by Holly Smale
‘I know that but—’
‘You clearly don’t. Stop finding ways to avoid having actual fun.’
I flinch. ‘Just a few more …’
‘Up. Now.’
‘I’ll just—’
‘Now.’ Frowning, Scarlett picks up a bottle of barbecue sauce and squeezes it hard on to the floor next to me. ‘So what? You gonna clean my mess up too?’
I stare at the brown blob.
‘What about this one?’ She squirts bright yellow mustard next to it. ‘This one?’ Mayonnaise. ‘What about this one?’ Bright red ketchup. ‘Hmm? Gonna scrub, scrub, scrub all night because I feel like being a pain in the butt?’
Confusion lurches in me.
Why? Why would anyone do this? It’s inconsiderate, it’s thoughtless, it’s senseless, it’s—
A big gob of ketchup gets flicked at my head.
I stand up.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I.’ Scarlett flicks at me again. ‘Am. Showing. You.’ Mayonnaise. ‘That consequences.’ Ketchup. ‘Are for tomorrow.’
I wipe sticky, lukewarm condiments off my face and look down: my hoodie is a cross between a hot dog and a Jackson Pollock.
‘Life,’ Scarlett beams, ‘is for today.’
Something is starting to happen in my chest, a tug and a sudden loosening.
I stare at her. ‘Consequences are for tomorrow?’ I say slowly, wiping my cheeks. ‘Life is for today? I’ve never heard a cheesier quote in my entire life. Forget Instagram, wanna embroider that on a pillow?’
Scarlett opens her mouth.
‘How about a fridge magnet?’ I pick up the bottle of ketchup and flick sauce at her. ‘Or a tea towel?’ Mustard. ‘What about a bumper sticker or a phone case?’ Mayo. ‘It would look really good in swirly writing, maybe with pink butterflies circling it, flowers, maybe a—’
We’re both laughing now.
‘Oh, shut it, Valentine,’ Scarlett snorts, punching my shoulder. ‘I’m feeling the burn.’
I punch her back. ‘That’ll be the mustard.’
And whatever it was that was wound tight inside me completely unravels and starts to float away.
‘Yo, Letty!’ A very tall guy walks past and high-fives her. ‘Thanks for the party! Same Friday next month?’
‘Abso-freaking-lutely,’ she grins.
I abruptly stop laughing.
‘Wait.’ The entire flat is in chaos. Glasses and plates are on the floor – chipped or smashed – food is being trodden into the carpets, chairs are broken, sofas jumped on, lights flickering, neighbours furiously knocking. ‘Scarlett, this is your flat?’
I look at the floor, soaked in various condiments. Guilt rushes through me.
‘Oh.’ Scarlett shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Yeah. I mean, if I’m going to embroider a cushion with a life motto, I’d better be able to live it, right?’
‘Or sit on it,’ I say without thinking.
‘Touché, Faith Valentine,’ she laughs brightly, linking her arm through mine. ‘Now let’s go get messy.’
‘Where have you been?’
It’s 4am by the time I finally climb back through my bedroom window. Normally at this hour, I’d either be staring at the ceiling, clawing through another nightmare, or getting ready to go for an incredibly long dawn run.
Weirdly, I don’t feel the impulse to do any of that now.
‘Hmm?’ I flop in exhaustion on my bed. ‘What?’
Mercy is sitting cross-legged in the middle of my rug, like an indignant Aladdin. ‘You’ve been out.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Where did you go?’
‘Oh.’ I rub my face tiredly. ‘I just went for a quick … night jog.’
Mer scowls. ‘Through a hot-dog stand?’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ In fairness, I am sticking to the duvet with a faint pfffft sound. ‘Tripped over a rubbish bag in the park.’
Then I close my eyes. Within seconds, I can feel my sister’s warm breath on my face as she sniffs me all over like a suspicious cat.
‘You stink,’ she points out, disgusted. ‘And what happened to your mirror? Did a bird fly in and smash it or something? I mean, are you …’ Mercy pauses. ‘Like. Uh.’ Another pause. ‘OK and stuff?’
I open one eye in amazement. Did Mercy Valentine just ask me if I’m OK? I’ve been trying to teach her that question for years.
