by Holly Smale
For the love of—
I’ve been here less than three minutes and I’m already exhausted. Maybe everyone isn’t looking for somebody better to talk to. Maybe we’re all just trying very hard not to talk to each other.
In desperation, I search the crowd until I spot a platinum-blonde bun in the corner. ‘Do excuse me,’ I say serenely to the producer and my mother’s so-called friend. ‘It’s been lovely to catch up, but I’m afraid I have to be going now.’
The fur-coat woman begins gossiping as soon as my back is turned. ‘Daughter of … Yes. Icy little madam, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Nothing like her mother, who is completely—’
You’d think a room full of actors would under-stand how to stop projecting for a few precious seconds.
My hearing range cuts out just in time.
‘Darling!’ Dame Sylvia Valentine is holding court at the centre of an elite circle, wearing a glittering black Givenchy gown, walking stick planted like a maypole. ‘Everybody, do meet my granddaughter Faith Valentine.’
I glance over my shoulder. Dylan mouths, Shall I come over?
Alarmed, I shake my head and turn back.
‘Tell me, Faith,’ a middle-aged lady in lace enquires, ‘how are your auditions going? Your grandmother tells me you’re quite the committed pupil.’
‘Although –’ an older woman nods – ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about studying, dear. Much better to get your beauty sleep!’
‘Absolutely,’ an even older man agrees. ‘Protect that pretty face at all costs. Dear Sylvia was always a character actress – superb talent, but never the best-looking girl in the room. You’re more like your mother, Faith. A romantic lead through and through.’
‘Exactly.’ A man with grey teeth leans forward as if I’m a slice of cake he’s considering. ‘And which financiers are you working with, Faith? Because I have contacts to—’
I open my mouth.
‘If you don’t mind,’ my grandmother says smoothly. ‘This dear character actress may need to find a seat. My legs aren’t what they once were. Faith, darling – shall we?’
With a small pale hand, she leads me away.
‘Are you tired?’ I ask in surprise as we reach a quiet corner. ‘Because I can go and get you a—’
‘Don’t be naive, dear. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve taught you anything. Now.’ Dame Sylvia lowers gold-rimmed glasses and stares at me. ‘I understand what you’ve done this evening, Faith, and I’m grateful. Your mother is my only child, and there is nowhere I’d less like her to be than here.’
A bell rings in the foyer and people start to exit through a side door. A lady in an elaborately ruffled skirt scurries over, squeezing her hands together.
‘Faith! Oh, gracious, we need to get you—’
My grandmother looks at her. She scurries away again.
‘I offered to host the event myself,’ Grandma continues, subtly straightening my wig. ‘But they want fresh blood. With fewer potential clots in it, I’d imagine. Please don’t forget, Faith, that – no matter what happens – you are a Valentine.’
‘Yes, Grandmother.’
‘We may be powerful, but the people here can still make us and they can still break us.’
‘Yes, Grandmother.’
‘Valentines Always Act With Class.’
‘Three bags full, Grandmother.’
We blink at each other.
Oops. I said that out loud, didn’t I?
Grandma raises her eyebrows.
‘Dame Sylvia Valentine?’ The ruffled woman coughs behind us again. ‘I’m very sorry, but I really do have to prep Faith now. If you’ll please make your way to the ballroom, we’ve reserved a table with the best possible view for you.’
I lick my lips nervously and turn back to my grandmother. ‘Thank you.’
She places a small hand on my shoulder and squeezes. ‘What I’m trying to say, darling,’ she says gently with a tiny, rare smile, ‘is good luck. I’m sure you’ll make us very proud.’
Make us very proud.
In a side room, I’m dusted with mattifying powder, my lipstick is reapplied and I’m wordlessly handed a script. A door swings open for a waiter who brings me a much-needed glass of sparkling water. Behind him, the ballroom glitters and buzzes, full of laughter and conversation.
A microphone screeches on the stage. I lick my lips again and gulp some water.
Make us very proud.
My pink lipstick is reapplied once more with a small tut.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Tap. ‘Silence, please.’ Tap. ‘Welcome to an evening dedicated to raising money for RSS. Do please give a very warm hand to your glamorous hostess, the beautiful actress Faith Valentine!’
