Far From Perfect

by Holly Smale

  ‘Oh, great, she’s going to ruin everything.’

  Muddy purple trainers appear at the edge of my vision. ‘Hey, you, get off the stage.’

  Overwhelmed, I clamber down.

  ‘Curl in a ball on the floor and breathe.’

  I do as I’m told.

  ‘Now close your eyes and concentrate, OK?’ The voice is low and husky, a laugh bouncing across it like a pebble. ‘You’re perfectly round. You’re bright and bumpy. You’re sweet and you come in segments. You’ve got pips and taste delicious with chocolate. Got it?’

  I close my eyes and strain. ‘No. What?’

  ‘If you can convince yourself you’re an orange, you can convince anyone you’re anything.’ A familiar dry laugh. ‘Now get up and try again.’

  Slowly, I stand up and clear my throat.

  Be the Orange.

  ‘I-AM-INNOCENT!’ I yell, pushing Mum’s floppy hat away from my face as my lines come flooding back. ‘It was him, with a spanner, in the conservatory! I saw him! You are the killer, sir! Confess!’

  There’s a ripple of relieved applause – finally, that’ll do, you can get down now – then it’s the girl in scarlet’s turn. She pulls me off the box with an elaborate eye-roll and commences her three-page, self-written monologue.

  I turn to my purple saviour.

  The professor winks – so proud, so loving – and then, slowly, starts to crumble into powder.

  Into paint.

  Into watercolours of lilac, violet and lavender: melting into the air, swirling in a bright amethyst circle before drifting towards the window, and I realise it’s open and I jump, I jump as high as I can, trying to close it, trying to hold the colour in my hands, but the purple’s running over my fingers and down my arms and it’s seeping through me and into me and I can’t, I don’t know how to, I can’t keep it—

  I can’t keep it—

  I can’t—

  I—

  With a start, I lurch upwards.

  ‘Where am I? No, no, what time is it?’

  Alarmed, I stare at my hands. Twisting round – I’m still in the back of the limo – I peer out of the blackened window.

  We’re parked at the end of my driveway, but the sun is rosy and low. How long did I sleep for? This can’t be happening. I’ve missed the schedule for posting the rest of Genevieve’s photos, I need to shower, face-mask, wash my hair, diffuse it, dress, prepare, apply make-up, learn another script, phone Noah, plan for tomorrow—

  Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no—

  ‘I was told to let you sleep, miss.’ The driver puts his newspaper down and gives me a kind glance over his shoulder. ‘Your grandmother said you looked like you needed it.’

  Flushing, I grab my phone: 17.30. It’s flashing furiously, the little blue light blinking like an indignant eye.

  MISSED CALL: Hope

  MISSED CALL: Hope

  MISSED CALL: Hope

  MISSED CALL: Hope

  MISSED CALL: Hope

  Where r u? COME HOME NOW!!! Po :) XXX

  Yo, sis, you with the BF? Your needed here! Max x

  LOL I mean *you’re. Don’t judge. Max x

  MISSED CALL: Hope

  MISSED CALL: Hope

  MISSED CALL: Hope

  Hi, Faith,

  I’ve had feedback from the audition.

  They’ve decided to go in a different direction, but wanted to thank you for your time. They did mention that you struggled somewhat, so again I would like to suggest that we look at smaller roles, with a view to building up to more prominent characters gradually. This is an established way of developing a long-term acting career, and allows you to hone your talents steadily.

  I do hope you are not too disappointed.

  I have attached another script for auditions next month.

  Persephone

  MISSED CALL: Hope

  MISSED CALL: Mercy

  My eyebrows shoot up. Mercy?

  I wasn’t even sure she had my phone number. Every time we argue, she holds her phone in the air and pointedly deletes me.

  Quickly, I thank John, leap out of the car and start running towards the house. I can worry about the audition later. I’ve already allocated a full hour at around 3am to lying awake, staring anxiously at the ceiling, so that email will fit right in.

  Then I push through the front door and—

  ‘… HOUSE! HOW DARE YOU SWAN IN AND—’

  ‘—MORTGAGE. AND BILLS. AND THE—’

  ‘—THIS FAMILY FOR A HUNDRED YEARS, AND YOU WANT TO BRING YOUR BIT OF FLUFF INTO MY—’

  ‘ROZ IS NOT A—’

  ‘SQUEEZE. FLING. BETTER?’

