Far From Perfect

by Holly Smale

  Yo, sis, you still stropping? Can you bring back food? Mum’s gone on another night rampage and trashed the place. We need you here.

  Hey! Wanna hook up tonight? I can come to you! Dilpot x

  Sis, that tanned slimeball is at our front gates. Can I punch him?

  Problem solved, I just lobbed the giant teddy at him.

  Hi, Faith, this is Genevieve. The password to your social-media accounts is LIFELOVELAUGH666 – please update regularly.

  ARE YOU OK? None of us have heard from you since you ran out of class – we’re all really worried about you. Please let us know you’re all right! Mia x

  EFFIE, I JUST SAW THE PAPERS. HAVE YOU MOVED TO ICELAND WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE? Po xxxx

  PS Please bring me back one of those cool jumpers.

  PPS Also one of the horses x

  Effie, I have just been told you have MOVED OUT without speaking to either your mother or me about it. We need to discuss this urgently. Please call me ASAP, love Dad x

  Faith, where are your updates?! Posting for you RN, Genevieve.

  This is your grandmother. Contact me at your earliest convenience. Thank you.

  Ping.

  ARE YOU COMING BACK FOR IT

  That’s Mercy.

  I’m not even going to think about opening my emails or Google alerts. My breath is already starting to shorten, my throat close. I’m not sure what I thought would happen – I’d firmly ask for some space and everyone would just … give it to me?

  How the hell do you put boundaries in place if everybody just ignores them?

  The car pulls into another barren car park.

  ‘Ready?’ Christian asks as I slip my phone into my bag and throw in the rest of my baguette too. ‘The crew’s set up, so all we need you to do is peg it down the beach as fast as you can. There’s something horrible chasing you, so try to look trapped and desperate.’

  I mean, I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? It’s not like I randomly disappeared. I took an acting job. Isn’t this exactly what everyone’s been pushing me towards my entire life?

  ‘We’ll try and get it in one take. Ideally, I’d like to shoot the rest before the next storm.’

  So why do I feel like it’s still not enough? Why do I feel like I’ve let everyone down again?

  ‘Once that’s done, Westie will take over and film running into the water.’

  When does it end?

  ‘Sure.’ I put a hand to my throat. ‘OK.’

  Numbly, I get out of the car and start walking towards a black sand beach backed by looming black cliffs. The sea is grey and foaming white. The sky is slate-grey. It’s as if the world has suddenly switched to black and white, but I’m left in colour.

  Quietly, I wait at my mark. Breathe. A blur of everyone quiet on set, final touches, finals are done – breathe – lock it up, sound, sound speed – breathe – mark it, marked, camera ready – breathe – camera rolling, scene twenty-six, take one – breathe – and—

  ‘ACTION.’

  I start running, pelting across the black sand.

  I can’t do this any more. I can’t.

  My legs stumble. I trip, fall, push myself up again, keep running. Because Scarlett was right – that’s what I do, isn’t it?

  I do what I’m told and, when it gets too much, I run.

  When I can’t say no, I run.

  Something hurts, I run.

  Someone I love is unhappy and I can’t fix it, I run, I run, I run, I run, I run. But it’s never fast enough, never far enough, and it never gets me anywhere. I always end up back where I started because I don’t know what it is I actually want. So here I am—

  ‘And … CUT!’

  Trapped.

  ‘CUT, FAITH!’

  The foaming sea rages and I turn and run towards the smashing waves.

  ‘FAITH VALENTINE! THIS ISN’T YOUR SCENE!’

  Inhaling sharply as the icy water hits my legs.

  ‘FAITH, WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING?’

  Holding my breath and plunging into water so cold and angry it feels like I’ve been punched.

  ‘FAITH, NO!!’

  I close my eyes and feel a wave crash over my head. Water roars – ripping at my clothes, washing away the blood – until it feels like I’ve disappeared.

  But I haven’t, I won’t, I don’t want to.

  Enough.

  I kick my legs hard beneath the surface. And – with a ragged breath – I burst through the waves and struggle back to shore, staggering on to the black sand.

  ‘Faith!’ A furious Christian and crew run towards me, with towels and hot drinks and tinfoil blankets. ‘Weren’t you listening to me? That scene wasn’t meant for you!’

  I take a towel and wrap it round me.

  ‘Oops.’

  When what I mean is: exactly.

  What did the ocean say to the shore?

  Nothing, it just waved.

  I send one message:

  I will be in contact when I want to be.

  To everyone. Then I put my phone on airplane mode and spend the evening trying as hard as I can to practise my new scene. There’s turmoil inside me that I can’t seem to shake. An anger, a fierceness – like I want to do some damage. I’m starting to understand how Mercy must feel ninety-eight per cent of the time.