‘Yes. I’m OK.’
Interesting that it doesn’t occur to my sister that I might have broken my mirror on purpose. In her mind, I am nothing but the passive victim of an errant pigeon.
Sleep sweeps over me in waves, so I tiredly pull my filthy hoodie off and fling it across the room. There’s a flash of guilt – pick it up, Faith! Fold it nicely! That’s no way to treat your belongings! – before I firmly roll towards the wall.
Consequences are for tomorrow.
Life is for today.
I mean, it’s already tomorrow, but there’s no need to be so literal.
‘Did you just throw your—’ My sister sucks in her breath. ‘Holy guac, Eff. What have you done to your head?’
I shrug into my pillow. ‘Felt like a new look.’
‘Right.’ A sharp, shocked laugh. ‘Sure. A new look. I can’t help noticing that it’s very similar to the haircut your loser, cheating ex-boyfriend has. Do you have any thoughts of your own, Faith?’
Suddenly I’m not that tired. I sit up in bed and stare hard at my sister. Firstly, Noah is not my ex – it’s been one day. I have no idea what to do about the situation yet. Secondly, does she really think I’m pitiful enough to shave my hair off for a boy?
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re copying him, right? To win him back.’ She scowls. ‘It’s kind of pathetic, Faith. No offence.’
As if no offence nullifies everything rude that goes before it, instead of highlighting it.
Something inside me snaps.
‘Get out, Mercy.’
‘But—’
‘Get out of my bedroom.’
My sister is staring at me as another crackling wave of anger whips through my body. Eyeliner all over my white pillows, hairs all over my carpet, stinky sweat seeping into my duvet, snoring, cold feet on my legs at 4am, whimpering in her sleep, every single speck of my privacy completely invaded on a nightly basis.
It’s like having a really ungrateful stray dog living with me and I don’t even like dogs.
‘Eff,’ Mercy says, holding her hands out in surprise. ‘Maybe I’m wrong. I didn’t necessarily mean that—’
‘OUT!’ I shout, jumping up. ‘GET. OUT!’
With a burst of energy, I grab my sister under each armpit and start dragging her bodily towards the door. It’s surprisingly easy. Who knew all that weightlifting and downward dogging would come in handy for something other than Instagram?
‘Whoa. Faith.’ Mercy’s so shocked she’s gone into rag-doll mode and is just letting herself be pulled across the floorboards. ‘Come on, dude. This is mad. All I meant was—’
I chuck my sister into the hallway so hard she lands on her bottom with an oof.
‘GO. AWAY.’
‘But—’ Blink. Blink. ‘Where am I going to sleep?’
‘YOU HAVE YOUR OWN BEDROOM, MERCY. OR YOU CAN SLEEP IN THE HALLWAY. UNDER THE STAIRS. HANGING UPSIDE DOWN FROM THE RAFTERS LIKE A BAT. I LITERALLY DON’T CARE – JUST GIVE ME SOME SPACE!’
I slam the door between us and lock it.
Click.
Then I curl up in my empty, silent bed and fall deeply asleep.
HAVE A LITTLE FAITH!
Don’t look so sad, Faith! (Pictured left, with bold new haircut.) Competition is hotting up for the most eligible bachelorette in town. Dylan Harris – star of Wolfgang and an old friend of the family – told us EXCLUSIVELY that he has always had a ‘special connection’ with Faith and it ‘might finally be their time’. Cheating ex, Noah Anthony, declares that he ‘won’t give her up without a fight’.
Who will win? Find out here first!
BEEP.
Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep—
‘SHOWER, VALENTINE!’ Scarlett yells as I poke my head out of my bedroom window in confusion the next morning. ‘THEN COME DOWN! WE’RE GOING FOR A DRIVE!’
She beeps again for no apparent reason.
BEEP.
This time, the battered orange Mini has somehow ended up parked halfway across our patio, back wheels ripping up the lawn. I look at my watch: it’s not even 10am yet, which means I’ve had less than six hours of sleep. For me, that’s actually pretty good.
‘WHERE?’ I shout back.
‘DOES IT MATTER?’ she bellows.
I realise that, for the first time in many months, I don’t actually have anything to do or anybody to see today. So I jump in the shower and wash all the sticky remnants of last night’s party off.
