Far From Perfect

by Holly Smale

  Amazed, I stare at my big sister. ‘Say what now?’

  Then I look at her hand on my forearm. Is Mercy … voluntarily touching me? Is there something hidden in her hand? A tiny electric-shock buzzer?

  ‘I can be nice!’ she snaps, folding her arms. ‘Geez, Faith, can you let me be nice for once?’

  I smile and kiss her cheek. ‘Only if you don’t make a habit of it. It’s a bit creepy.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She scowls.

  Triumphantly, Max pulls me through into the kitchen. ‘We made you a cake to celebrate! And by made I mean ordered and by cake I mean doughnuts. Also, a picnic! And by picnic I mean … TA-DA!’

  On the table is the most haphazard collection of food I’ve ever seen. Poorly constructed, soggy tuna-and-tomato sandwiches, piled in precarious stacks. Cheesy puffs spilling out of bowls. What appears to be a plate of boiled eggs with scraps of shell still hanging on. Neon fizzy drinks, already part-drunk, and a plate of tiny sausages on – I look more closely – white dental picks.

  In the middle is a huge roast-dinner platter covered in glazed doughnuts. Each has a letter on it, drawn in icing.

  C O N G R A T L A T I O N S E F F I E

  ‘“U” got dropped on the floor,’ Po explains, licking her fingers. ‘And then eaten. Five-second rule and so on.’

  There’s a huge lump in my throat. Who would I even be without these guys?

  ‘Crikey.’ I smile, sitting down and selecting a dental-pick sausage. ‘And to get a professional caterer in too. Was it the same lot that do Brad Pitt’s birthday parties?’

  ‘He wishes!’ Max crows. ‘They have to eat and then pick their teeth with entirely different cutlery.’

  Laughing, we gather round the table.

  Max stuffs his face with a whole egg, Po and Mercy start arguing over the least mashed-up sandwich and it’s almost like it always used to be. The shouting, the giggling, the insults, the ease and the comfort. Almost.

  ‘Eff!’ Hope says through a mouthful. ‘My idea for Noah’s anniversary gift! It’s that good it will be unparalysed in the whole history of romantic gestures.’

  ‘Unparalleled,’ Max corrects.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You mean unparalleled, Po.’

  ‘Stop presumpting.’ My sister glowers at him indignantly. ‘How do you know what I mean when I haven’t told you what it is yet?’

  I laugh just as my phone starts vibrating.

  INCOMING CALL: Noah

  ‘Put a pin in that, Hope,’ I grin. ‘Although I’ll take whatever you’ve got, obviously.’ Then I pick up the phone and chomp on a cheese puff. Noddy Whatshisface LOL. Something tells me my boyfriend wouldn’t find that funny. ‘Hey! How’s it going? We’re just having the world’s worst picnic.’

  ‘Oy!’ Max complains, eating another egg and idly swiping on his iPad. ‘Rude.’

  There’s a loud crackle.

  ‘… Not … I … Last … What … crackle … Can …’

  ‘Noah, I can’t hear you,’ I smile. ‘We’re in the kitchen. Terrible reception, as per. Hang on.’ Quickly, I leap up and tuck myself neatly behind the fridge again. Ew. Is that a festering courgette? How does so much food get back here when we don’t even cook?

  ‘… Don’t … crackle. Cannot … I …’

  ‘Noah?’ I frown. He sounds like he’s inside a bottle of shaken-up cola. ‘Are you in the studio? Wait a minute, I need to—’

  ‘… You … crackle …’

  ‘Effie.’

  I hold a finger up. ‘One second, Max.’ Then I stick it in my ear. ‘Noah? Is everything all right? Can you hear what I’m—’

  ‘… totally … from … crackle … of …’

  ‘Effie.’

  ‘Wait, Max. Noah’s trying to tell me something—’

  ‘Crackle … explain.’

  ‘FAITH VALENTINE!’ Max bellows behind me. ‘PUT THAT FLAMING PHONE DOWN RIGHT NOW.’

  Shocked, I hang up. My siblings are staring at me with wide eyes. Max’s iPad is glowing on the kitchen table in front of them.

  ‘What? What’s happening?’ My intestines wind themselves into a tight ball. It’s the audition, isn’t it? The story’s got out already, and now the whole world knows that I’m an embarrassment to my family— ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sit down, Effie,’ Max says gently, pulling a chair out. ‘Take a very deep breath because this is going to hurt, sis.’

