The Valentines

by Holly Smale

  ‘I am a Libra,’ Roz says in surprise as Dad laughs loudly. ‘How on earth did you know that?’

  ‘Special intuition,’ I grin. ‘Water sign. So, the real question is when are we going back to England? And please can we fly First Class so I can bring all the extra clothes and shoes …? And, while we’re at it, is there any way that I can maybe get a puppy?’

  Because in this brand-new world anything is possible.

  I have hope, I have hope, I have hope.

  HOPE walks slowly down the long driveway towards a red-brick mansion on the outskirts of Richmond. Around her stretch green, familiar fields.

  A black limo follows behind her very slowly because there are seven suitcases in the boot.

  As she approaches the house, she feels a rush of happiness and HOPE starts smiling, then laughing, walking faster and faster until she’s running.

  The front door swings open.

  SHE IS HOME.

  FAITH

  Po! You’re back! Oh my God, we’ve missed you so much!

  MERCY

  We literally didn’t notice she wasn’t here for three days.

  MAX

  Pipe down, Mermaid. It hasn’t been the same without her and you know it.

  I push the door open.

  ‘Noah?’ Effie’s head pokes out over the bannister – eyes slightly swollen, with toothpaste on her beautiful chin – followed by an enormous flannel shirt and a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms. ‘Noah, is that—’

  Her gorgeous face lights up.

  ‘Po! Oh, Po, you’re home, you’re home, you’re home!’ My sister thunders down the stairs and flings her arms round me, covering my face with fluttery little kisses. ‘We missed you so much! Are you OK? We’re so sorry, honestly – please forgive us! We love you! Now come in and tell us everything.’

  Mercy appears directly behind her.

  ‘I mean,’ my big sister says drily, folding her arms in front of her, ‘we literally didn’t notice she wasn’t here for three days, but sure, whatever.’

  But she’s trying not to smile and I grin at her: nailed it.

  ‘Pipe down, Mercury!’ Max shouts, hopping to the bottom of the stairs and wrapping me and Eff in an enormous, long-armed hug. ‘It hasn’t been the same here without the Poodle-Pie and you know it.’

  Then Max reaches out an arm and hooks Mercy in too.

  ‘Ugh,’ Mer sighs into my right shoulder. ‘This is soooo codependent. You’re all so annoying. This is too tight. I can’t breathe. You’re messing up my hair. Why can’t any of you hug properly?’

  I kiss her lovely, crotchety face.

  ‘Leave the suitcases,’ Max says, dramatically dragging me through the hallway to the living room by my hands. ‘We need juicy details, Po. Hold nothing back. We want gossip. Drama. Embellishments. Tell us about your big solo adventure because there’s nothing on telly and we’re bored stiff.’

  ‘Solo adventure with my wardrobe,’ Mercy grumbles.

  ‘Shhh,’ Effie says, pinching her lightly. ‘We’ve got an epic story to hear.’

  Delighted, I stand in the middle of the room. Finally, an enraptured audience focused directly on me.

  I am obviously much wiser and more mature than I was at the start of this journey so I shall deflect this spotlight with dignity and—

  Oh, screw it.

  ‘People,’ I say, holding a hand up and swishing myself thoughtfully towards the window. ‘Life is complex. It’s a pyramid of tiny moments, some that change us forever, like a fork in the road that defines the essence of our—’ I turn. ‘Max, it’s six pm. Why aren’t you on stage?’

  ‘Huh? Oh.’ My brother stares at the ceiling. ‘Apparently, even ephemeral spirits with no earthly dimensions have to show up for work occasionally or they’ll replace you with somebody who does.’

  ‘Oh, Max. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He sounds genuinely cheerful. ‘I had an audition yesterday for the First Commoner in Julius Caesar. Watch this.’ Max flings his arms out. ‘Why, sir, a carpenter! Why, sir, a carpenter! Why, sir! A carpenter? Four words, so many possibilities. Fingers crossed I get it or Nanny Vee is going to be as livid with me as she is with Mer.’

  I turn to Mercy. ‘What have you done now?’

  ‘Pffft.’ My sister folds her arms even more tightly and glowers from the sofa. ‘You have one little argument at one little party and make one little gesture with your hands … The next thing you know you’re the girl who pushes TV presenters into toilets.’

