The Valentines

by Holly Smale

  I stare at Roz for a few seconds, trying to work out what she’s saying.

  ‘Where does the road go?’

  Roz laughs and turns the car engine on.

  ‘God only knows.’ She pushes her glasses up her nose. ‘That’s probably what makes it oh so difficult to navigate.’

  Roz runs the best errands in the world.

  With a boot full of shopping, she insists we stop off at a swanky restaurant in the centre of Hollywood because she needs to ‘check out the menu for a friend’s birthday party next week’. I choose steak and fries and also lobster ravioli: they’re declared very suitable.

  Then – because another friend likes ice cream, but is apparently super fussy about where she gets it from – we drive all the way to Malibu to test three scoops of Italian gelato. I have strawberry, coconut and cantaloupe, which I originally thought was one of those little deer that lives in the desert, but turns out to be a kind of melon.

  After that, we have to survey a luxury spa.

  Yet another of Roz’s friends needs to make sure that the facilities are up to scratch: pool, sauna, steam room, fluffy white towels, bubbly Jacuzzi situated in a beautiful rooftop garden in the centre of the city, etc.

  It takes me nearly a full day to realise what’s going on.

  It’s only as we’re sitting with our feet dangling in the rooftop Jacuzzi that evening, sipping fizzy orange juices and watching the sun go down over Los Angeles, that it finally hits me. Roz doesn’t have friends. We’re running errands for celebrity movie-star clients, but she can’t tell me which ones without breaking confidentiality.

  Which – because I am also a very discreet professionalist – I will respect and would never, ever even dream of asking her who they are—

  ‘Reese Witherspoon?’ I lean forward. ‘Do you work for Reese? I promise you, Roz, I am the sold of discretion. I will never tell the newspapers for as long as I live.’

  The deer ice cream was so for her, wasn’t it?

  ‘I’m not able to say, Hope.’ Roz smiles modestly and sips her orange juice. ‘Or I’d never be employed in this town again. Hollywood’s a funny place, isn’t it? I’ve lived in LA my entire life, but I’m still not sure I entirely understand the appeal of the movie industry.’

  I stare at my father’s movie secretary in amazement.

  Just when I was thinking how cool Roz is for somebody my parents’ age who wears shorts with multiple pockets in them, she comes out with an unfathomable comment like that.

  ‘You don’t like films?’

  ‘I don’t mind the movies.’ She shrugs, watching me carefully. ‘I’ve seen a few of your dad’s, obviously – they’re excellent. But the unholy fuss people make? The adulation? The frenzy? I’m not sure I totally get it.’

  I don’t know how to – I can’t even – what do I say that will—

  How do I even begin to explain?

  Putting my drink down, I stare at Los Angeles – dusty cityscape glowing beneath us – and then at the sky for a few minutes. I’ve finally caught my first Californian sunset: pale lilac blue, shot with golden slices of yellow, pink, peach and red.

  ‘Movies are life,’ I say finally. ‘Except better. They’re the beautiful bits, the happy bits, the good bits, the kind bits. And you get to choose them. Even if it’s just for a couple of hours, you get to pick the life you want. You can take out all the parts you don’t like, pause them, rewind them, fast-forward them. Play the bits you love over and over again. Stop them when you need to. Look away when it gets too hard.’

  I pause and stare back at the sunset. Something at the bottom of my chest is starting to hurt.

  ‘I understand,’ Roz nods, sipping her drink. ‘The ability to edit a life must be incredibly appealing.’

  Then she looks straight at me. ‘But I wonder what would happen if you didn’t?’

  I don’t know if that’s a real question or not.

  It might be one of those rhetory-thingies Mr Gilbert taught me about, that sounds like a question but actually isn’t. But it sticks in my head for the rest of that night and all of the next day anyway.

  Mainly because I don’t know the answer.

  I’ve always turned my life into a film: always scripted, tweaked and paused it whenever I needed to. I’ve always known how I want it to go.

  And I’ve always switched it off when I didn’t like what was happening and rerun it when I did. Always lingered on the happy bits and closed my eyes through the parts that weren’t.