  What is – how is – who is—

  Be composed, Faith. Be collected.

  ‘I’m not sitting down,’ I say in an eerily calm voice. ‘I’m fine right here, thank you. Please show me what’s on that screen.’

  The iPad is slowly spun towards me.

  And for a second it makes no sense: the photo, the headline, the caption. For a moment, it’s yet another joke I don’t really understand. A poorly executed gag written on a Post-it note, stuck on a wall and signed off with a kiss.

  Then … I get it.

  POP-STAR LOVE RAT CHEATS

  WITH MYSTERY BLONDE

  In the last hour, photographs have surfaced of chart-topping Noah Anthony heartily canoodling with an unknown blonde. Naughty Noah, who is in a committed relationship with celeb stunner Faith Valentine, was spotted kissing the supposed fan at his after-show party. Is this the end for Fainoah?

  ‘Faith,’ Mercy says quietly, eyes dark. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  I look back down.

  Anthony denies everything, claiming: ‘It’s not what it looks like!’ But look at the evidence (left)! Sources were unable to identify the mystery blonde, but onlookers confirmed that two-timing Noah was ‘utterly absorbed’.

  This doesn’t make sense. Noah loves me; I know he does. This is just another misinterpretation, another fake story. Maybe it’s photoshopped. Or a weird angle, and it was just a friendly peck. Maybe this is an old photo, taken years ago, from before Noah and I even met. But – I squint more closely at the fuzzy image – it’s definitely Noah, and his head is clearly shaved.

  Which means this photo was taken in the last two days.

  And they are very clearly kissing.

  ‘Straight after that amazing romantic song he sang for you!’ Po has jumped up from the table, eyes wet and fists clenched. ‘He’s so not getting my romantic gesture now! What a … what a … what an absolute bed-wetting poo-nugget!’

  My phone is ringing again.

  INCOMING CALL: Noah

  I cancel the call.

  INCOMING CALL: Noah

  I cancel the call again. Then I walk into the hallway, sit down on the bottom step of the stairs, take my huge audition heels off and start deliberately putting my neon trainers on.

  ‘Faith!’ Max furiously pulls a trainer out of my hand and throws it into the corridor. ‘Stop it! What’s wrong with you? You can’t just keep … running.’

  Just watch me.

  ‘Umm,’ Mercy says, glancing out of the hallway window. Her cheeks are flushed. ‘Eff. You might want to run fast.’

  I look up tiredly. ‘Why?’

  ‘The paps are already here.’

  I’m not fast enough.

  Within seconds, I’m by the back door with one trainer on, the other in my hand – I’ll hop across the garden – but as I pull it open there are flashes, shouts, questions. I reel back, closing the door again.

  ‘How.’ Turning, I stare at my siblings who are standing in a worried, clustered knot behind me. ‘I don’t understand. How are they on the grounds? It’s … illegal.’

  ‘Somebody must have buzzed them through the gates.’ Max frowns. ‘We’ve foolishly invited them in. Like vampires or delivery men.’

  Mum? Is she so out of her mind she thought fifteen members of the national press were welcome on our doorstep?

  ‘FAITH!’ someone yells through the letterbox. ‘FAITH VALENTINE! ARE YOU OK? YOU MUST BE DEVASTATED!’

  My heart is hammering.

  INCOMING CALL: Noah

  I cancel the call again.

&nbs
p; ‘But I don’t know what to – I don’t think I can—’ My cheeks are starting to burn and my throat tightens. ‘Can somebody please make them go away?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Max puffs up to twice his normal size. ‘I will absolutely tell them where to go. Get to your bedroom, Eff, and I’ll deal.’

  My brother rolls up his sleeves as if he’s going to fix the situation with a few well-placed headlocks.

  ‘And I’m going to rip them apart!’ Po squeaks next to him, jabbing her fists out like a boxer. ‘I’m going to, I’m going to – I’m going to poke their little brains out of their ears with … chopsticks, and then I’m going to put those brains on a barbecue, and then I’m going to take the roasted pieces and cover them in sauce and I am going to eat them!’

  We all stare at her, momentarily distracted.

  ‘Blimey, Hope,’ Max says. ‘Bit of an overreaction. They’re only doing their job.’

  She considers it. ‘Or I’ll yell GO AWAY, YOU MOULDY CHICKEN NUGGETS as loudly as I can?’

