by Holly Smale
‘Sketch, Mayfair. The table is booked for seven pm.’
I survey my wardrobe. ‘Dress code?’
‘Glamorous but respectable. Pretty but not attention-seeking. Simple but striking. You mustn’t look heartbroken or triumphant. You’re not a victim, nor are you an aggressor. Try the pale blue Chanel.’
I yank the hangers about, then pull out a very dull tailored shift dress.
‘You don’t even like Sketch,’ I snap, stripping out of Genevieve’s ‘meek and mild in public’ outfit into my brand-new ‘demurely feminine’ costume. ‘You complain about it all the time.’
‘Darling, if I wanted milk chocolate on my foie gras and strawberries on my cod, I’d get a five-year-old to make my dinner. But I’m not the one meeting you there so I care very little.’
‘You’re not?’ I go very still. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What would meeting your grandmother for dinner achieve? Ridiculous notion. No, I’m sending you on a first date.’
A gigantic wave of fury flashes through me, prickly and hot.
‘You’re NOT.’
‘YES, I AM.’ Grandma is projecting in her large-theatre voice.
‘You can’t just do that!’
‘I can and I have. You didn’t choose so I picked for you. I don’t expect you to fall in love, obviously, just enjoy a mutually beneficial arrangement you both stand to gain from. The candidate wants newspaper coverage. You need to be seen as valuable, wanted and strong. Moving forward, irrepressible. It will work.’
Another burning tidal wave of anger. This isn’t find and replace on a Word document. You can’t just highlight Noah and type another boy’s name in. This is my heart.
‘So no more of this silly behaviour, please. Be the kind, thoughtful, sweet Faith we all know and love and it’ll go beautifully, darling.’ My grandmother is back to using her small-theatre voice. ‘It might even be fun.’
I hurl the shift dress to the floor and kick it savagely.
‘Who is it?’
‘A television star, I believe.’ I can hear Grandma checking the list. ‘Goes by the name Dylan Harris.’
And … I’m done.
‘Faith Valentine? Welcome to Sketch. Your table is …’
‘DYLAN? DYLAN HARRIS? ARE YOU HERE, DILLLLLLLLLLLY? GET READY FOR THE DATE OF YOUR LIFE, BABY!’
Because the whoosh of anger that got me here just keeps on burning, hotter and brighter.
‘WHERE IS HE?’ Heads turn as I swagger through the beautiful restaurant, yelling at the top of my voice. ‘WHERE’S MY FUTURE HUSBAND? YOU’VE WON THE GIRL LOTTERY, HONEY-BUNNY!’
For this evening of hot romance, I selected some massive, skanky tracksuit bottoms from the depths of Max’s laundry basket, an enormous khaki hoodie from Dad’s room, a pair of mismatched neon socks and the pink sliders Mum uses in the garden.
Pretty. Simple. Not tooooooooo glamorous.
‘Oh hello,’ I say, grabbing a bread roll from another table’s basket. ‘I do luuuurve free carbs.’
Then I sit down opposite Dylan and grin.
Even without the photo, it would have been easy to work out which one he was. Handsome, bronzed, bright white teeth, gelled black hair, green eyes, and trying inordinately hard to resist slipping under the table.
‘All right there, Dilpot?’ I stuff the roll in my mouth and spray crumbs as I continue. ‘Good call, picking a seat near the loo. Big breakfast, if you know what I mean.’ I pat my stomach. ‘Fingers crossed they’ve got lots of air freshener, and I’d say if you know what I mean again, but I think you do.’
I wink and his eyes open even wider.
The voice inside me is screaming, Be beautiful! Be elegant! Be feminine! Be nice! But for once I’m not listening.
‘… Faith?’
‘You betcha it is.’ I scratch my left boob. ‘Oh, I like your fake tan, Dylster. It’s so cool that you’re allowed to pick a colour not normally found in nature, you know?’
Dylan opens his mouth. ‘It’s actually a real—’
‘Skin cancer.’ I shake my head. ‘Be wise, man.’
Then I lean back and cradle my naked head in my hands while I look him up and down, up and down, up and down again. He is incredibly hot, in fairness. If you like your boys shiny like a piece of glazed ham, which I do not.
‘Cheers for the flowers,’ I say, sticking a finger up my nose, rummaging a bit and then flicking an invisible bogey across the room. ‘And the heart balloons. Bit needy, but hey – you won! I’m here! My heart is yours!’
