Far From Perfect

by Holly Smale

  I shuffle into position.

  ‘Oh my days,’ Zachary huffs with an elaborate sigh, sitting on a prop-chair. ‘There is nothing worse than Sitting in a Hospital Waiting Room. Am I right, baby?’ He takes my hand and kisses my cheek. ‘How shall we spend all this extra time? Hmmmm?’

  My classmates giggle.

  I stare at him. This is nothing like a hospital waiting room. There are no peeling posters about bowel conditions or the importance of checking your boobs for lumps. There isn’t a weird, tangy, metallic smell in the air. Everything’s not painted mint-green. My chair isn’t hard and sticky, and there aren’t people slumped around us with anxiety and tiredness etched on their faces.

  Nobody’s whispering, nobody’s crying, nobody’s whimpering in pain, crumpled on the floor.

  ‘How do you think she is?’ Zach squeezes my hand and looks at the clock on the wall. ‘I hope she’s OK. She’s been in there for hours.’

  I glance up too.

  It hasn’t been hours.

  It feels like it’s been days, weeks, years, and stars have imploded and civilisations have died and the oceans have dried up and rainforests have emptied and we’re still here, still staring at the door.

  ‘Do you think we should go and get some coffee?’ Zach touches my knee. ‘I could do with something to keep me awake.’

  I look at his hand.

  I don’t need something to keep me awake. It’ll be sleep I can’t find.

  Sweating in the middle of the night, looping my arm over Mercy, setting my alarm for 6am so the night is shorter.

  ‘Faith?’

  Wandering the hallway in the dark on my own.

  ‘Faith?’

  Pain rips through me.

  ‘Hello, Faith? Are you still there?’

  Across me, like somebody’s slowly paring back my skin. Flaying me, stripping me, peeling me like an orange an orange an orange an orange an orange.

  ‘Umm, Eff—’

  ‘GET AWAY FROM ME! GET YOUR HAND OFF ME! DO NOT TOUCH ME!’

  ‘S-Sorry, I didn’t—’

  ‘NO!’ I jump up, shaking all over. ‘STAY AWAY. I DON’T WANT YOU TO SAY SORRY. I WANT YOU TO ROT IN HELL.’

  Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

  ‘Faith, I—’

  With both hands, I grab Zach’s jumper, haul him out of his chair and drag him bodily across the room.

  ‘I HATE YOU!’ I scream, slamming him against the wall.

  ‘Uh.’ Blink. ‘I don’t know what you—’

  Slam.

  ‘YOU WERE ON YOUR PHONE.’

  Slam.

  ‘YOU WERE ON YOUR PHONE, YOU SELFISH IDIOT. I WANT TO HURT YOU. I WANT TO KILL YOU. I WANT TO BREAK YOU INTO TINY PIECES THE WAY YOU BROKE US.’

  My face is wet: tears, spit, snot.

  Slam.

  ‘Ow, Faith.’

  ‘YOU LEFT ME WITH ALL THIS MESS. I’M SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE WHO HOLDS IT TOGETHER AND CLEANS IT UP AND I CAN’T, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO, I’M NOT STRONG ENOUGH.’

  ‘Faith!’

  ‘SO I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE SORRY. I DON’T CARE IF YOU HAVE SLEEPLESS NIGHTS. BECAUSE YOU’RE A STRANGER AND YOU GET TO LEAVE THIS ROOM AND NONE OF US EVER WILL.’

  ‘Cut, Faith. Scene over.’

  I’m crying openly, blind and trembling.

  ‘And I’m tired,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so tired of pretending. I can’t be an actress because I am acting all the time.’

  ‘FAITH!’ Mr Hamilton shouts. ‘Let go of Zachary before you hurt him!’

  Sobbing, I open my hands and stare at them.

  Purple.

  Purple, purple everywhere.

  I’ve gone insane.

  ‘Umm.’ Zach rubs his shoulders. ‘Faith, you OK? I mean, kudos for the investment, but I think you may have dislocated something.’ He turns towards Mr Hamilton. ‘Also, I could totally have escaped, but the hot girl’s surprisingly strong. Just saying.’

  I keep staring at my hands.

  This is it. What happened to Mum is happening to me. It’s rising like a mist and swallowing me whole.