  I’m not entirely sure what would happen if I turned it off. If the screen in my head went dark and the cameras powered down completely.

  I’m not sure what I’d see.

  The next day, Dad is at the studio again so I have the house to myself once more. And – instead of keeping myself busy with Sophia and Olivia and Madison or Computer – I impulsively grab Mercy’s black halter-neck bikini and head outside to the swimming pool.

  My phone beeps just as I get to the edge.

  I hesitate for a few seconds. Then I point my hands over my head and dive in. The water is surprisingly cold, but, as I swim up and down the sparkling turquoise pool, I start to feel warm and calm and strong. As if I’m being cleaned from the outside in, in the same way crying cleaned me from the inside out.

  And I begin to wonder … what would happen if I tried to see things as they actually are, and not as I want them to be? What would happen if I took the filter off and looked at the world as it is instead of as I am?

  What if the sky was more real with clouds in it and the facade came tumbling down?

  Would it even be a life worth watching?

  Forty minutes later – when my legs and arms are aching and my lungs are exhausted – I pull myself, dripping, out of the pool. Then I push Olivia off one of the sunloungers (she is properly doing my head in), perch on the end and grab my phone.

  There are three messages.

  Hey! So it turns out I’m free tomorrow after all, fancy a hike? Meet at 4? Looking forward to it! Jx

  Hello?

  God you’re so sensitive fine be like that

  My stomach twists sharply.

  You want us to come with you? Effie whispers in my ear. I know you’re not really talking to us right now, but we could probably do with the exercise.

  Yeah, Max agrees, stretching. You’re not answering any of our real-life messages and it’s getting quite cramped inside your head, Poodle.

  I’m bored, Mercy sighs. There’s nothing to do in here – your brain sucks.

  I think about it for a few seconds. On one hand, it would be nice to have my siblings with me for advice and support and completely unnecessary insults. On the other, they wouldn’t actually be there … because in reality they’re thousands of miles away and – much like Sophia, Madison, Olivia and my oil-painting pal, Elaine – these versions are literally the products of my overactive imagination.

  I want to see what it’s like when I turn that off.

  ‘Thanks, guys,’ I say, patting my sopping curls with a towel. ‘But I think I’ve got this.’

  Quickly, I type back:

  Hey! Sorry, I was swimming! That sounds great! Send me the address and I’ll meet you there! Hope xx

  Roz walks on to the terrace with a paper bag in hand.

  ‘Lunch!’ she calls, holding it up. ‘Your father should be back in time for dinner. He’s given orders for pepperoni pizza and ice cream with his favourite youngest daughter.’

  I smile: pretty sure that’s me.

  ‘Hey, Roz?’ I glance at my phone again. ‘We never really got round to talking about Jamie. You know, what I should do to make it better?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Roz nudges her glasses. ‘Well, I’m not sure you really need my advice, Hope. Keep your eyes open and look for the signs.’ She smiles. ‘And not just the ones you find in a newspaper.’

  ‘… and this girl who looks like a rat, seriously she’s all teeth and nose, she’s been brought into the charity, but only because he
r parents are friends with the boss. It is just so unfair when I’ve been putting all the hard work in. I’m way more talented, plus, don’t forget, I saved the boss’s life! You’d think he’d be a bit more grateful, but noooo … I think it’s more—’

  ‘Hey there!’ An older couple in I HEART LOS ANGELES T-shirts amble past us. ‘There’s the greatest view up at the top! What a day for the walk! Enjoy, you two!’

  ‘Thanks so much!’ Jamie calls, waving cheerfully. As soon as they’ve gone, he says: ‘Check out the gross furry overspill on that guy’s shorts. Though in fairness they probably don’t come in his size, hahaha.’

  We’ve been walking for over half an hour now.

  The steep, dusty path winds through the mountains that curve behind Los Angeles. With every step, the scenery gets prettier – the landscape melting into a blue haze – but Jamie hasn’t noticed any of it.