  ‘Slightly better.’

  INCOMING CALL: Noah

  Cancel.

  Panic rising, I take a few steps up the stairs. I’m desperate to reach my bedroom, my safe space, where I can lie in the dark and work out how I actually—

  ‘Or,’ Mercy says slowly, ‘you could go out there.’

  I pause. ‘What?’

  ‘You could go out there and talk to them.’ Her black eyes are flashing. ‘Have a say in what’s being written. Put your own story forward. Stop letting everyone else speak for you. You don’t have to be the victim, you know.’

  My big sister is watching me carefully.

  ‘Oooh,’ Max says, rolling his sleeves back down again. ‘Yeah. Scrap my idea, that’s way better. I’d do that.’

  ‘But.’ I take a few cautious steps back down the stairs. ‘I don’t know what my story is. I don’t even know what the story is. I really need to speak to Noah first.’

  INCOMING CALL: Noah

  ‘And let him give you a lame excuse?’ Mercy’s teeth are tightly gritted. ‘Some it’s not what it looks like, you have to believe me, it was a mistake, I love you, baby, please can’t we just forget this ever happened bull? Why? What’s the point? He’s said his piece, Eff. He’s talked to the papers. Now it’s your turn.’

  I cancel the call again. Frowning, I take another tentative step down the stairs. ‘But … what do I do?’

  ‘Yell!’ Hope yelps in excitement. ‘Scream! Throw things!’

  ‘Cry,’ Max offers. ‘Be all super-sad and weepy. That’ll make him feel awful.’

  ‘Be sleepy, like you’re so unbothered you fell asleep!’

  ‘Resolved but dignified! Ready to forgive, but only after a huge amount of begging!’

  ‘But also be brave!’

  ‘And feisty!’

  ‘Disdrawed!’

  ‘Resilient!’

  For the love of— ‘CAN YOU TWO PLEASE STOP YELLING STAGE INSTRUCTIONS AT ME! IT IS NOT HELPING!’ I turn numbly to my big sister. She’s still silent, but it’s her strength and advice I need. ‘Mer, help me. What do I say to them?’

  Mercy frowns. ‘That’s the whole point, Eff. Anything you want.’

  There’s no time to think. Max briefly opens the front door to announce that I will be out to ‘set the story straight’ in ten minutes, then I’m dragged into Hope’s bedroom. I’m quickly given what she’s calling The Ultimate Heartbreak Makeover. Nobody can decide whether I should be flawless – you have no impact on me! – or dishevelled – I am destroyed by this news – or glamorous – I am finally set free! – or pink-eyed and swollen-nosed – what have you done to me? or glowing – I have already moved on!

  ‘It’s so difficult to know,’ Hope says in frustration, dragging her huge make-up cast-offs box out, ‘what shade of lipstick says my long-term boyfriend is kissing other girls while I’m at home in bed.’

  Max shakes his head at her.

  ‘What?’ Her eyes widen. ‘What did I say?’

  By the time I’m led back downstairs, I am both radiant and bedraggled, smudged and well rested, highlighted and matt, knotted and glossy: all set off with deliberate mascara stains and lurid red lips.

  ‘Right,’ Max says, rubbing his hands. ‘Remember, he’s a rat, you’re a goddess, he doesn’t deserve you, you’re too good for this rubbish, lucky escape, close call and all that jazz.’

  ‘We love you!’ Po flicks some water in my face and smudges my eyeliner a bit more. ‘So, so much! Good luck!’

  Mercy studies my face and squeezes my arm. The door opens.

  ‘FAITH!’ Cameras flash. ‘FAITH VALENTINE! HOW DO YOU FEEL?’

  ‘WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON BEING BETRAYED? DID YOU SUSPECT HE WAS CHEATING?’

  ‘HOW DID YOU FIND OUT? DID NOAH TELL YOU?’

  ‘WILL YOU TAKE HIM BACK?’

  ‘WHO’S THE GIRL? IS IT AVERY AGAIN?’

  ‘IS THIS THE FINAL STRAW FOR YOUR ON-OFF RELATIONSHIP?’

  I open my mouth.

  BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP.

  Everyone turns round. An enormous silver limousine is hurtling up the driveway. It stops with a crunch, a door swings open violently and my grandmother charges across the gravel path with her walking stick thwacking the ground like a pirate’s leg.

  Everyone steps back.