  Numbly, I turn to face my classmates. They’re staring at me in shock, their bodies tense, faces drained, eyes round and blank.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ Zoe whispers, hand over her mouth. ‘You gave her that scene?’

  And I don’t know how to—

  I will not—

  They’ve seen something I can’t take back.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, wiping my face and grabbing my bag. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I’ve got to … go.’

  What’s red and goes up and down?

  A tomato in a lift.

  How does NASA organise a party?

  They planet.

  What’s a balloon’s least favourite kind of music?

  Pop.

  How does a farmer mend his overalls?

  With cabbage patches.

  Why does Humpty Dumpty love autumn?

  He always has a great fall.

  Want to hear a roof joke?

  The first one’s on the h—

  ‘… let her go. Are you kidding? She is not in the right headspace to be out in public! Can you imagine? It would be humiliating.’

  ‘She can make her own decisions!’

  ‘Not to mention that it would be all over the papers. Do we want our reputation ruined? The Valentines: officially bonkers? And what about the hair?’

  ‘I like it! The hair is cute!’

  ‘It’s not cute – it makes her look even more insane.’

  ‘She’s vulnerable – it’s hitting her all at once. She’s just not ready.’

  ‘Yeah.’ A sharp laugh. ‘And she’s the only one in this family who matters. She’s the only one with emotions. Don’t forget that.’

  So much for creeping home to cry alone.

  No wonder Hope ran away a few weeks ago. You can’t move in this family without running into a brutal conversation about one of us. Maybe we should start wearing bells or something.

  My hot anger is building again. It’s like I’ve found a huge well of it inside me and now I don’t know how to turn the tap off.

  ‘And what about her little outburst the other day?’ Mercy continues furiously. ‘Do we want something like that happening in—’

  ‘STOP!’ I shout, pushing through the door. ‘CAN YOU—’

  Thwap. A heart balloon hits me in the face again. I punch it back, hard.

  ‘—STOP.’ The balloon skitters away on its little pink string. ‘I am NOT BONKERS –’ I might be bonkers – ‘or VULNERABLE –’ I am extremely vulnerable – ‘or in the wrong headspace to go out in public –’ I am absolutely in the wrong headspace to go out in public – ‘and I won’t HUMILIATE you –’ I probably will – ‘and my hair was a—’

  Another balloon thwaps me in the face.

  Punch.

  ‘WILL SOMEBODY GET THESE FLAMING BALLOONS AWAY FROM ME!’

  ‘Sorry!’ Hope springs up hurriedly, grabbing the bobbing bunch and dragging them away. ‘Sorry, Eff! I found them in my room! I don’t know who they’re from, but hundreds of yellow roses came the day before too. Somebody must have a devastating crush on me! Probably a really hot boy from school. I obviously made quite the impression.’

  She beams – totally giddy – and I glance at Mercy in surprise. Did she put the roses in Hope’s room?

  Our big sister shrugs.

  ‘Look,’ I say in a much lower voice. ‘You don’t need to keep me locked inside the house like a—’

  ‘Umm,’ Max interrupts. ‘No offence, but you just literally punched two heart balloons straight in the face, Eff.’

  ‘Also,’ Mer frowns, ‘you’re holding a stack of Post-its covered in crazy scribbles.’

  I flush and stick them in my pocket.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘If you can’t punch a heart now and then without being—’

  ‘We weren’t actually talking about you, Eff.’ Max pats my raised shoulder. ‘We’re talking about
Mum. She’s supposed to be hosting some massive charity auction tonight—’

  ‘But we can’t let her out of the house in her present state,’ Mercy interjects.

  ‘I think she looks pretty,’ Hope says protectively. ‘Like something Maggie sticks in the garden to scare away pigeons.’

  ‘Mum?’ I blink, my heart sinking. ‘But … why were you talking about her hair?’

  ‘Go and see for yourself.’

  Confused, I head into the corridor and gently tap on my mother’s door for a solid minute before it finally opens.

  Knock, knock, who’s there?

  ‘Oh, hello, darling.’ Mum looks straight through me. ‘How very kind of you to visit. But you can’t stay, I’m afraid. I’m on my way out, as you can see.’ My mother glides back into her stale, dark, airless bedroom. ‘Although I can’t seem to find my wedding ring. What on earth is your father going to say?’

  Very little, I’d expect, given that he has a new girlfriend, he doesn’t live here any more and you’re in the middle of a messy divorce.