  ‘You know,’ he adds, striding ten metres ahead of me, ‘I did tell you we were coming on a hike, Hope. What possessed you to dress like that? I don’t know who you’re trying to impress all the time.’

  I look down at my bright, colourful new dress and silver pumps.

  Me. I’m trying to impress me.

  ‘Peanut-butter jam cookie?’ I take one out of my bag. ‘They’re home-made.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Jamie grabs the cookie out of my hand and throws it into the bushes. ‘You shouldn’t be eating trash like that, either. They’ve done loads of studies: sugar totally damages brain cells, impairs body function and accelerates the ageing process. I personally stay away from it.’

  I pull another one out of my bag and take a big bite.

  ‘Fine,’ Jamie sighs. ‘Ignore me. I’m only looking out for your health and well-being, Hope.’

  Then he starts powering off up the hill, arms pumping, toned, muscled legs shining in the sun, SAVE THE TURTLES T-shirt rippling, golden hair sparkling. I’m trailing behind him like a panting puppy on a lead. I tilt my head to the side slightly. Is there a tiny chance that he highlights his hair?

  ‘Jamie?’ I’m getting seriously out of breath. ‘Please … could you … slow down? For a second? My legs aren’t as … long as yours, it’s really hot and quite steep—’

  He pauses with an elaborate eye-roll.

  ‘You Brits don’t do much exercise, do you? Don’t take it personally, but as a nation you’re pretty lazy. This is just a casual walk for me. You should see how quickly I can climb Half Dome in Yosemite. I can do it in, like, six hours. Without refreshment breaks.’

  An unexpected bubble of laughter pops out of my mouth.

  ‘What?’ His mouth has gone thin again. ‘What are you laughing at? Are you laughing at me? I’d like to see you climb a mountain with only a rope and the strength of your upper arms.’

  Jamie starts pounding up the hill again.

  ‘And you may recall,’ he adds over his shoulder, ‘we have to walk faster because you were late. Because of you, we are running out of sunshine.’

  Six minutes. There was a lot of LA traffic and I was six minutes late.

  Puffing, I run to catch up. ‘So I was thinking—’

  ‘Me too.’ Jamie nods. ‘It’s fascinating how influential your family is. You’ve handed down that privilege to each other through generations of nepotism and— Are you listening?’

  With a concerted effort, I jog to his side again. I was actually noticing for the first time how tight his little blue shorts are. Do they have to be that tight? Does his T-shirt have to always have a good cause on it? How many turtles do T-shirts save?

  ‘I’m listening!’

  ‘But acting. How hard can it really be? You could do so much good with that fame and power. So, I was thinking I should have a go at it. I mean, I’m here in Los Angeles and I was asked to be a model. Twice actually. Obviously, I said no, because I have got so much more to offer than just standing in front of a camera.’

  I blink at his back three times.

  ‘So maybe acting could be my springboard, you know? I’m thinking a film, for starters. A way to get the really important causes heard. Then I could – oh, you’re kidding me.’

  I’m currently bent over at the waist, chest heaving, my hands on my hips.

  ‘G … g … give … me … a …’

  ‘Fine.’ Jamie waits on the path ahead, impatiently tapping his foot. ‘But once it starts getting dark we’ll have to head back down again, whether we reach the top or not, because there are mountain lions.’

  Another giggle pops up so I swallow hard.

  ‘And – umm.’ What was he talking about again? ‘So … does … being famous appeal to you?’

  Jamie’s eyes are blue glass marbles; it is amazing how fast that happens.

  ‘And what exactly is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Being famous.’ I take a couple of deep breaths and wipe sweat from my forehead. ‘You know, having literally every single thing that happens to you or your family spread around the media for the entertainment of strangers. Because—’

  ‘You think that’s what I want? That I want fame?’ Jamie looks furious. ‘This isn’t about being famous, Hope. It’s about helping others, making art, being part of a team—’

  ‘OK.’ I hold up a hand. ‘Honestly, it’s a question I’ve only just started asking myself.’

