’t have invited the media in the first place.’
‘You invited the media?’ Maggie frowns and puts more eggs on the table. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’
‘They were writing about Mum anyway,’ Max declares defensively. ‘I figured they might as well hear it from us.’
‘From you, you mean,’ Mercy corrects.
‘It’s such nonsense,’ I pipe up through a mouthful of toast, shaking my head humorously. ‘Where do they get this crazy gossip from? And they call themselves professionalists!’
‘No, they don’t, because that’s not a word, Po.’ Max looks back at the article. ‘What else have we got? Natural beauty, Faith Valentine, girlfriend of pop sensation Noah Anthony, said everything without saying anything.’
‘Please stop,’ Effie says, sipping orange juice. ‘They’re toxic.’
‘And yet they still like you the best,’ Max laughs. ‘Looks like you’re going to need that nose job if you want the main shot, Mermaid.’ He nudges Mercy with his foot and then hops to another chair so her punch doesn’t reach him. ‘Let’s see how online feels about the Valentines today, shall we?’
He picks up his iPad and clears his throat.
‘Grandmother, no comment … diva posho Mum’s finally lost it … Dad’s upgraded … the kids are talentless nonentities …’
‘Max.’
‘A century of privilege … entitled brats, living off their parents’ money …’
‘Max.’
‘Who do these people even think they—’
‘THAT IS ENOUGH, MAX!’ barks Maggie.
Max sits down abruptly. ‘Apologies, Mags. At least Dad told them to – direct quote – kiss my American butt, so you can take some comfort in that.’
‘Of course he did,’ I say cheerfully, licking blackcurrant jam off my fing
ers. ‘I mean, I’ve never heard such trash in my entire life. Always jumping to ridiculous conclusions! Hahaha – journalists or journo-nots, am I right?’
I look triumphantly at everyone, but they’re busy eating.
‘Anyway,’ Maggie says smoothly, cleaning the top of the Aga, ‘I’m afraid I’m not around this evening. Ben’s back for a holiday so I’m taking the rest of the week off.’
Max, Mercy and I swivel immediately towards Faith.
Ben is Maggie’s son and has been madly in love with Effie since they were both six years old: he used to follow her around the grounds, giving her caterpillars to eat as a sign of his eternal devotion. I thought it was very romantic, but she never ate them.
‘He is?’ Faith flushes and avoids our eyes. ‘How’s he finding school up north? You must miss him so much.’
‘I do.’ Maggie nods and wipes her hands on a tea towel. ‘But he loves living with his father in Edinburgh so I try not to show it. And I know I’m biased, but he’s turning into a bit of a heartbreaker. Every girl in sixth-form chess club seems absolutely besotted.’
Max and Mercy start sniggering.
‘How proud you must be,’ Faith says, flashing them warning eyes.
‘How proud,’ Mercy agrees, snorting. ‘Is he still obsessed with Scrabble too? Do you remember when he used to meaningfully play words like beguile and ardour all the time, Eff?’
I should probably mention here that Ben is short and skinny with crispy mouse-coloured hair in a side parting. The last time I saw him he had a spidery moustache that he stroked every now and then as if for luck.
‘Umm,’ Faith says, fiddling with her spoon. ‘I don’t really remember. It was such a long time ago.’
Mercy and Max are twiddling air-moustaches and pretending to play the bagpipes until Maggie quirks her eyebrows at them. ‘You want to make your own dinner tonight, Downton Abbey?’
That shuts them up: none of us know how to cook.
‘I can’t wait until I’m famous,’ I sigh with starry eyes, gazing at the newspapers. ‘I wonder what nonsense they’ll make up about me. Right now, I could get attacked by zombies and there’d only be a picture of my elbow, slightly nibbled on.’