A burst of applause.
My hands are so damp I can’t open the door properly; a sweet-faced waitress balancing a tray of prawns holds it for me and I smile gratefully. Then, with a deep breath, I swish out on to the stage and carefully collect the microphone from its stand by the podium.
Make us very proud.
Bright lights momentarily blind me, the applause rises and falls into silence, and – just like that – I’m suddenly nine years old: onstage, dressed in a white sheet and my mother’s hat and tennis shoes.
I swallow and blink at the audience.
Many of these faces were there that night: the famous, the beautiful and the powerful, gathered in a white marquee, toasting my parents on their wedding anniversary. Laughing as Max swung his mustard skipping rope, while Hope danced in turquoise, and Mercy stole the show in her red dress.
I haven’t seen any of these people in … years. Almost exactly two, to be precise.
Focus, Eff.
‘Good evening, everyone.’ With a measured smile, I tap the mike. Tap tap. ‘I am Faith Valentine.’ I glance at the script scrolling on the iPad that’s on top of the podium. ‘It is an extraordinary pleasure to be here tonight, surrounded by friends and family. By people with huge talents, huge hearts and even bigger bank accounts.’
A collective laugh from the room.
‘Whoop!’ Dylan shouts from the back. ‘That’s my girl!’
My eyes are starting to adjust to the stage lights. I spot my grandmother at a table near the front, hands folded together neatly, lips thin, watching me with cool grey eyes.
‘I am delighted to be here,’ I continue, looking back at the lights, ‘to help auction some very generously donated items to raise money for—’
A quick glance down. What in fresh living—
‘The Artists’ Retreat for Support and Solace.’ I clear my throat. ‘Otherwise known as …’
‘The “A” is silent,’ a woman at the side of the stage hisses.
‘Yes.’ My nostrils flare very slightly. ‘The … RSS, a brand-new charity created to provide sanctuary for those in the acting profession to recuperate from the stress of their difficult jobs.’
This cannot be happening.
‘I think we all agree –’ I look at the iPad again and hurriedly take a gulp of water from the glass discreetly balanced next to it – ‘that we are working in an exhausting industry. We dedicate our very lives to the pursuit of truth. Of art. The exploration of what it is to be human. Often under difficult circumstances, at the expense of our own health.’
I look up at my grandmother. Make us very proud.
And suddenly I cannot do it.
Just … no.
‘Because, let’s be honest.’ I lean forward to rest my elbows on the stand. ‘Nobody needs leisure time quite like those who play dress-up for a living, right?’ I pretend to pause thoughtfully. ‘Other than maybe nurses. Doctors. Firefighters. Teachers. The police. The armed forces. Farmers. Roofers. Paramedics. Plumbers. Electricians. Taxi drivers. Cleaners. Bar staff. Waiters.’
The girl carrying the tray of prawns looks up.
And – just like that – a bolt of hot, uncontrollable anger spikes me from head to toe.
Whoosh.
‘Le
t’s get started, shall we?’ I delete the script and tap on the iPad to bring up the first lot. I am pulsing with a thick, glittering fury as I snatch up my miniature gavel. ‘What are we multimillionaires flogging to raise money for ourselves, hmm?’
A photo of a tropical beach glows on the enormous screen behind me.
‘Ah.’ I laugh. ‘A luxury five-star holiday for those who pretend to be nurses instead of actually being nurses. I’m starting the bidding at two pounds fifty. Anyone?’
The room has gone completely silent.
‘You, sir.’ I point at a waiter quietly cleaning up a red-wine spill on a white tablecloth and bang my wooden hammer. ‘Sold. Congratulations, you’re off to the Bahamas.’
He knocks over the wine bottle.
With a big grin, I tap the iPad again and look over my shoulder. ‘Oh, lovely, an anonymously donated green Porsche 911 3.8 Carrera, which is one of fourteen cars currently tucked away in storage and being given away for tax purposes.’
I study the crowd carefully.
‘Three pounds,’ I announce into the microphone. ‘Three pounds for this beautiful piece of metal, worth more than the deposit on an actual house. Anyone? Waitress with prawns, I’m going to take that as a bid.’ Bang. ‘Sold for three pounds!’
