The Valentines

by Holly Smale

  JAMIE

  (passionately)

  Kiss me.

  I put a hand on his chest.

  I’m biting my bottom lip as hard as I can, but it’s no good. I just keep picturing his bottom poking in the air on top of a mountain – little blue shorts shining in the sun, sports socks, turtle T-shirt tucked in – and my nose-twitching is out of control.

  Oh my days, the monkey bars.

  Jamie, swinging backwards and forwards with that smug, self-important look on his face. His sulky expression under that bright red MEGA HOLLYWOOD TOURS cap: furious and selfish, like a petulant six-year-old. How many times he referred to himself as a hero, while also pushing a young kid off the unicycle in Covent Garden so he could show everyone how to do it properly.

  My shoulders start shaking.

  All the pompous monologues, the nasty criticism of everything that isn’t him, the total lack of empathy or compassion, the lies, the alarming inconsistencies, the sugar-coated insults, the self-styled chivalry and hypocrisy and vanity, the – ahahahahaha – the push-ups.

  How much of a nice guy he is, how many lives he seems to save constantly, all the good causes he supports so he can tell everyone he supports good causes at literally three-second intervals.

  A loud snort bursts out of my nose.

  Oh oh oh oh – that stupid park video I’ve been watching over and over again. Jamie wasn’t gazing adoringly up at me, was he?

  He was gazing adoringly at himself on the screen.

  ‘What?’ Jamie says as I abruptly cover my face with my hands. ‘For the love of – what’s wrong with you this time? No way, are you crying again?’

  I squeeze my lips together, but it’s too late.

  My nostrils flare out of control and I’m giggling hysterically. Jamie takes a step backwards.

  He didn’t get back on the train to ask me out. He got back on because he forgot his coat.

  He never told me he was leaving because it didn’t matter if it hurt me. He had zero intention of ever seeing me again.

  All through those first dates in London, he was play-acting the hero I was so desperately looking for, not caring if it broke my heart.

  Jamie is who he has always been. The signs were there from the beginning, I was just reading the wrong ones.

  Hahahahaha – the push-ups the push-ups the push-ups.

  ‘Oh gosh,’ I whimper with wet eyes, looking up and trying to catch my breath. ‘Oh my goodness. I-I—’

  Nope. Just started giggling again.

  ‘You’re insane,’ Jamie tells me with aggressive certainty. ‘IN. SANE. Why do I always pick the nutjobs? What is it about me that seems to only attract crazy girls?’

  I laugh a little harder. Push-up, grunt, clap!

  ‘Oh, Jamie,’ I chuckle, finally wiping my eyes. ‘You don’t date crazy girls. You turn the girls you date crazy.’

  He stares at me blankly.

  Because it suddenly hits me: maybe my ancient friend Elaine didn’t defy the curse to shatter the mirror and see her knight. Maybe she just wanted into the real world and Lancelot was the only way to get there. Maybe – at the very end – she didn’t give a rat’s bottom whether he thought she had a lovely face or not.

  And maybe, when that boat turned the bend in the river, the Lady of Shalott opened her eyes, sat up, flicked off the flowers and jumped out.

  To start her brand-new life without him.

  ‘I don’t understand what’s going on,’ Jamie says slowly, face hardening dramatically. ‘Are you having some kind of … nervous breakdown?’

  The mask has flipped again. It’s quite amazing, really: two entirely different faces and I don’t think I really like either of them.

  ‘What’s going on,’ I beam happily, ‘is you’re a douche-baguette, this romance is over and I’m going home.’

  He stares. ‘Are you dumping me?’

  ‘Oh my goodness, no.’ I shake my head, patting him on those rock-hard abs. ‘Of course not, Jamie. I can’t dump you, because we were never going out. Remember?’

  Grinning, I turn and start walking at my own sweet pace back down the hill. The air is fresh, the flowers are blooming and everything’s so beautiful, so bright, so full of hope.

  ‘You’re unstable!’ Jamie shouts after me. ‘Girls, man! You’re all as bad as each other!’

  Still laughing, I give him a thumbs up over my shoulder without looking back.

  It is a doggy-dog world indeed.

  And that’s it, film’s over.