  ‘Erm, Mum.’ I step into the rancid room. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘A party, darling.’ An elegant flick of her thin hand. ‘All my old friends will be there. They’re very eager to see me, as I’m sure you can imagine.’

  I stare at my mother’s pale, bony back.

  She’s wearing a long green satin gown – once glorious, now far too big for her – and her feet are bare and unwashed. Her normally gleaming blonde hair is dull and knotted, with thick ashy roots, and woven through it are myriads of tiny jewels. Diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, amethysts; necklaces, brooches, earrings. She’s glimmering in the low light like the nest of an enthusiastic magpie.

  In her mind, Juliet Valentine is permanently playing Ophelia.

  She was so not ready to leave rehab.

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ I step forward quietly. ‘What have you done to your hair?’

  ‘Such beautiful hair. All those curls.’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘It was the first thing I saw, you know.’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘But, you see, I have to go, darling.’ She takes a beautiful gold-and-cream card off the top of her dresser and hands it to me. ‘Look. They said it’s For Charity.’

  I swallow, hard. My siblings were right. Mum absolutely cannot be allowed to leave the house. Not just because she’ll be all over every front page by tomorrow morning – bedraggled and twinkling and grubby and vacant – but because it would break whatever inside her is still left unbroken.

  And it’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen.

  ‘Actually,’ I say abruptly, kissing her cheek, ‘the agency has just rung me! Turns out they’ve moved tonight’s auction back a couple of weeks. Big problem with the caterers. Some kind of fridge malfunction, no cold drinks, vol-au-vents ruined, total disaster!’

  Mum sits delicately on her bed. ‘Oh.’

  ‘They absolutely want you to host it, as soon as everything’s up and running again. Everyone’s really missed you, you know that.’

  My mother nods vaguely. ‘OK, darling. If you think it’s for the best.’ She blinks, refocuses, looks straight at me. A gentle hand goes to my cheek and she smiles a soft, bright, weirdly present smile. ‘Thank you, Faith. You always were the sweetest of my baby girls.’

  My throat abruptly closes.

  Gently, I remove the jewels from my mother’s hair, place them in a glass box by the bed and then pull the silk sheets over her. ‘Get some sleep,’ I whisper, kissing her forehead. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for parties when you’re better.’

  Mum nods and closes her eyes. I open the curtains and windows a touch; spritz a little perfume into the air and load my arms with untouched plates of food and cups of cold tea. Then I return to where my siblings are waiting.

  ‘You know,’ I say, handing them the plates and cups, ‘you can go in there yourselves. She’s not going to bite you. Sadness isn’t contagious.’

  ‘It flaming is,’ Mercy says, peering inside a mug.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Max is following me down the corridor like a lanky puppy. ‘Because the tickets for this swankathon were silly expensive, Eff. I’m talking thousands of pounds. And nobody is going to host for free with less than an hour’s notice. Do we need to caffeine her up and wheel her in?’

  I head towards my bedroom. I have never felt more like a Valentine: as maddening and messed up and malfunctioning as we are.

  ‘No,’ I say calmly. ‘Because I’m going to do it.’

  I have been training for this my whole life.

  Couture dress, designer heels, limited-edition clutch, bespoke perfume, primer, foundation, highlighter, bronzer, blusher, contour, eyeshadow, eyeliner, eyelashes, eyebrows. Years of perfecting my grooming routine so I can tweak and pluck and spray with the diligent, switched-off focus of a poorly paid worker on a meat factory line.

  Except … I’m also the chicken.

  With a few minutes left before John the limo driver arrives, I grab what looks like a sleeping Pomeranian off my bedroom floor and stick it firmly on my head. The wig is expensive, lace-front, made out of real hair. I kiss it gratefully. Thanks for being such a slob, Mer.

  Then I stand in front of my cracked mirror.

  My dress is floor-length, handmade and worth thousands: layers of sheer white with wide, floating sleeves and a slit down the side. The gold Prada heels make me well over six feet tall, my legs cartoon-like. The wig is glossy and soft and black, skimming my shoulders. My face looks doll-like: full lips, angular cheekbones, a small nose, enormous hazel eyes with thick, bushy eyelashes like some kind of deer.

  My body is brown, slim and perfectly toned. I mean, it should be: apart from the past week, I’ve been exercising more than four hours a day for two years.