The girl drops her tray with a smash.
‘What’s next?’ I click the screen. ‘A depressing painting of a dead blonde in a boat. A fiver?’ The producer’s hand has hilariously gone up. ‘Nobody? No? OK, four quid? Can anyone afford four quid for an old master?’
The door to the kitchen opens.
‘You.’ I wave my hammer in the air as an old guy in a white shirt and black trousers enters with a tray of champagne glasses. ‘I’m afraid that interruption counts as a bid. Congratulations, you are the proud owner of a very valuable piece of art.’
‘W-What?’ He sits down abruptly on a spare seat and puts his hands over his face. ‘Oh, my.’
The entire room is starting to bubble. Everyone is slowly turning to examine the shadowy waiters dotted round the room – serving them, cleaning up after them – as if they’ve literally never seen them before in their lives.
‘You can’t do this!’ An ageing actor stands up. ‘That’s my Porsche, you jumped-up little—’
The cameras are going crazy.
‘Sit down, please, sir.’ I beam at him as my rage powers on. ‘Your mid-life crisis is much appreciated and we’re well on our way to making a tenner! But let’s wrap it up now. Five pence each for the remaining lots.’ Bang. ‘Dude carrying the pigs-in-blankets, you’ve won a diamond Tiffany necklace.’ Bang. ‘Man tidying table six, you’ve got a yacht.’ Bang. ‘A brand-new laptop computer to the lady with the pastries.’ Bang. ‘Girl sweeping in the corner – apologies, you’ve just won a slap-up dinner with this idiot.’
A giant headshot of Dylan is shining behind me.
‘Faith!’ He jumps up, outraged. ‘You were supposed to bid for that! You could make the grand romantic gesture to buy me just like in the movies!’
‘Actually, it’s now free,’ I say, turning back to the young cleaner. ‘I’m sorry – make sure you order the lobster.’
She looks delighted and waves at Dylan. He slumps in his chair, arms folded.
‘And that’s it, folks.’ I gaze round the room now erupting into chaos. Tap tap tap. ‘I would also like to say thank you on behalf of the whole Valentine family. It’s been amazing, the way you’ve completely turned your backs on us over these last two years.’
I smile graciously at everyone.
‘Especially those who ignored my mother when she so desperately needed you. She was your friend, your co-star and your mentor for thirty-five years. Your behaviour has been quite the education.’
For just a second, my eyes accidentally rest on my grandmother and I feel a swoop of shame. She’s rigid, white and suddenly looks so very, very old.
‘Did you hear about the fed-up pancake?’ I ask the audience loudly. ‘HE JUST FLIPPED.’
Total silence while I start laughing hysterically.
‘So here’s to us, me included.’ I hold up my glass of sparkling water and cheer everyone so it splashes. ‘We are officially a right bunch of RSSs.’
Then I drop the gavel to the floor.
Bang.
What’s easy to get into, but hard to get out of?
Trouble.
I walk offstage and I don’t stop.
With my head up, I keep going: out of the back door of the Dorchester and straight across London. Round Hyde Park Corner, past Buckingham Palace and Westminster Cathedral and Tesco Express and the Embassy of Lithuania; across Vauxhall Bridge and the Thames; through Stockwell, past Lidl and the O2 Academy.
Two hours of walking in the street-lamped dark. Fifteen minutes in painfully high Prada heels – the rest hobbling with a twisted ankle and blistered bare feet on the filthy pavement. And I’m not going to lie – I barely notice the pain.
I. Am. Buzzing.
Buzz buzz buzzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzzzzzzz buzzzzzz buzzzz.
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz—
That’s the sound of a doorbell being pressed, by the way, not me; I was speaking metaphorically.
‘Dude, that is an unnecessarily aggressive entry request. Come on in, whoever you are. Fifty-fourth floor. The lift’s broken.’
The door clicks.
I look down: my left ankle is visibly swollen and both feet are dark grey and covered in weeping white blisters. There’s a small cut on my right sole that is leaving a little smear of blood with every step.