  Even I’m shocked. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ Mer says airily. ‘Let’s just say her head ended up where her career was going anyway.’

  Blinking, I turn to Faith. ‘What about you? Any big dramas while I’ve been gone? Nicked a car? Robbed a bank? Because, no offence, you’re all kind of stealing my big scene.’

  ‘Nope.’ Eff smiles, picking at a thread on the sofa arm. ‘Nada going on here. You know me. Same old, same old.’

  ‘Well,’ Max coughs, ‘Effpot, that’s not completely—’

  Faith kicks him.

  ‘Right.’ I straighten my so-Los-Angeles denim jumpsuit. ‘If you’re quite done with your flagrant limelight hogging, I shall continue. Where was I?’

  Gracefully holding a hand up again, I search for my next line. (I rehearsed this speech all the way from Los Angeles to London – Dad’s flying out in a few days – and it was word-perfect, scripted brilliantly and very, very moving.) My siblings are such interrupting attention-seekers.

  ‘I think you were defining your essence,’ Faith prompts with a small smile. ‘There was definitely a pyramid of some kind.’

  ‘And a fork!’ Max shouts. ‘There was a fork somewhere!’

  ‘In her head?’ Mer suggests.

  OK, if they don’t start taking me seriously right now, when this is a blockbuster movie, I’m not even going to let them appear on the holding-image poster.

  ‘So …’ I continue, ‘some moments alter our direction and give our lives a new purpose. Picture this.’ I hold my hands up in a rectangle. ‘A young girl, on the very pinnacle of adulthood …’

  ‘Precipice. She means precipice.’

  ‘What’s going on with her hands? Can we all just notice that Hope’s hands are in charades “film” shape?’

  ‘That’s not film, that’s television. Film is an old projector. See?’ Max holds both fists up and rotates one. ‘Film.’ He makes a rectangle. ‘Television.’

  ‘SOMETHING HAS ACTUALLY HAPPENED TO ME FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE! WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT YOUR GOBBY MOUTHS FOR ONE SINGLE MINUTE AND LISTEN!’

  Huh.

  I should definitely consider yelling more often. I seem to be getting good at it.

  ‘And in that moment,’ I continue sternly, giving them a warning glance, ‘the one we were talking about, the one with the pyramids, and the essences, and the whatever that was—’

  Oh, I can’t be bothered.

  ‘GUYS, I AM GOING TO BE A FILM DIRECTOR!’

  Faith, Mercy and Max stare at me.

  I know, right? I cannot believe it took me nearly sixteen years and over five hundred Director’s Cut films to figure this ending out. Being a movie star is cool – nice food, big parties – but a director?

  They get to decide how the story is told.

  And that is The Dream, my friends.

  So, yes, it’s a huge loss to the acting industry, but at least now there’s room for other, less towering talents.

  ‘I’m going to be a film director like Dad,’ I repeat triumphantly. ‘Once I’ve trained and done lots of internships and worked my way up. Did you know that only eleven per cent of film directors are women? I have decided that I shall be Director Number Twelve.’

  ‘Po, I don’t think that eleven per cent is the same as—’

  ‘I’M NOT DONE YET, MAXWELL.’ I clap my hands and start jumping up and down. ‘And I’m going to school! Dad says we’ll find a good one nearby. I’m going to be in a class
with other real people in it! Obviously, I’m going to be super popular, but also kind and generous and I’ll throw lots of parties and everyone will be invited. It’s going to be awesommmmmme.’

  Delighted, I spin in a circle.

  ‘Well,’ Mercy observes flatly. ‘If anyone is a perfect candidate for going into full-time intensive education, it’s you.’

  I beam at her. ‘Thanks!’

  ‘I’m also very glad that Mr Gilbert can finally retire.’ Max nods. ‘That poor old man has been waiting for us to fly the nest for at least thirty years. He must be all Valentined out. You know, I’m pretty sure he taught Grandma.’

  Faith has leapt to her feet, eyes shining.

  ‘Hope, we can use my debit card. You’re going to need a pencil case, a backpack, some kind of little white socks – do they wear little white socks? – heaps of pens and—’

  Eff and I squeak and jump up and down together.