  ‘STOP BEING CHILDISH, JULIET! I DIDN’T SUGGEST THAT—’

  ‘DON’T YOU DARE “STOP BEING CHILDISH, JULIET” ME! I WON’T BE SPOKEN TO AS IF I’M—’

  ‘THEN DON’T ACT SO—’

  Biting my lip, I enter the living room.

  It’s like being in an aeroplane. One minute you’re calmly reading Variety and eating your dinner; the next you’ve flown into a storm cloud so thick and dark you can’t see anything. All you can feel are the shudders, the spiralling, while everything starts rattling and your beef stroganoff ends up in your lap.

  My mother and father are the storm.

  Mum, thin and beautiful and silver and electric – crackling in her collarbones, knuckles, the point of her chin – while Dad roars, low and loud, rumbling a few seconds later.

  To my right, Max is lying on a sofa: faux-casually eating an apple, long legs stretched out, sunglasses on, pretending to read a book. Hope is sitting on another sofa, eyes on the ceiling, fingers clutched tightly. Mercy is hovering on her feet, an unnatural brightness in her eyes and a strange flush to her cheeks.

  So much for the ‘amicable divorce’, guys. Why do actors and directors need an audience for everything?

  ‘WE DISCUSSED THIS!’ Dad booms. ‘JULIET, WE DISCUSSED THIS, IN DEPTH, FIVE DAYS AGO! WHAT IS THIS? WHY MUST YOU ALWAYS TURN EVERYTHING INTO A—’

  ‘—BRING THAT WOMAN AND REPLACE ME AS IF I’M SOME—’

  ‘—NOT WHAT I’M SUGGESTING. THIS IS NOT HOW ADULTS BEHAVE—’

  ‘—DARE TELL ME HOW ADULTS—’

  Po sees me and jumps up like an overwound jack-in-the-box.

  ‘Eff!’ She runs over, holding out a fabric tote with an embossed school crest on it. ‘Look! They gave me a full branded pencil case like I told you and there’s a drama club and I met this girl called Olivia! Insane, right? She’s a Pisces just like you so we’re super compatible. I think she’s going to be my best friend forever, how cool is that?’

  Umm, I’m not Pisces. My birthday’s in October, I’m Libra. But now is not the time to make that correction.

  My little sister’s cheeks are also pink and she’s bobbing up and down on her tiptoes, which is what she does when she’s trying to be anywhere else. When she’s trying her hardest to not be here.

  I glance at my other siblings. I’m not sure how long this fight has been going on, but Max’s eyes have glazed over under his sunglasses and a small muscle in Mercy’s jaw is ticking like the second hand of a clock.

  This needs to stop, and I mean immediately. Quickly, I snap into action.

  ‘Dad!’ I walk calmly through the thick storm cloud and kiss his cheek. ‘How was the flight? I’ve missed you! How’s California? Did the film wrap up well? Is Roz OK?’

  Then I turn to my mother. ‘Mum! I met one of your biggest fans today. She was saying how much she enjoyed Pinnacle, and how incredibly talented you are.’

  ‘Po?’ I turn to my baby sister, who’s staring at me with wide eyes, waiting for instructions. ‘Could you make us all a cup of tea? Max, why don’t you take Dad’s bags upstairs? Mercy—’ My sister scowls, but there’s relief on her face too – as if I’ve just pulled the plug on a TV show she hated, but couldn’t stop watching. ‘Could you get some … biscuits?’

  My parents are slowly coming back to themselves. Looking around in be
wilderment, like small children waking up. Dad’s embarrassed and Mum is shutting down again.

  They’re not really fighting – we know that – but sometimes you have to step in before they rip themselves apart just to make sense of the pieces.

  ‘Biscuits?’ Mer scowls. ‘Get biscuits? I’m not a dog.’ But she flashes me a glance of gratitude and makes a swift exit.

  The tension is draining out of the room.

  ‘Juliet,’ Dad says in a much lower voice, turning to Mum with beseeching eyes. ‘Please. Obviously, I wasn’t going to bring Roz here. It would be hugely inappropriate. She’s staying at a hotel in town. I just thought it would be a good idea for everyone to meet before the paps find out. You know we still haven’t made the divorce public yet.’

  My mother holds her lovely head up.