  Thanks for coming; you’ve been a wonderful audience. If you could make your way out quietly while the credits roll, take your rubbish with you and don’t forget to leave a five-star review on the—

  ‘… TALKING ABOUT! SHE HAS EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING A YOUNG GIRL COULD POSSIBLY—’

  Frowning, I let myself into Dad’s borrowed house.

  Then I quietly put Mercy’s cookie-crumb-filled handbag on the floor. Dad appears to be yelling at someone in the living room and I’m guessing it’s not the pizza-delivery boy. Silently, I slip my silver pumps off.

  Don’t leave just yet; it looks like there’s a little more story left to tell.

  ‘Michael,’ Roz says calmly from the other side of the wall. ‘You’re being ridiculous and you know it.’

  ‘I do not know it!’ Dad continues yelling. ‘There’s a swimming pool! There’s a mini-spa! There’s a wall-sized television and a – a bathtub that sinks into the—’ He slows to a stop. ‘OK, yeah, I am being ridiculous. What were you saying again?’

  ‘That none of those things matter, right? Money, designer clothes, fancy houses, swimming pools. Hope is fifteen years old. What she needs is support and love and security, especially after everything that’s—’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t—’ Another pause. ‘OK, I’m yelling again. Look, Roz, I know all this. Hope has love and support, but you have to understand that what with the divorce and the film demands and the budget and the—’

  ‘What I understand, Mike, is that your youngest daughter has no friends. At all. Apart from a talking house, a woman in a painting from the nineteenth century and three imaginary mean girls who I can only assume she picked out of an American high-school movie.’

  Blinking, I take a tiny step closer.

  Olivia? Madison? Sophia? You’re not mean girls, are you? I just thought you were super sassy and cool.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Dad snaps defensively. ‘Of course my youngest daughter has friends. There’s her sisters and brother – that’s three. And—’

  ‘Friends who aren’t related to her by blood,’ Roz sighs. ‘Ones she’s chosen. For herself.’

  ‘Well, then, she has loads. There’s …’ A pause. ‘Well, there’s …’ A pause. ‘How about …’ Another longer pause. ‘Well, there must be …’

  I’m staring at the door frame.

  Oh my days. I don’t have any friends.

  ‘Maggie’s son!’ Dad sounds way too triumphant. ‘What’s his name? Barney! Bob! Short, shiny, hasn’t learnt how to shave yet. He’s always in the house. Can’t get rid of the boy. Pretty sure he’s crushing on one of the girls, but we can’t work out which one.’

  Umm, Ben moved to Scotland eighteen months ago.

  ‘Mike,’ Roz says quietly. ‘Why isn’t Hope at school? Why is she rattling around that mansion on her own? Why isn’t she with people her own age, learning things, working out what she’s good at, what she wants?’

  I lean forward curiously.

  Was there an option for me not to be home-tutored? Could I actually have a … Sophia? A Madison and an Olivia? Desks with other people sitting at them? Could I wander down corridors, holding books to my chest? Could there be lockers with stickers on them and a bell that rings every hour and choreographed dances in the hallways?

  Could I have all of that?

  ‘It’s only with everything …’ Dad’s gone very quiet. ‘Oh, Roz, we just wanted to protect them. We wanted them
to be safe. Happy. As normal as possible for as long as possible.’

  ‘You can’t do that by locking them away from the world, Mike. Hope’s a bright girl, but she doesn’t know it because she’s never had a chance to learn it.’

  My father sighs. ‘She doesn’t even know the difference between pacific and specific. I’ve told her over and over again, but it never seems to sink in. I don’t understand it.’

  I scowl. All right, Dad, it’s two letters. Jeez.

  ‘She’s adorable,’ Roz laughs. ‘But she’s incredibly lonely, Mike. She’s an inherently optimistic, lonely teenage girl who is desperate for love of any kind. And that has made her vulnerable to textbook love-bombing, devaluation and triangulation from a narcissistic boy who—’

  Uh-oh.

  ‘BOY? BOY! WHAT BOY? SHE’S FIFTEEN YEARS OLD! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT A BOY FOR?’

  My father is so broken he may need rewiring after this.

  ‘Oh, Michael. You must have known there was a boy. Didn’t you see Hope’s face when she arrived at the airport? She was all lit up with excitement and wearing bright red lipstick after an eleven-hour flight.’