  ‘Umm.’ Max holds up a finger. ‘I confess to being a little bit confused, Poodle. Wasn’t this supposed to be a love story? I’m pretty sure this was marketed as a romance. Hearts and flowers, swirly writing and bad transatlantic accents?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mer agrees. ‘What happened to the boy?’

  ‘Oh.’ I grin at them. ‘That didn’t work out. Sometimes it doesn’t. Also, I just want to let you smarty-pants know-it-alls know that I have access to the internet too. The Bechdel test isn’t even from Italy! It’s the test that examines whether or not there is a single scene in a work of fiction in which two female characters successfully have a conversation about something other than a man. So there.’

  ‘Which you just failed,’ Mercy points out. ‘Again.’

  My eyes widen. ‘I was talking to Max,’ I say quickly, crossing my arms. ‘He is a boy and therefore that conversation doesn’t count.’

  All three of my siblings laugh.

  And I laugh too, a bright, happy glow spreading through me. It stretches along my arms and my toes and my fingers and my cheeks and my— Now why are they all looking at each other?

  ‘What?’ I burst out in frustration. ‘What is it? Will you please stop it with your fake invisible coded language? I CAN ALWAYS ALWAYS SEE YOU.’

  ‘Well …’ Mercy says.

  ‘Here’s the thing …’ Effie says.

  ‘There’s just one update we didn’t give you,’ Max says, looking over my shoulder.

  Slowly, I turn round.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Mum says. ‘I’m home.’

  THE END

  Except it’s not the end, is it?

  Because that’s not how it works. We don’t get to choose when the credits roll and the auditorium lights come up. Our scenes just keep happening – passing from person to person – until eventually they become other people’s stories to tell.

  Which sounds pretty good to me.

  Mum goes straight to bed.

  It’s going to take a while before she’s fully back with us. Max, Faith and Mercy lean over the bannisters together. ‘Coming, Mousebear? We’re going to watch a film.’

  I smile. ‘Be there in a second.’

  Once my siblings have disappeared into Faith’s room, I open the door to the library. There’s a faint layer of dust over everything and The Lady of Shalott is still where I threw it, lying open on the desk.

  I carefully close the book and slide it back on to the shelf. Then I walk over to the small brown oily painting and stand as close to it as I can. ‘Hey,’ I say, touching the frame with one finger.

  Elaine keeps her eyes closed, blonde hair fanned out.

  ‘I just wanted to say you’re going to be OK. Any second now you’re going to open your eyes and hop out of this boat. You’re going to live your own life your way. And I promise you the real world will be even more beautiful than you thought it was.’

  Her eyes are still shut, so I lean forward.

  ‘Your face was always lovely,’ I whisper. ‘You don’t need anyone else to give you your happy ending.’

  For a split second, Elaine gives me a tiny smile.

  Joking: she’s a painting.

  Standing on my tiptoes, I give her a brisk little kiss. There’s a loud crack and a line appears in the glass.

  Whoops.

  Then I turn to the chairs where Sophia, Olivia and Madison are slouching. ‘Thanks for everything, guys. I couldn’t have done it without you. It’s been pretty epic, huh?’

  They wave, smile, then – without a sound – they disappear like bubbles.

  Pop pop pop.

  ‘HOPE!’ Max yells from upstairs. ‘WE’VE PAUSED THE TRAILERS. ARE YOU COMING OR NOT?’

  ‘CHILL OUT!’ I yell back. ‘I’M COMING!’

  Smiling, I take one last look round the library. Maybe I’ll visit now and then, when I need a heavy encyclopedia to rest my camcorder on or something. Then I shut the door behind me softly and start walking up the long winding stairs.

  Because life is not a romance.

  It’s not a thriller or a comedy; it’s not a tragedy or a horror or a crime story. It’s not a war film or an action movie, or a historical drama.

  Life is every genre, all mixed up together: the scary bits and the funny bits and the sweet bits and the sad bits and the angry bits and the bits that hurt and the bits you want to rush through and the bits you want to hold on to forever.

  And every single frame of the film is worth watching.

  They’re all part of the story.

  ‘Poop-head?’