  ‘Smile, pretty girl!’ a random guy at breakfast demands while I’m pouring myself a cup of coffee.

  I turn to him, eyes cold. ‘I’ll smile when I feel like smiling,’ I snap back. ‘It’s my face.’

  Still simmering, I run through the script with the director – trying my best to stay polite – then I’m taken to a hotel room for prep. The stylist gives me the same outfit as the last two days, except this time clean and new. I’m given fresh, cute make-up: no blood, no scratches, no sweat. We’re going back to the beginning, to the scene where it all started.

  Figures.

  Then I’m driven to the new set. Another bare field with a wooden hut stranded in the middle: half falling down, holes in the roof, ancient swing set outside, classic creepy. The crew is trying to squeeze as many cameras and pieces of lighting equipment into a ten-metre-square shed as physically possible.

  ‘Frankie!’ Christian Ellis waves me over. ‘Let me introduce you to your kissing co-star! This is—’

  ‘Fred,’ I say shortly.

  ‘My name’s Ambrose,’ a very good-looking blond boy says, holding his hand out. ‘But, yes, I’ll be playing your boyfriend.’

  ‘Hooray,’ I sigh. ‘Another one.’

  He blinks and I turn to Christian.

  ‘So.’ I just want to get on with this. ‘Where do you want me to—’

  ‘Hello, Effie.’

  Something heavy drops in my stomach. I spin round.

  ‘Ah!’ my director shouts. ‘Perfect timing! Faith, this is Patricia Allerton, one of the best acting coaches in the business. Today’s going to be tricky – don’t we already know, haha! – so she’s here to give you some extra guidance.’

  It’s the older lady with tortoiseshell glasses from my auditions – the one I recognised but couldn’t name. With a smile, she takes my hands gently in hers and squeezes them.

  ‘We know each other, don’t we?’ Her voice is kind. ‘Do you remember? I used to coach your mother, so I knew you when you were a little girl.’

  There’s a sudden lump in my throat. Because I do remember her, watching us in the marquee at my parents’ party, standing next to a huge vase of orchids. I remember us in white, in red, in blue, in yellow, in green, in purple. I remember my parents smiling and I remember the audience and the lights and my overwhelming fear.

  I remember everything, and my anger abruptly softens.

  ‘I know I haven’t been in touch,’ she says quietly, squeezing my hands again. ‘And for that I am so sorry. I wasn’t sure what to say, although that’s no excuse.’

  I nod and swallow.

  ‘Effie, I know that you’ve never found performing easy. I was there for th
at show at your parents’ anniversary party, remember? But we’re going to find a way to work this scene together. Does that sound good?’

  I suddenly feel nine years old again, wearing my mother’s shoes.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say in a little voice.

  ‘Nice!’ Christian interrupts. ‘Now, Frankie, in the hut with Fred, please? Patricia, go with her, yeah? Let’s get this opener nailed!’

  My hands are starting to shake again. My face is stiffening. My shoulders tightening. My stomach spinning. Hardness is rushing through my body, turning me – organ by organ – to ice. A living, breathing statue.

  I’ve trained. I’ve rehearsed. I’ve read this script dozens of times. I’ve even acted this scene before. I know that Frankie loves Fred; there are strange noises outside; he’s going to leave the hut though she doesn’t want him to; she’s scared; they kiss …

  So why am I freezing up and icing over again? What’s wrong with me?

  ‘You can do it,’ Patricia says as my eyes flicker wildly, looking for an escape. ‘I’ll be here if you need me.’

  I nod, blinking back tears. Then I walk into the hut.

  Christian Ellis positions me on my mark, briefs us on angles, then stands outside, watching through a glassless window. I smile apologetically at Ambrose – sorry I was rude – and he smiles back.

  ‘EVERYONE QUIET ON SET!’

  ‘Sound?’

  ‘Sound speed.’

  ‘Camera ready?’

  ‘Camera rolling.’

  ‘Scene one, take one.’

  ‘And … ACTION!’

  Noises sound outside: frightened animals, branches breaking, footsteps. Fred turns to me with wide eyes, and my line is:

  Fred! What was that? I heard something – there’s someone outside

  and his line is There’s nobody there

  and my line is We’ve made a mistake – we should go

  and his line is It’s just a sheep or something

  and my line is but sheep don’t sound like that

  and his line is A cow, then

  and my line is Don’t go and we kiss we kiss we kiss.

  I stare at Fred in silence.

  I can do it. I just don’t want to.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ummm.’ Fred blinks at me, at the crew, at the camera and at me again. ‘That’s not your line.’

  Actually, it is.

  ‘I don’t want to act.’

  I turn to the director. My voice is clear and grey and calm. ‘I have never wanted to act. I don’t like it. It doesn’t make me happy.’