  Silence.

  ‘I thought that was for me.’

  ‘Of course you did.’ Roz sounds vaguely amused. ‘I don’t want to overstep my boundaries, Michael, but in my professional opinion you and Juliet need to pull it together right now. Your children should not be bearing the brunt of this mess.’

  I take another tiny step forward.

  You and Juliet need to pull it together right now?

  OK, I’m not entirely sure what Roz’s professionalist boundaries are exactly – she doesn’t seem to have any – but I am fully behind this brilliant logic. Finally, an adult is actually making sense.

  ‘You’re right,’ Dad sighs tiredly after another long silence. ‘About everything. Juliet and I need to sort things out immediately. Shooting’s wrapped so I can edit the rest from London. I’ll alert the studio, make the necessary arrangements and fly back at the end of the week.’

  My mouth drops open.

  Umm, did I hear that correctly? Did Dad just say he’s coming home? Because, if he did, that means … that means—

  I DID IT!

  I fixed everything, exactly like the typical Cancerian I am! Oh, I’m such a water sign, taking my little crab shell with me everywhere I go: putting my home back together, creating an environment of protection and harmony, making everyone feel welcome and—

  ‘And Roz,’ Dad continues quietly, ‘I’d very much like you to come with me. If you want. If you can. Whenever suits you. There are some really great private practices in London.’

  I stop bouncing on my tiptoes. Huh?

  Practising what?

  ‘Sure thing,’ Roz laughs warmly. ‘I mean, there’s always room for one more clinical psychologist.’

  Umm – hold cameras.

  ‘Hello, what on earth are you talking about, please?’

  Roz and Dad both jump.

  ‘Hope!’ Dad looks horrified. ‘How long have you been—’

  ‘Oh, ages. I’m trained in the art of being quiet backstage, so I heard literally everything you said.’ I turn back to Roz. ‘You’re a psychologist? Not a movie secretary or a personal assistant? You don’t run errands for celebrities? Or file papers and fetch coffees for movie stars? You’re a shrink?’

  Suddenly, everything makes sense. All those conversations with Roz prompting me to tell her everything: the nudges, the questions, the ‘mmms’ and ‘ahs’ and ‘I sees’. I thought I was just being very wise, but it turns out I’ve been firmly guided on this whole emotional journey by a licensed professionalist.

  Also … there was that time Dad straight up told me she wasn’t my personal assistant.

  Ooh, they’re good.

  ‘Yes, Hope.’ Roz smiles at me. ‘I am. Though we’re not big fans of the word “shrink” because it makes us sound really tiny and old. But basically, yup.’

  Holy horoscopes, we weren’t going on errands.

  All those ice creams and saunas and Jacuzzis and restaurant meals were excuses for Roz to spend time assessing the fascinating contents of my extremely complex brain.

  I had the lobster and the steak. I am such a high-class client.

  ‘So Dad paid you to follow me around for two whole weeks? To get right inside my head and figure me out? Wow, that is just so Hollywood. I can’t believe I’ve got my very own full-time personal therapist. Thanks, guys.’

  Roz has been so very helpful. I should probably tip. How much, do you think? A hundred dollars? Two hundred? Except most of the cash I’ve been spending has been coming from her, so I guess I’ll need to get it and then hand it back somehow—

  ‘Hope.’ Roz’s eyes have widened. ‘I’m not your therapist.’

  I stare at her.

  ‘You’re … Dad’s therapist?’ I frown. ‘Well, obviously he needs to address his work-life balance, but I do think that this whole situation is maybe a little bit inappropriate. You need to start drawing some lines somewhere.’

  Dad and Roz look at each other.

  ‘Hope,’ my father says slowly. ‘Roz isn’t my therapist, either. She’s my girlfriend.’

  I blink.

  ‘Umm.’ Still blinking.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart.’

  ‘No.’

  Blink blink blink.

  ‘Dad, you literally just said you’re working things out with Mum. And, even if you did have a secret girlfriend, she’d be some blonde, twenty-year-old wannabe with a perky nose and tiny feet and a too-small bikini and an eye on a lead role she can’t handle.’

  Dad laughs loudly. ‘Wow. I just saw Mercy flash in front of my eyes.’