  There is nothing I can see that Grandma would possibly change. I am perfect.

  A wave of nausea whips through me.

  ‘Hey!’ Max says as I clomp down the stairs. He’s holding up a camcorder. ‘Smile, little sis!’

  Without stopping, I stick a finger firmly up. Never mind which one. Then – glossy and flawless – I climb into the limo.

  I can do this. I can. I can do it.

  All I have to do is go onstage, be nice, smile, dimple, say thank you, read out scripted lines and everyone will be happy. Mum will be given her privacy, Genevieve will have something real to post, Grandma will be proud, the paparazzi get their photos and the charity get their money.

  Faking it for the Valentines.

  ‘Faith! FAITH VALENTINE! HOW’S YOUR MOTHER?’

  ‘Is it true that you’ll be hosting instead of Juliet tonight? What’s wrong with her this time?’

  ‘Wasn’t this supposed to be her big return?’

  The limo has stopped smoothly outside the Dorchester hotel – cream and wedding-cakey, with its frilly canopies and ornate iron balconies – and paparazzi are already swarming, yelling at me through a blacked-out window.

  I wait a few seconds until my hands aren’t shaking. Until my real self is tucked safely away somewhere deep, like in a kidney or maybe my pancreas.

  ‘Ready,’ I whisper. ‘Let’s go.’

  The chauffeur opens my door and I step out exactly as I’ve been taught to: knees firmly together, swing towards the exit, heels on the ground, legs bent gracefully, stand up slowly. Then I dimple at the media sweetly.

  ‘Good evening.’ Flash flash flash flash. ‘I’m afraid that my mother is indisposed, due to a last-minute dental emergency. She is recovering well. Thank you for the concern.’

  Flash flash flash flash flash.

  ‘WHAT ABOUT DYLAN HARRIS?’ Flash. ‘Will he be joining you this evening, Faith?’ Flash flash. ‘How does Noah feel about him? Have they met yet?’

  ‘You are glowing, Faith! Is it LOVE?’

  ‘This evening,’ I say with a gracious smile, ‘is about raising money for an excellent cause, and I am naturally very excited to be focusing exclusively
on that for the next ninety minutes.’

  Should have worn less highlighter.

  ‘Faith! Faith! What—’

  Smiling sweetly but coldly – This Conversation is Now Over – I swish through the crowd, past bowing doormen, through revolving glass doors and into a reception room of marble, gilt and gold, oak walls, bouquets of roses, carved ceilings.

  The rich and famous are milling about in the foyer. Sleek and glossy in tuxes and gowns, murmuring politely like wood pigeons. Heads bobbing as they spin to see who else is in the room and if there’s somebody more influential or attractive they should talk to.

  I have an overwhelming desire to spray ketchup all over them. Or mustard, so it burns.

  ‘Effie!’ One of my mother’s A-list friends sweeps across the room in a long fox-fur coat and takes my hand in her claw. ‘Oh, my darling! Aren’t you getting more beautiful by the minute! And just look how long your hair has grown!’

  Funny she can’t tell the difference between real and fake, given the coat she’s wearing.

  ‘So kind of you,’ I smile.

  ‘And how –’ the woman leans forward with a creepy intake of breath, as if she’s trying to sniff my collarbone – ‘is your dear mother?’

  Falling apart quite nicely, thank you.

  ‘Very well, thanks.’

  ‘Faith!’ A producer saunters over, straightening his tie. ‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Tell me, how old are you now?’

  ‘Sixteen!’ At least three decades younger than you.

  ‘Oh, rrrrrrrreally! And … ah … where’s your father these days? Still in Hollywood, cooking up his next masterpiece?’

  ‘Dad’s in London, actually.’ Take another step towards me and he will kill you with his bare hands. ‘He might turn up this evening, in fact.’

  Not likely. He hates stuff like this.

  ‘Well! I – er – must catch up with him soon …’

  My phone starts ringing:

  WEIRDO: DO NOT ANSWER

  I cancel; it rings again.

  WEIRDO: DO NOT ANSWER

  ‘EFFIE?’ An unwanted, familiar voice yells across the room. ‘YOU SHOULD HAVE CALLED ME BACK! WE COULD HAVE MADE A GRAND ENTRANCE TOGETHER.’

  Dylan is energetically pushing his way through the crowd, waving his phone in the air.