  ‘A question for you maybe.’ His jaw is tense. ‘We all know how much attention you need. You and your whole family. But I can’t even believe that it would cross your mind for me. We’ve known each other nearly a month now, Hope, but you clearly don’t know me at all.’

  We stare at each other in silence.

  It feels like I have butterflies in my stomach again, and they’re fluttering, trembling, flickering around my—

  No.

  NO.

  Turn the happy filter off, Hope.

  This isn’t fluttering. It’s not flickering. They’re not even butterflies. They’re tiny monsters. Thudding and clanging, banging and clawing, biting and scratching with sharp teeth and nails.

  Jamie’s right. I don’t know him.

  Not really.

  Not in any way that matters.

  All I know for sure is that he’s American and handsome and six-packed and a Gemini. And – very much like the famous twins of the zodiac – he appears to have two faces. One is lovely and bright and charming, and the other is a hard stone wall that scares the living daylights out of me.

  And I have no idea which Jamie I’m going to get at any given moment.

  All I’ve been seeing is the boy I wanted. In exactly the same way that I always pick the horoscope I like best and how I crossed out the parts of the compatibility test that suggested it might not work out between us.

  Except now I know they’re not happy, excited butterflies in my stomach any more, and I don’t want to keep pretending they are.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say finally, breathing out.

  Jamie’s face softens, the mask flipping again.

  ‘I know,’ he smiles warmly. ‘Don’t take it so hard. Right, I can’t continue at this slow pace. I need to stretch my legs. See you at the top.’

  And off he goes.

  It’s so quiet.

  All around me, California sprawls lazily across hazy, jagged hills into the sea. Groups, couples and solo hikers are chatting, arguing, laughing, sweating, jogging, shouting and jumping to make cute aerial shots. Scattered across the view I can see tiny churches with miniature graveyards, rolling golf courses, farm fields with electricity pylons marching across them, tidy vineyards, roads snarled with endless traffic and towering high-rises.

  And, for the first time possibly ever, I don’t edit anything.

  I don’t move the camera away from the crumpled energy-bar packet on the ground or fire the girl picking her nose to my left. I don’t fix the gross, smelly sweat under my armpits in post-production, or Photoshop my hair to look shinier. I don’t delete the spiralling electrical cables running from an enormous, ugly tower over my head;
I don’t make the grass greener, or pretend it’s a glorious sunset when it isn’t.

  I don’t ignore the pain in my chest or the sting in my eyes.

  And I don’t shut out the signposts telling me which way to go.

  For once, I force myself to see it all. The good and the bad, the ugly and the beautiful, the bright and the dark, the bits I like and the bits I don’t.

  Then I take a huge breath and keep walking. I round the bend towards an immense six-metre steel pylon that completely ruins the view. And I finally see giant white letters perched on scaffolding in the prickly bushes:

  A helicopter buzzes overhead.

  ‘There you are,’ a voice says from several metres above me. ‘Check out this view!’

  I look up. Jamie’s on all fours, one arm stretched out in front, the opposite leg stretched out behind. As I carefully climb over the last few rocks, I gaze at his golden hair, his scattered freckles, his sapphire eyes. How insanely leading-man good-looking he is.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Yoga,’ he says, lowering smoothly on to his stomach and stretching upwards. ‘I like to do yoga when I’m in inspirational places. It really helps me to de-stress, you know? Hang on.’

  I wait while Jamie stands up, then bends over to touch his toes. Then he reaches to the sky. Bends to a strong plank, then into a downward dog. Smoothly, he bounces into a squat, arms above his head.

  Then into a tree position.

  Some kind of bird.

  And a muscle in my mouth starts to twitch.

  ‘There,’ Jamie says eventually, bounding up and clapping. ‘All done.’ He reaches out, takes my hand and pulls me towards him. ‘Isn’t this the most awesome view, Hope? Aren’t you glad I thought to bring you here?’

  Then he puts a practised hand under my chin and leans towards me, blue eyes focused on mine.

  With a click, I feel it.

  HOPE and JAMIE stand on top of the Hollywood Hills, behind the world-famous HOLLYWOOD sign. As the sun sets in front of them, the sky is on fire.