‘Well, competition was fierce so—’
‘Please don’t interrupt me when I’m talking. So tell me allllllll about yourself, Dilcakes. Who are you? What do you do? Your life history. Brief synopsis, please. I don’t have all day.’
He gapes for a few seconds.
‘Well … as I think I mentioned, I’m currently on Netflix. It’s a show called Wolfgang and I’ve got the starring role, so I’m a normal guy at school, but during the full moon I turn into a—’
‘Piano-playing hamster?’
‘No-ooo. A werewolf.’
‘Wow. Left swerve.’
‘Yeah. And—’
I click my fingers at the poor waiter. ‘Bring us two plates of the cod. I’m freaking starving.’
Dylan clears his throat. ‘I don’t actually eat—’
‘Oh, you’ll love it, sweetheart. Trust me.’ Leaning back, I put my foot on the table and roll up my tracksuit leg. ‘What do you think of my calves? Nice, huh? They’re so hairy it’s like walking round with two poodles in my trousers.’
The couple at the table next to us start giggling.
For a split second, I feel guilty, then I remember that this total stranger told the national media that we had a ‘connection’ and that he thought it was ‘finally his turn’ and ‘it’s our time’.
Whoosh.
‘So,’ Dylan says, ‘I was going to—’
‘Shhhhhhhh.’ I hold a finger tenderly up to his lips and take a deep breath. ‘Hold that thought. I really need to concentrate.’ I roll my eyes dramatically. ‘Not yet. Not yet. Not—’
A huge belch rips out of me.
‘Goodness.’ I smile at him triumphantly, waving my hands about. ‘That sounded like my brand-new Ferrari. Have you got one? I bet you don’t.’
Dylan opens his mouth.
‘Close your mouth, babe. You look like the fish we just ordered.’
The table next to us snorts again.
‘You’re not … quite what I was expecting.’ Dylan glances at the surrounding restaurant – everyone is watching – and flinches. I don’t think this is quite the publicity he was looking for. ‘We’ve met before – I’m sure you remember. At your mum’s premiere, a few weeks ago. At the Tate Modern. You looked … a bit different.’
Is this why we’re ‘old family friends’? He met me once?
It wasn’t even a good party: it largely involved me dragging a self-destructive Mercy off a DJ table, having a huge catfight with her and then realising much later that Hope had gatecrashed, heard it all and run away to a different country.
Yet he thinks he’s my lasting memory of that evening?
‘Don’t remember you.’ I shrug, picking my nose again. ‘Pretty boys all blur into one.’
‘Thanks!’ He looks inexplicably thrilled. ‘I talked to your little sister for a while. Hit on me pretty hard, but she’s not my type. Bit intense, if you ask me.’
Says the guy who sent me a rose every five minutes.
Also, I’m absolutely certain that my sweet, romantic, hopeful little Po didn’t hit on this total … OK, who am I kidding, she totally did.
‘I’ve seen her ask out an Alsatian,’ I say shortly. ‘Incredibly poor eyesight and judgement.’
‘Here you go, madam, sir.’ Two tiny plates of white fish covered in strawberries are placed on the table between us. ‘I do hope you enjoy your meal.’
I quickly smile at the waiter. I’ll tip him heavily late
r.
Time to start wrapping this up. A little more effort, and I can go home, curl up in my pyjamas, eat a cheese toastie, ring Scarlett and fall asleep. Target achieved – Dylan annihilated – Boy List ruined. Genevieve and Grandma will never send me anywhere with any of them ever again.
Official Worst First Date Ever: nailed it.
‘Umm,’ I say as the star of Wolfgang picks up a fork. ‘Hang on, yours is bigger. Swap?’ I swap the meals over and examine them again. ‘Nope, changed my mind. I’d like mine back. Except with your sauce. And some extra strawberries.’
With a huge grin, I take a dessert spoon and start transferring most of his plate on to mine. You know, Grandma was right: this is fun.
‘What?’ I say as Dylan stares at me. A bit of fish-spit shoots out of my mouth. ‘What’sh wrong?’ Swallow. ‘This date is going really well, isn’t it, Dilly-baby? I think you might totally be The One. I’m feeling a real connection. Like it’s finally your turn. It’s really our time, isn’t it?’