Then I climb carefully back down the fire escape. Sure, I could use the stairs, but I don’t want to run into Mercy. She might push me down them.
‘Here,’ Scarlett says, chomping on a cereal bar as I push yet another wave of snack detritus off the passenger seat and climb into her car. ‘Nutrition.’
She hands me a cup of what is basically melted strawberry ice cream with a straw.
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking it anyway.
‘Hold on to your horses,’ she instructs me chirpily. ‘Or ponies. Unicorns. Whatever animals you rich people use as transport.’
Scarlett Bell turns upbeat music on at full blast. And we screech out of the driveway, taking a sharp left and zooming across the outskirts of London until the grey melts and everything becomes green and rolling and vivid. I can feel my spirits lifting again.
As we sing and bop our heads – as I slurp on my milkshake and the warm sunshine bakes our cheeks – I start to feel … a little bit different.
Light, giddy, directionless.
‘You know,’ I say as the scenery turns into something out of a Merchant Ivory film. Slurp. ‘I didn’t take you for a country bumpkin.’
‘Oh, I’m not.’ Scarlett shakes her head. ‘Londonite to the core. But I like to drive past a tree every now and then. Reminds me of how much I deeply adore concrete. Chop ’em all down, I say.’
I laugh – slurp – and the poor little car starts to struggle up a steep hill.
My phone pings:
First morning in a year without my wake-up text. I miss you. :( N
I abruptly put my milkshake down.
‘Who is it?’ Scarlett glances across as the Mini starts to race with relief down the other side of the hill. ‘You look like somebody just jammed a knitting needle up your nostril and twisted it clockwise.’
‘Noah,’ I say, looking down as my phone pings again.
‘Ah.’
My heart is broken. I can’t do any of this without you. Please talk to me. :’( N
We’re at full sob-face emoji now and my stomach twists.
‘I’m going to have to call him,’ I say quietly, turning the jaunty music low until it’s almost inaudible. ‘Sorry.’
Then I hover over Noah’s number in my phone for a few seconds, knowing exactly how this conversation is going to go. He can’t believe he did it, he’s a mess, it was an accident, can we please meet to talk about it? To which I’ll end up replying: I miss you too, I understand, everyone makes mistakes, of course we can, see you in an hour.
Bingo. Back together, relationship on track again. Which is good, right? So why does tapping the call button feel so hard I need two hands and some kind of sky-crane?
‘You don’t have to do anything,’ Scarlett says as I snatch up my milkshake so I can chew aggressively on the straw. ‘You know that, right?’
‘Sure,’ I nod, still chewing. ‘But I need to—’
‘Need to is the same as have to, Eff.’
‘I know that.’ I continue to stare at Noah’s name on my phone. ‘It’s just … I can’t handle the thought of him sitting there on his own, feeling sad and lonely, reaching out to me for help, and me …’
‘Not being at his beck and call?’
‘No, it’s not like that.’ I bend the top of the straw over. ‘Being the … cause of his unhappiness.’
Scarlett snorts. ‘You realise he caused his own misery, right? Because, unless you got that blonde girl and physically Sellotaped her to his lips while he was unconscious, you’re not responsible for this mess, either.’
I flinch slightly. ‘No, but—’
‘How do you feel, Eff?’ We’re driving through woods now and filtered sunlight is flickering across our faces. ‘Screw what Noah wants for a hot minute. What do you want?’
For a brief moment, I close my eyes – trying to picture the future with all the different emotions battling inside me.
It’s a big, noisy muddle.
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘Time to work it all out?’
‘Then ask for it.’
What – I could just … do that? I chew on my straw for a few more minutes, then send:
I miss you too, but I just need a bit of time and space to sort my head out, please. Thank you. Fx
One second later, my phone rings:
INCOMING CALL: Noah
My stomach lurches. I cancel it; it starts again immediately—
INCOMING CALL: Noah
Cancel. Again—
INCOMING CALL: Noah
Cancel. And again—
INCOMING CALL: Noah
I answer the call.
‘Hello?’ My throat is tight. Clearly, we’re having this conversation whether I’m ready to or not. ‘Noah, I—’
The car screeches to a halt; my phone disappears.