  I fold my arms.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he says, walking slowly towards me. ‘I told you all this in the very, very long email I sent you before you left Richmond because I didn’t want you to get a big shock on arrival. And I also said that, if you weren’t ready to talk about it quite yet, I wouldn’t bring it up until you did. Didn’t you read it?’

  Oh, as if I’ve ever read emails from my parents. I might be bored stiff at home, but I’m not in a coma.

  ‘Michael.’ Roz’s whole face has gone pink. ‘How could we have let this happen? How? This is awful. I’m a psychologist, for pity’s sake. We should have sat Hope down, talked about it, made sure she understood. I assumed that—’

  ‘Back to Mum,’ I interrupt. ‘Dad, it’s been four months since you left. What is wrong with you?’

  ‘It hasn’t, baby.’ Dad looks so sad. ‘You know it hasn’t.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t,’ I say firmly. ‘Nope, you love each other – it’s the real thing. None of this is true, just a figment of your—’

  See it all, Hope.

  My beautiful, charismatic parents are suddenly in front of me: laughing together, kissing, gifting scarves and lipsticks and ties, hosting glamorous parties, cooking gigantic family breakfasts, stopping for gelato, turning up late, accepting awards and thanking each other.

  Except now I can see that those memories are years and years and years old. Tiny scraps of film left over from when I was a little girl, run so many times in my head they’re all grainy and faded.

  Dad has been gone a really long time.

  Every time I go into Mum’s room to steal – I mean borrow – it’s only full of her things: clothes and jewellery and photos and perfume.

  For goodness’ sake, I call it Mum’s room.

  The reality I’ve refused to face is that my parents have slept on opposite sides of our enormous house for years; arranging film schedules that overlapped so they were always in different countries; making elaborate statements to the media about how close they still were and how much they still loved each other and then sitting in the car on the way home in total, rigid silence.

  I close my eyes briefly. Because all I can see now are the huge fights: the shouting, the crying, the screaming and th
e silences. Days and days where us kids would hide together in our bedrooms because the air was so solid with unhappiness we couldn’t breathe in it.

  Why on earth would I want either of my parents to keep going through that?

  That’s not epic or romantic. It’s just awful.

  ‘But.’ I open my eyes again. ‘Mum—’

  ‘Your mom is gonna be OK,’ Dad says firmly. ‘She needs some rest and support from people who know what they’re doing, but she will be fine. Me giving her some space by filming out here was her idea, and, sweetheart, she knows all about Roz. When I said we’ll work things out, I meant as your parents but not as a couple.’

  A wave of pain hits my stomach, but this time I don’t push it away.

  I think that, on some level I’m still not quite ready to face, I knew Mum’s sadness had nothing to do with my father.

  Instead, I look at Roz.

  With her unfashionable hair and her glasses and her khaki shorts, her brilliance and calmness and generosity, her wisdom and – oh my gosh, she spent two weeks being my unpaid taxi and food-delivery service! And I bet there’s no friend’s daughter, is there? She totally took me shopping to cheer me up – what a compassionate trickster.

  Roz bites her lip.

  ‘You need to buy her new glasses,’ I say abruptly, turning to my father. ‘Roz is a wonderful lady and she needs glasses she doesn’t have to push up her nose every five seconds.’

  ‘I’m a highly paid professional who can buy my own specs,’ Roz smiles, visibly relieved. ‘And they actually fit. It’s just a thirty-year tic left over from school. We’ve all got our flaws.’

  ‘Not a flaw,’ Dad grins. ‘A detail.’

  And I see that he’s looking at Roz as if she’s light.

  I feel my heart starting to lift and glow, because aren’t we all a little bit broken in one way or another? And isn’t that what romance really is?

  Seeing and loving the pieces of each other anyway.

  A wave of affection rushes through me.

  ‘You guys,’ I say, dragging them together for a massive cuddle and accidentally smashing their heads together. ‘So have you looked at your compatibility chart yet? Dad, you’re Sagittarius, and Roz you’re clearly a Libra. So that’s a pacifically good combo, but Dad, try not to be so impatient and, Roz, you can be indecisive so don’t get pushed around. But overall you’re very balanced and harmonious, guys. Congrats.’