There’s a long silence.
And – just like that – I completely run out of steam.
‘You know,’ Dylan says eventually, leaning back, ‘my agent said asking you out would be great for my reputation. She thought that dating an actual Valentine would give my career a boost.’
I dig into my fish: yes, we all know why he’s here, thanks for clarifying.
‘I wasn’t that keen,’ he continues. ‘I mean, you’re gorgeous, but you’ve always seemed … I dunno … boring? Cold? I date fitties all the time – nothing gets the ladies like a wolf off the telly – but it’s … a bit blah, you know? They’re all the same.’
I gulp down my mouthful, hard.
‘But you’re not like other girls.’ A blindingly white smile is spreading across his face. ‘I mean, this is … refreshing. This is challenging. You’re clearly not into me and I’m … loving it.’
Appalled, I blink three times.
‘So, yeah.’ Dylan Harris nods, as if he’s just made a decision. ‘I would love to see you again, Faith Valentine. Thanks for asking.’
You have got to be freaking kidding me.
ROMANCE BLOSSOMS
FOR VALENTINE
Gorgeous Faith Valentine was spotted last night with TV star Dylan Harris, confirming rumours that they are the hottest new couple in Celebsville. Secretly growing closer ever since Faith’s break-up with love rat Noah Anthony, they made their first public appearance at Sketch. ‘She seemed really comfortable,’ an onlooker said. ‘Dylan’s loved up,’ agrees a mutual friend. ‘He thinks Faith might be The One!’
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, says the T-zone. Missed my window again!
MISSED CALL: Noah
MISSED CALL: Noah
MISSED CALL: Noah
MISSED CALL: Noah
Heya! We forgot to exchange numbers! Don’t worry, I got it off your agent! I’ll call you. Dilpot xxx
MISSED CALL: Unknown number
Party tonight – want to come with? D xxx
PS Dress code is formal so no tracksuits and maybe shave! LOL xxx
MISSED CALL: Unknown number
MISSED CALL: Noah
Eff, WHAT’S GOING ON? Is this why you need ‘space’? So you can date other people?! Nx
And somehow I’m the ‘crazy’ one? Quickly, I type:
Noah, it was a set-up. Promise. I am not dating anyone else. F xx
I’d love to tell Dylan where to go, but sadly I overslept and I’m late again for my acting workshop. Plus, he would probably see it as a declaration of my eternal devotion.
Quickly, I change his number to WEIRDO: DO NOT ANSWER. Then I run down the stairs.
‘All right, sis!’ Max appears in the hallway, shaking a can of whipped cream. ‘’S’up? How was your big rebound date? I’ve already had to run that slimeball off once when he tried it on with Po. Just let me know when it’s time to do it again.’
He flexes a bicep; I grab my bag. As much as I love my brother, I’m not discussing my non-romantic escapades with someone spraying half a can of cream directly into his mouth.
‘Max.’ I look at the kitchen and blink. ‘Did you … clean?’
‘Hmm?’ He sprays whipped cream again and swallows. ‘Noooo. Are you mad? I’ve only just got home. Mum’s been roaming the house at night again like a skinny Santa. Looks like she finally picked up a J-cloth, hurrah!’
Oh, Mum – must check in on how she’s doing after class. I pick my keys up. ‘How was your night?’
‘Grand.’ He grins at me, a blob of cream on the end of his nose. ‘All I’m going to say, Eff, is that I’m finally getting the level of adoration I deserve. It’s alllllll about me.’
Seriously, somebody tell this new girl to run.
‘Speaking of attention,’ my brother continues as I open the front door. The chauffeur is already waiting for me outside, but no Genevieve, thank goodness. ‘Another not-so-little gift arrived for you, Heartbreaker. Hang on.’
Max disappears into the living room, then reappears holding the biggest, fluffiest, most hideous pink teddy bear I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It’s the size of a small cow and is holding a heart saying YOU’RE MINE.
I am flaming not, Dylan.
‘Wanna know what the card says?’ Max asks, waving a gross fluffy paw at me. ‘Dizzer’s really gone for it. A rhyme and everything.’
‘No,’ I say shortly. And I slam the door behind me.
The class is in full flow by the time I arrive.