  ‘Well.’ Her grey eyes are remote and distant: Elvis has left the building. ‘You could have just said so, Michael. It’s a misunderstanding. We just don’t have the space for visitors, I’m afraid.’

  We have fifteen bedrooms.

  ‘Mmm.’ Dad coughs. ‘I thought the kids might want to come out for a quiet dinner with Roz. Maybe they can get to know her.’

  ‘Yippee for us,’ Mer says flatly, returning with empty hands and a mouth full of cookie. ‘Your brand-new side order sounds an absolute treat, Dad.’

  ‘She is!’ Po squeaks behind her, splashing three cups of tea on the white carpet. ‘Roz is amazing, Mer! She’s soooo kind and sooooo clever and she has these shorts that have, like, a million pockets in them and oh my Ryan goshlings, I can’t wait for her to psychologise you all. Especially you, Max.’

  ‘Good-oh,’ Max laughs. ‘In fairness, I am possibly the most fascinating Valentine character.’

  ‘You’re not,’ Mercy snaps. ‘You just think you are.’

  And I feel my family slowly recalibrating: finding our places, remembering our lines, resuming our positions.

  ‘Obviously, I’d love to join you,’ Mum says icily. ‘But the American shrink with zero fashion sense will have to get my signature another time.’

  With a stiff back, she leaves the room.

  ‘Blimey,’ Max whispers as we slip into the silent hallway. ‘Nice one, Eff. Five more minutes and we’d have ended up with our own reality show. On which note—’

  Honestly, I don’t feel very well. It’s as if the black cloud in the room had to go somewhere, so I breathed it all in. And now it’s lodged in my chest like thick tar, squelching and sticky.

  My phone pings and I scan the pop-up.

  ‘Faith,’ my brother says as I abruptly sit down on the bottom stair and tighten the laces on my trainers. ‘Sis … please tell me you’re not going for another run.’

  I frown. Exercise is good for you – everybody knows that.

  ‘I just need some fresh air.’

  NOAH ANTHONY ‘NEEDS ALONE TIME’

  Furious Faith Valentine fought on-off boyfriend Noah Anthony in Abbey Road this morning. As he attempts to record his latest album, Faith was pushing him away with tears in her eyes, rebuff ing every effort he made to calm her down.

  ‘It’s clear,’ experts say, ‘that she doesn’t like Noah spending time on anything but her. This level of clinginess will drive him away.’

  Noah agrees, confiding: ‘I need some alone time.’

  Breathing hard, I follow the river.

  Pounding the footpath that winds from the bottom of our garden, I try to focus on the air in my lungs and the soft thud of my trainers in the mud. On the muted colours of the day, the beautiful silvers and greys and the – I mean what the actual—?

  Focus on the pumping of your blood, Faith. On the warmth in your legs, the heat in your cheeks.

  Breathe. Breathe. Brea—

  I mean, are they freaking kidding me? I turned up at the studio because Noah asked me to. I told him to focus on writing.

  Dipping round a tree, I hop over a log.

  We have never been ‘on-off’. He was on tour.

  With a sharp burst of angry energy, I run faster. I cannot believe they’ve misquoted him on purpose yet again – I take a left turn deeper into the wood – his I need alone time might be totally out of context, but they’ve found evidence for it anyway. Unflattering pictures of me looking hostile, Noah exhausted and oh-so-very-patient.

  Breathe. Breathe, br—

  That movie-star kiss was never getting printed, was it?

  Boring Couple Snogs For The Three Thousandth Time doesn’t sell papers. And I know it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter – they’re just photos, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter—

  Except it does.

  I’m going to see these photos again and again: when they’re cut out and stuck in my scrapbook, when they’re analysed in magazines, when one of his fans yells, ‘WHY CAN’T YOU JUST BE NICE TO HIM!’ outside a restaurant. When ‘chilling with laid-back Avery’ is published next to a photo of Noah and a pretty backing dancer on tour; when a big role comes up and they pass me over for someone who’s apparently less of a diva.

  It’ll be there every time I reach for Noah’s hand in public, then pull back in case I look pathetic; when I lean in for a kiss, but stop in case I seem desperate.

  And every article, every photo, every headline will slip between us. Writing a version that isn’t us, but that on some level we both start to believe anyway. Until the gap between reality and fiction is too big to cross any more, just like it’s become with my parents.