  ‘Away!’ She waves her stick in the air. ‘Away, carrion! What kind of circus do you think we’re running? We are Valentines. You’re not on one of your tacky romantic archipelagos now!’

  Confused silence. Then someone rallies.

  ‘Dame Sylvia!’ A Dictaphone is bravely thrust in her face. ‘Dame Sylvia! How do you feel about your granddaughter being cheated on? Did you always think Noah Anthony was a good-for-nothing?’

  ‘No comment,’ Grandma snaps.

  ‘What about the connection between this and recent rumours of infidelity by your son-in-law, Michael?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘How does Juliet feel about the same thing happening to her daughter?’

  I flinch. In all the chaos, it hadn’t even occurred to me yet that somebody might tie the two events together.

  Valentines Can’t Hold On To Their Men.

  Grandma bridles. ‘Are you suggesting,’ she snaps, drawing herself up to her full height, ‘that women are responsible for the inadequacies of the male of the species?’

  That shuts them all up.

  ‘NOW OUT!’ she booms in her gigantic-theatre voice, slamming her stick a centimetre from the journalists’ toes. ‘Go on, shoo.’ Another slam. ‘Or I will make sure you spend the rest of your career writing about kittens in trees, local fetes and ninetieth birthday parties.’

  Within seconds, the front steps are totally clear. We watch as the paparazzi vans make U-turns and drive away.

  ‘Grandma, I—’

  ‘What did I say about opening the door? My darling, you look absolutely frightful. Hope, go inside and make your sister a cup of tea.’

  ‘Absolutely unacceptable … living like barbarians … cheese on the floor … your mother is not … father frolicking around … appalling … running wild … not in all my days …’

  I keep slipping in and out of consciousness.

  My eyes are open, my back is straight, but I keep bobbing to the surface and then sliding under again.

  ‘Yes, Grandma.’

  ‘… Not what I … Don’t you dare think … no way your fault … tacky behaviour … blame yourself …’

  ‘Yes, Grandma.’

  ‘… modern culture … attitude … no integrity …’

  Blinking, I stand up.

  ‘Sorry, Grandma, I appreciate the visit, but I think I need to go and lie down.’

  Slowly, I start walking up the stairs.

  INCOMING CALL: Noah

  ‘Yes.’ My voice sounds hollow.

  ‘Baby?’ Noah breathes out heavily. ‘Eff, oh thank goodness. You have to listen – it’s all been blown out of proportion – you k
now what it’s like – you know it gets all mixed up. You’re the love of my life – I would never hurt you. We can work through this together if you just let me—’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  A fraction of a pause. ‘The thing is, Eff, I don’t know how to really … It was so out of the blue and—’

  ‘Did you do it, Noah?’

  ‘It looks a lot worse than it was, I swear. It was like a minute and I didn’t even speak to her and—’

  ‘Noah, did you kiss another girl or not?’

  Silence.

  ‘Yes. I did. Effie, I am so sorry.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just some girl. It doesn’t matter who, it just matters that I love you, that I choose you, you’re the one I want and you have to listen to what I’m—’

  ‘Thank you for calling, appreciate the information. Do have a nice day.’

  I hang up and keep walking.

  Ping.

  My exclusive interview with Faith Valentine is conducted in her bedroom in the Richmond family mansion, an empty white space she describes as ‘her haven’. Being considered for the lead role in Fright Fortnight is lovely, she says distantly. ‘Acting is a path I’ve been eager to tread since I was a child. To be so many people, to live so many lives, to tell so many stories … there is a kind of magic in it.’

  Faith Valentine is flawless, composed and – of course – startlingly beautiful. But there is also a flatness to her, a kind of absence: an overly polished quality that is strangely off-putting. She speaks as if poorly reciting scripted lines. Her eyes are blank. The only time she becomes animated is when talking about her pop-starlet boyfriend, Noah Anthony. ‘We’re very close,’ she declares passionately. ‘To have love that strong is a true blessing. We’re rock solid.’

  And, in a girl of just sixteen, it is difficult not to find this both disturbing and sad. Is she, I wonder, the kind of girl we want a nation of teenagers looking up to? Is her popularity among young people not a worrying sign of the times we live in?

  With her star inexplicably rising, only time will tell.

  So that’s nice.

  I open my bedroom door. There’s a pile of fashion magazines lying on the bed next to a folded-up blanket, and a mug of slowly congealing tomato soup on my bedside table.