‘I’VE GOT A MACHINE GUN!’ Diego is roaring at Zoe from the corner of the room. ‘I’m going to use it! Don’t try and stop me, don’t try and—’
At least I hope the class has started. Either that or somebody needs to check that poor Diego’s OK, and maybe take the firearm off him.
It’s been an intense week.
‘Morning,’ Mia whispers with a mischievous look as I slip quietly into the spare seat next to her. ‘How was your date with Dylan Harris? I read it in the papers this morning. He’s so cute. Are you madly in love or is that lies too?’
‘Complete fabrication,’ I whisper back with a wry smile.
‘I have no idea what to believe any more.’ Mia mimes her head exploding. ‘Anyway.’ She points at Diego, still screaming at poor Zoe. ‘We’re finally filming, Effie! Actual scenes! For actual showreels!’
Ivy leans forward, pink with excitement. ‘Improv first, then this afternoon it’s scripted drama.’
I shudder slightly. Improvisation.
Of all the types of drama I’m bad at – which is all of them – making up your own lines is the worst.
‘What have they done so far?’ Fear is starting to tighten my throat. ‘Do we get scenarios?’
‘This is the first one,’ Theo whispers back. ‘Diego’s supposed to be a sixteenth-century monk, but he’s gone all Liam Neeson on us. Zoe’s trying to roll with it.’
‘I don’t think that’s a machine gun, Father,’ she’s saying desperately. ‘Mainly because they haven’t been invented yet.’
My classmates and I grin at each other.
‘I’ve got “Waiting at a Bus Stop”,’ Ivy confides. ‘Bit disappointed, to be honest. I literally did that about forty-five minutes ago IRL.’
‘I’m a flight attendant,’ Mia tells me, bouncing in her chair. ‘Rafe is a pilot who’s passed out mid-flight and I’ve got to wake him up before we crash! I mean, drama.’
‘So unfair,’ Rafe moans darkly. ‘My talents are not being accurately showcased if I’m asleep for the whole scene.’
‘Something tells me he won’t be,’ Ivy sniggers.
We all smile again.
Mr Hamilton frowns at us – shhhhhh – so we huddle closer.
Theo shows me a piece of paper that says You have been caught stealing in a shop. ‘Jem’s the security guard who’s hunted me for years.’
‘Yup,’ she grins. ‘A pack of gum and you’re going down.’
‘AAAAAAAAGHHH!’ Diego yells from th
e corner of the room, pulling out what we can only assume is a sixteenth-century hand grenade and abruptly ending the scene. ‘KABOOOM!’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake—’ Zoe snaps, throwing her hands in the air. ‘Dee, I appreciate the commitment, but we had, like, three-quarters of our time left and I only said two lines.’
‘I was led by gut instinct,’ he says defensively.
‘I’ll lead you by your gut instinct,’ Zoe growls back.
Still grumbling at each other, my classmates make their way back to the group. Swallowing nervously, I look round the remaining cast.
I guess that means I’m with—
‘Zachary and Faith!’ Mr Hamilton calls brightly, checking his list. ‘You guys are up next! Let’s see if we can last the allocated ten minutes, shall we? Or it’ll be back to warm-up ball games!’
The camera light blinks on; I freeze.
Three years ago, I went to see Mum play Hermione in Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale. There’s an incredibly powerful scene where everyone thinks she’s a statue, but she comes back to life. It suddenly feels like the opposite is happening to me: as if I’ve been trapped inside a stiff, cold body, unable to move.
So much for acting exercises and warm-ups and encouragement. I’ve been demoted from wood to marble.
‘Hey!’ Zach says cheerfully, prodding my arm. ‘Eff, I thought we could play this as a romance? You know, a few longing glances, maybe hand-holding. We could perhaps … make out? I mean, if you’re game. I’m game. Anything for the art, y’know?’
‘Nice try,’ Jemima sniggers. ‘Didn’t see that coming, Z.’
I try to smile, but it feels like grey cement is running through my veins. I can’t move, I can’t move, I can’t move.
‘You can do this!’ Mia squeezes my arm. The rest of my classmates smile at me affectionately. ‘Don’t be nervous, Eff! This is your birthright, remember? You’re a Valentine!’
‘Here.’ Zach hands me a piece of paper. ‘Our scene.’
I stare down at it: You are sitting in a hospital emergency waiting room.
Made of stone, I stand up slowly.
‘And –’ Mr Hamilton beams at us – ‘camera’s rolling!’