  I must have automatically lingered at the window on the landing out of sheer habit. ‘Yes, Mercy?’

  ‘What the hell are you doing now?’

  ‘Oh.’ I glance up. Her dark curls are poking round the side of Faith’s bedroom door. ‘I dunno really. I guess I was thinking about what a doggy-dog world it is, you know?’

  ‘For the love of—’ Mer sighs. ‘Please don’t go around saying that at your new school, Hope. It’s “dog-eat-dog”. The expression is it’s a dog-eat-dog world.’

  I laugh brightly. ‘Umm, no. Since when do dogs eat other dogs? At best it’s a dog-lick-dog world, or a dog-sniff-dog-butt world. Also, why on earth would dogs eating dogs be a good thing?’

  ‘It’s not. That’s why people use it to say life sucks. Idiot.’

  Mercy disappears again and I stare at the door.

  Huh.

  I knew I’d have to go back a school year to catch up, but maybe we should try two just for good measure.

  Still much prefer my version, though.

  Giggling slightly – doggy-dog – I start climbing the stairs again. Oh yes, maybe I could write and direct a film for Drama Club at my new school; it’ll be called It’s a Doggy-dog World and it’ll be all about this girl who meets this guy and goes to America and—

  Wait a minute.

  Spinning, I turn back to the window.

  A boy with light brown hair has appeared in the driveway, wearing jeans and a blue-and-white stripy jumper. He keeps walking towards the house, stopping, looking up at it, scratching his head, turning, walking back a few steps, then staring at the house again.

  I frown. What is he doing?

  Although he’s absolutely gorgeous, so he can keep doing it if he likes. I’ve got time.

  Perching on the windowsill so I have a better view, I watch the hot stranger walk another ten steps towards our front door, then stop and turn away again, bite his lip, spin back and try again. It’s hugely entertaining. He takes another six steps – spinning in little circles – and is just about close enough for me to see he’s muttering away to himself, lifting a finger and rubbing it anxiously over his top—

  BEN?

  Oh my gosh, that’s Moustachio Ben? Ben of the Scrabble Tiles? Ben of the Chess Club and Caterpillars? My old buddy, Crispy Benjamin?

  Nice work, puberty: that is some solid glow-up.

  Also a quick shout-out to razors.

  ‘FAITH!’ I scream happily from the windowsill. ‘FAITH! COME OUT, THERE’S SOMEONE HERE
TO SEE YOU!’

  Delighted, I make myself comfortable.

  From two floors up, I watch Ben scratch his head again, stare at the door, mutter a bit more, flush and straighten his jumper awkwardly. I’m sending down little supportive vibes, encouraging him with my mind.

  Come on, Benjamin. You’ve waited over a decade – time to step up the romantic gesture. You can do it.

  Pick up a kitten or something.

  There’s the soft click of a bedroom door opening behind me.

  FAITH VALENTINE appears at the top of the stairs. She is glowing and pink-cheeked, wearing an electric-orange hoodie with neon-blue leggings and – oh good Lord – one red sock and one green.

  FAITH

  What’s going on? Who is it?

  Grinning, I hold my hands up in a rectangle so my beautiful sister is framed perfectly. And—

  Lights. Cameras.

  Action.

  But Lancelot mused a little space;

  He said, ‘She has a lovely face;

  God in his mercy lend her grace.

  The Lady of Shalott.’

  – Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  Acknowledgements

  My name may be on the cover, but an army of amazing people created this book.

  Huge thanks to Lizzie Clifford, my wise and all-seeing editor: you have helped to guide me on so many stories, and I’d be lost without you. Thanks to Kate Shaw, my agent of a decade, for supporting me so tirelessly and with so much passion.

  To everyone at HarperCollins: Rachel Denwood and Ann-Janine Murtagh; Samantha Stewart, Michelle Misra, Yasmin Morrissey, Jess Dean, Lowri Ribbons, Jane Tait and Mary O’Riordan; Elorine Grant and David McDougall; Elisa Offord, Beth Maher, Alex Cowan; Geraldine Stroud, Jo-Anna Parkinson, Louise Sheridan; Robert Smith and Jessie Ford. Your hard work, talent and creativity brought this story alive, and I am so grateful.