‘What—?’
‘You’ve asked once,’ Scarlett says as she switches my mobile off and sits on it. ‘You shouldn’t have to ask twice.’
She turns the music up full blast.
‘Now sit back, Valentine, and enjoy going absolutely nowhere.’
Why did the tree go to the dentist?
To get a root canal.
Scarlett arrives again the next day. And the day after that.
Every morning, I hop into her orange Mini and am offered junk food, then we turn the music up as high as it will go and race away together: driving, eating, singing, talking, laughing.
By the time she zooms up the driveway on the fourth day, smashes into a five-tiered plant pot and beeps seven times, I can’t believe I ever found her intimidating.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, it feels like I’ve actually escaped my life. And it is glorious.
Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeepbeep—
‘I’M COMING!’ I yell cheerfully, sticking my head out and waving at her. ‘KEEP YOUR KNICKERS—’
‘Oooh!’ There’s an excitable voice behind me. ‘Are we climbing out of windows now, Eff? So cinematic! You know, I don’t have a fire escape, but I think I could totally get out on the ledge and hop across if I work on my jumping skills.’
I pause in horror, one foot on my windowsill.
Hope’s standing in the doorway – optimism lighting up her heart-shaped face – and I’m suddenly cold all over. I cannot be responsible for my little sister trying to hop across a third-storey roof in an attempt to be exactly like me.
Consequences might be for tomorrow, but mine cannot be Po splatted on the driveway.
‘I’m not climbing out!’ I laugh, quickly pulling back in. ‘That’s very dangerous, Hope. Promise me you’ll never, ever climb out of your window, OK? I was just … checking. To. See. If … it’s raining.’
Rain is pelting the window like bullets. I’m literally the worst actress on the planet.
‘It is.’ Po nods guilelessly. ‘That’s what all the water is!’
Then she plops on to the bed and stares round my room with her usual expression of awe. ‘I haven’t seen you in days, Eff,’ she says breathlessly, ‘and I’ve got so much to tell you. Ben’s been teaching me how to play Scrabble! Except he lets me make up words because he says it’s my specialilit
y.’
I laugh. ‘Good for Ben.’
‘Do you want to see him? I know he’s dying to spend some time with you.’
For the love of—
‘I’m a bit busy, Po. Can you keep him entertained for me while I’m out?’
‘Yes.’ She nods gravely. ‘I am highly entertaining. That’s what Ben says anyway. Also, Effie, please, please, please can I touch your head? It’s all over the papers and I’m your sister and I haven’t even touched it yet! Please?’
With a small smile, I take my cream beanie off.
The paps caught a photo of my bald head two days ago and it’s now being discussed in depth across the national media. Nobody can decide if I’m heartbroken, or if I’ve had a nervous breakdown, or I’m making a feminist statement, or I’m trying to get attention, or I’m just trialling a brave new military look.
Either way, everyone has an opinion. Plus, strangers have started randomly touching my head without asking first.
‘Oh my goodness!’ Po squeaks, running her hands over my scalp like it’s a magic crystal ball. ‘So cool! The mags are saying you’re even more beautiful without your hair and I agree – you’ve totally started a trend!’
‘Thanks, baby.’ I kiss her cheek. ‘Also, I can run, like, fifteen per cent faster now. Less air resistance.’
My sister’s eyes widen. ‘Really?’ She pulls on her curly ponytail and grabs a pair of scissors from my desk. ‘So do I—’
‘No.’ I take the scissors out of her hands and yank my beanie firmly back on. ‘Hope, leave your lovely hair alone.’
‘OK,’ she sighs dramatically as I grab my bag and head for the door. ‘Celery.’
I pause. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Celery.’ My sister rolls her eyes and says patiently, ‘It’s what people say when they’re resigned to something really unfortunate, because nobody really likes celery, but we all have to eat it anyway.’
A bubble of laughter pops in my throat.
‘You mean c’est la vie, sweetheart. It’s French for that’s life. But keep using celery – I love it nearly as much as I love you. Have fun entertaining Ben today, OK?’
Blowing her a kiss, I run down the stairs in a way that can be easily copied without causing my sister bodily harm.