I look up the cement stairs. Fifty-four floors.
Cool.
Wincing, I start limping up. First floor. Second …
Ow.
Third.
Seriously: ow.
Fourth …
Leaning against the wall, I rub my sore ankle. One of my pus-filled blisters explodes against my fingers. Bet Marilyn Monroe had the same problem.
Then I keep limping. Fifth—
‘Faith?’ An amused voice carries up from the floor below me. ‘Where are you going, Looney Tune? And why are you leaving a trail of blood through the hallway like a snail on its period?’
I stare down. Scarlett’s freckled, elfin face is poking over the stair rail and tilted in my direction, eyebrows sharply raised.
‘I thought you said it was fifty-four floors?’
‘Yeah, that was a joke, pal,’ she laughs with a snort. ‘We’re in Brixton, not Dubai.’
I look up. Ohhhh. I’d blush in embarrassment, but the majority of my blood is tracked all over the stairwell.
Grimacing, I limp back to the fourth floor and into Scarlett’s flat.
‘Do you want some Prada heels?’ I ask her, ripping my wig off, collapsing on the carpeted floor and handing the gold horrors to her. ‘I can’t fully recommend them as hiking boots.’
Scarlett holds them up to the light, then tosses them aside.
‘Hmm, I’ll pass, thanks. And this small pedigree dog?’ She nudges the discarded wig with a toe. ‘No sale. I think it’s dead.’
‘Finally. It’s been chewing on my head all night.’
We both chuckle.
Then Scarlett slides down her living-room wall until she’s sitting quietly next to me. I’ve had hundreds of people staring at me tonight – outside the hotel, at the auction, while I was limping through Westminster barefoot – but this is the first time it feels like someone’s actually looking.
‘Go on, then,’ my friend says, carefully wrapping a jumper round my lacerated feet. ‘Before the blood poisoning sets in. Tell me everything, right from the start.’
I clear my throat, take a deep breath and allow this morning to come back to me.
‘So I … had another meltdown. A … big one. I … umm … lost it in an improv class. In front of everyone. Got … carried away.’
‘How carried away?’
‘Picked up a boy I barely know, physically hauled him across the room, slammed him
repeatedly against a wall, screamed death threats at him and started crying hysterically?’
Scarlett bursts into laughter. ‘Sounds like he was the one getting carried away, Eff.’ She elbows me. ‘Too soon for jokes? OK, please continue. What was the exercise?’
‘Just some … improv scene.’
Too soon. Too raw.
‘Faith.’ Scarlett frowns. ‘You do realise everyone melts down in acting class? You’re supposed to. It’s what you’re paying for. You can’t shake a bottle of intense human emotions and not expect it to fizz up and explode.’
My eyes open wide. ‘Really?’
‘Ah, yeah. When I was at drama school, somebody cried, screamed or vomited every day and they were thrilled. It meant we were getting some actual work done.’
Huh. ‘So I’m not … mad?’
‘Of course you’re mad. You’re an actor.’ Scarlett grins her sharp, Joker-smile. ‘Eff, this is great! I knew you could do it! You’ll be a movie star in no time. Congratulations! And what else has happened today?’ she asks, pointedly staring at my battered feet.
My stomach twists sharply – sickness rises.
I open my mouth. The warm buzz of adrenaline is wearing off – along with the numbness of my feet – and what I did this evening is only now beginning to hit me.
Grandma’s horrified face.
The entire industry.
The outrage.
My dramatic swan dive into career oblivion.
I don’t even think they all deserved my tirade. The majority of that audience didn’t even know my mother personally. They were just there because they’d been told to be.
Shame, guilt and fear lurch across my stomach.
You’ll make us very proud.
‘Nope,’ I say uncomfortably, tugging my floaty, dirty-white chiffon dress round me. ‘That’s everything.’
‘Sure?’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘So.’ Scarlett frowns. ‘You definitely haven’t been giving away Porsches or diamonds or holidays or priceless paintings today? Because frankly that’s a very disappointing Friday.’
I stare at her.
‘It’s everywhere online.’ A bright laugh as she holds her phone out. ‘Sometimes I think you forget who you are.’
