The Valentines

by Holly Smale

  ‘Oh, please.’ Mer’s nose twitches slightly. ‘If zombies ever invaded England, you’d just fall in love with the most rotten one, Poodle.’

  ‘Oh, Handsome Zombie!’ Max cries, pretending to reach into his chest and throw the invisible contents across the table. ‘You have my heart, now and forever! Do with it as you will!’

  Pretend slobbering, Mer catches my heart and eats it.

  ‘There’s no harm in a bit of romance,’ Maggie says sternly as my siblings start sniggering again. ‘Now, you lot, behave, please. I don’t want the media circling while I’m trying to cook my top-secret shepherd’s pie.’

  Then she puts her cardigan back on and leaves us to it.

  ‘No harm in romance …’ Max erupts as soon as she’s gone. ‘Unless it’s with the flesh-eating undead.’

  ‘I’m sure the zombie will love you to pieces, baby,’ Faith says, leaning over and kissing my cheek. ‘Like we all do.’

  ‘Yeah, literally bits and pieces.’

  ‘You know what?’ I say as my siblings laugh and get up from the breakfast table. ‘If I did fall for a zombie, I can promise you that our great love would ultimately triumph against the odds. It’d be a blockbuster romance that my adoring public would pay millions to see, so there.’

  ‘Don’t worry, little sis,’ Mer grins, finishing her croissant in one bite. ‘You’ll find a boy with a huge chunk of his brain missing one day, I have no doubt.’

  Now they’re draining their drinks and checking their phones. So I jump up and do that too.

  ‘What are we doing now? Oooh, why don’t we watch a film together? How about The Heart of Us? We haven’t seen that in ages.’

  It also happens to be the very film Mum and Dad met on: an epic, sweeping romance set in London in the Second World War. And, yes, I watched it last night, but it doesn’t count if it’s on your own.

  ‘Sorry, Poodle,’ Max says, shoving toast in his mouth and heading towards the stairs. ‘Three whole lines to learn. Just in case Messenger Two literally breaks a leg.’

  I look hopefully at Effie.

  ‘Not this morning.’ She winces as her phone starts buzzing. ‘Noah’s been touring Europe for weeks, which means he has to tell me about every single meal he’s eaten in exquisite detail.’

  So I turn to Mercy, much less optimistically.

  ‘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.

  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 and the 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 defin
itely 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.’

  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 all shrug: 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.’

  I don’t know why I’m apologising – I had literally nothing to do with it – but it’s lovely pretending for a minute that I did.

  ‘So,’ my grandmother concludes, ‘I have taken the necessary steps.’ She gives the tiniest nod.

  Outside, the other car doors start opening and dozens of people emerge: glamorous, expensively dressed men and women laden with huge bags, boxes, lights, cameras, hangers full of clothes. It’s like a signal only big brothers can hear.

  ‘Grandmother!’ Max calls, bounding down the stairs three at a time. ‘What a joy! I was just examining my lines for my big stage role – inspired by you, dear matriarch! – and thinking, What would Grandma do? And here you are!’

  Mercy sticks a finger down her throat.

  ‘Yes.’ Grandma nods, unruffled by either of them. ‘I suspected you would appear around now, Maxwell.’

  Together, my siblings and I spin towards what is clearly a crew. They look very official – a million miles away from the yelling and shoving and lying on the floor of the paparazzi camped outside the rehab centre yesterday.

  ‘But,’ I say blankly, ‘who are they?’

  ‘Variety magazine.’ Grandma looks at us sharply. ‘Otherwise known as Damage Control.’

  Now this is more like it.

  ‘You may shoot the cover in the drawing room,’ Grandma announces as everyone troops in, filling the hallway with designer handbags and glossy shoes. ‘I grew up in this house, and it has the best light at this time of day.’

  ‘We thought maybe the garden, Dame Sylvia?’ a small lady in a beige trench coat murmurs nervously. ‘There’s such a pretty patch by the tr—’

  ‘Yes, the drawing room.’ Grandma nods as if in agreement. ‘By the purple silk chinoiserie wallpaper. That will work perfectly. And make sure you ask about their mixed heritage, please. This interview should focus on the dive
rsity of the modern Valentines, should it not?’

  Within seconds, our Least Used Room is rammed.

  A rack of designer clothes is set up in the corner, antique dressers are piled high with make-up bags, the marble mantelpiece is crammed full of hair products and a circle of powerful lights is being propped up by our enormous leaded windows.

  People are suddenly everywhere, holding up outfits against Faith, flattening Mercy’s already straightened hair with hairspray and complaining that it’s hard to find the right foundation shade for Max’s skin tone.

  ‘It’s a good thing I’m so comfortable with my masculinity,’ he tells them cheerfully. ‘Or I’d be outraged by the implication that I’m not already perfect.’

  This is by far the most exciting, important thing that has ever happened to me, and just a small slice of the epic gloriosity of my wonderful life to come.

  Maggie pops her head round the door and I wave cheerfully from where I’m sitting patiently in the corner, waiting for my turn.

  ‘We’re going to be cover stars!’ I explain in delight. ‘With an eight-page spread officially launching the new generation of Valentines! Grandma arranged it all! What a pleasurable surprise, wouldn’t you say? Isn’t that just the best-ever gift?’

  ‘I’d prefer a new casserole dish myself,’ Maggie says, wiping the top of a chair. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, I never dust in here.’

  Mesmerised, I watch the chaos unfold. It’s extremely important for me to absorb each tiny detail because, in the near future, I’ll probably have to do a photo shoot every single morning and an interview every single lunchtime and—

  Oooh, the photographer’s assistant is cute!

  He’s fair and short, and is bending over a little black box with his blue underpants poking above the top of his trousers. Of course this is how I meet The One! In my very own house! In my very own drawing room! It’s a pleasurable surprise cosmic double whammy!