  Scowling, I brush past a branch and feel it tug and rip my stupid floaty dress.

  I’ll give them freaking ‘furious’.

  Except I won’t, obviously.

  Instead, I draw to an abrupt halt, wipe my nose on my wrist and grab my phone again. Screw Genevieve’s cute pug photo, I need to post a selfie quickly or the world will think I’ve gone into humiliated hiding.

  Holding it over my head, I dimple and smile brightly.

  Click.

  I examine the shot. There’s a random crisp packet on the ground behind me so I pick it up, stick it in my dress pocket and try again, tilting my chin down and angling it.

  Click.

  Now my forehead looks massive.

  Click.

  My left eye is squinting.

  Click.

  Waaaaay too much boob. Let’s keep this clean and on brand, people.

  Click.

  Strained and desperate.

  Click.

  Controlling?

  Click.

  Crazy as a box of badgers.

  Click.

  You know how if you say a word over and over again it starts to lose all meaning and just sounds like a random noise? That’s kind of what’s happening to my face.

  Click.

  It’s started looking like a collection of weird shapes.

  Click.

  A couple of hazel blobs, a sticky-out nobble, two pink puffy flaps, a scattering of brown splodges and some random fluff.

  Click.

  Until it feels like I could reach a hand out and rearrange my features: stick my lips on my forehead and push my eyes straight into my ears, turn my nose upside down like Mrs Potato Head.

  Click.

  How d’ya like that, Instagram?

  Beautiful evening! It’s times like this my heart wants to burst with happiness!! Have a lovely night, everyone xxx

  And … POST.

  Another two pop-ups bounce on to my screen:

  HELLO FROM THE T-STER! GREAT NEWS!

  Our favourite gal-sleb, EFFIE VALENTINE, is gonna be on the single market real soon! Pop star idiots can’t HANDLE a REAL WOMAN. Everyone knows HAAAAWTIES are hard work. If he can’t be bothered, I’ll step in! Call me, Effie! Number on CONTACT ME page.

  FAITH VALENTINE – BEAUTY OR BASIC?

  Click below to vote!

  For the love of—

  It’s like I’m an impulsively purchased convertible car – attractive in the showroom, but so high-maintenance I end up stuffed in a garage an
d covered with a dust sheet.

  A bolt of nausea pulses through me. Swallowing, I drop Noah a quick text.

  Hey. These headlines, huh? Gah! LOL xx

  There’s another pop-up:

  NEON IS BACK!

  White dress and neon sports bra? We’re here for it! Unlucky in love, Faith V, was the latest celeb spotted showing off her underwear. For a more affordable version, click HERE, HERE and HERE.

  This time, I actually laugh.

  Don’t dress like me, guys. You’re unwittingly taking your fashion lead from the directives of a seventy-year-old woman in a chiffon scarf and a girl who regularly showers with wet wipes.

  Ping.

  IKR?! You look gorgeous though, don’t worry!

  N xx

  I stare at Noah’s text blankly – umm, not exactly where I was going with that one – then type back:

  Awww. Thanks :) :) :) xx

  Then – with no smile on my face, let alone three – I slip the phone back into my pocket.

  And I keep running.

  MISSED CALL: Persephone

  MISSED CALL: Grandmother

  MISSED CALL: Persephone

  Hi Faith,

  Please call me as soon as you can. Persephone

  MISSED CALL: Persephone

  MISSED CALL: Persephone

  Faith, noted film journalist is desperate to talk to you. Please contact me ASAP. Persephone

  MISSED CALL: Grandmother

  MISSED CALL: Noah

  Hey baby, just seen the papers!! TOLD YOU SO. You’re the greatest Nxxxx

  Umm, DUDE. Max

  Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!!! Po xxxxxx

  WT actual

  Mercy considers her narrative voice instantly recognisable so she rarely signs off her text messages. Blinking in confusion, I sit up abruptly in bed and stare at my alarm clock.

  It’s 10am. I must have run so hard for so long yesterday that I managed to sleep through my alarm, my body clock, the birds outside, my phone going crazy. It’s flashing so hard it looks like it’s about to take off like a firework.

  I roll over – the left side of my bed is crumpled and there’s black eyeliner smudged all over the pillow. Mercy must have fallen asleep and got up again without me even noticing.