  My body has been screaming NO at me for nearly a year, I just wasn’t listening. I was so busy worrying that I wasn’t good at acting that I never really asked myself if I wanted to be. And I don’t. That’s what I’m now sure of.

  I need to move my circle right now, before it gets superglued to the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ellis, for taking the job and for …’ I pause. ‘Actually, I’m not that sorry. I’m only sixteen years old, but you used me for headlines. That is not OK. I’m sorry your crew wasted time filming me, but I’d rather waste three days of your life than the rest of mine.’

  He stares at me blankly.

  ‘So I’m saying … no.’

  A steady, quiet roar spreads from my toenails to my ankles to my knees to my hips to my stomach to my chest to my shoulders to my elbows to my fingernails to my neck to my cheeks to my eyes and, when I finally smile, I can feel it in my whole body.

  There isn’t a single dimple to be seen.

  ‘Right.’ Christian looks at the glaring sky and pinches his nose. ‘Yeah. That’s probably a good decision. I don’t really have to be coaching my lead through every scene when I can get a professional who knows what she’s doing. We’ll get the standby flown over this evening.’

  I blink in surprise and then relief. ‘Thank you,’ I say warmly.

  Patricia smiles at me. I smile back.

  And I go outside and I breathe

  I breathe

  I breathe

  I breathe

  I breathe

  I breathe.

  Then I pull my phone out of my bag and message just one person:

  YES.

  What did the duck say when she bought a lipstick?

  Put it on my bill.

  Mercy is waiting for me.

  As I climb through my window the next evening, she’s already there, exactly where I knew she’d be. Huddled on my bed. Leaning against the wall, arms wrapped round her legs, chin on her knees, watching the door with huge, bottomless eyes.

  My heart twangs. ‘Hi, sis.’

  She looks up, and the pain in her face takes my breath away. ‘Hi.’

  We gaze at each other.

  ‘Mercy—’ I start.

  ‘It was me,’ she says quietly. ‘I kissed Noah.’

  And the world should tip, it should spin, it should implode … but it doesn’t.

  ‘He didn’t get you,’ she says fiercely into the silence, her eyes glittering. ‘You’re not like us, Eff. You never have been. We need the spotlight to feel like we exist. To feel bigger and more real. To feel … seen.’

  She blinks hard.

  ‘With you, it’s the opposite. Even when we were kids. The fame – it makes you shrink. And Noah never got that, not in a whole year. I couldn’t just stand by and watch while you got smaller and smaller. Until you started … disappearing. But you were never going to leave him so …’

  My sister flushes and her eyes dart away.

  ‘… I stuck on a blonde wig and jumped in a cab. I snuck into the after-show, gave a guy fifty quid to take a picture, grabbed Noah and kissed him. He didn’t even know it was me. Then I gave the photos to the press.’

  Faith, I’m so sorry.

  ‘I let the paparazzi into the grounds. That was me too,’ she adds in a hard voice, lifting her chin.

  I know this expression. It’s the one Mercy always wore when she trashed Max’s new bike or broke Mum’s best vase or ripped Hope’s favourite T-shirt during a game of Bulldog: chin up, jaw set, eyes defiant.

  She’s still there, the little girl inside the big one. And my rush of love for my sister is so raw and sudden it feels like an animal cry. I want to hug her and kill her and kiss her and hurt her and rip her apart and put her back together again.

  Mercy doesn’t crawl into my bed every night to annoy me, or because she can’t be bothered to find her own. She climbs into my bed because she still has nightmares and doesn’t want to be alone.

  Because she knows I still have them too.

  ‘OK,’ I say simply.

  Silence, and then Mercy’s head whips round as if I’ve slapped her. ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you just say OK?’

  ‘Yes. I underst—’

  ‘STOP!’ My sister leaps off the bed: fists clenched, breathing hard. ‘DON’T YOU DARE SAY YOU UNDERSTAND, FAITH! Don’t you dare try and see it from my side! Don’t you dare love me this much! Don’t you dare!’

  Mer whacks my arm, hard.

  ‘SCREAM AT ME!’ She whacks me again. ‘HATE ME!’ Whack. ‘HATE ME!’ Whack. ‘WHAT I DID WAS UNFORGIVABLE! I am your sister. YOUR SISTER!’

  She starts crying.

  ‘Mer—’ I reach out and try to pull her towards me. ‘You just wanted me to be happy, you—’

  ‘NO, I DIDN’T!’ She tugs away, shaking all over. ‘I DID IT BECAUSE I’M HORRIBLE, FAITH! Because I break things! Because I want to rip and smash and destroy everything around me until there’s NOTHING LEFT.’

  Mercy wraps her arms tightly round her stomach. Her eyes are wet and shining.

  ‘I hurt you, Faith. I let them all in and I made it worse. I made you run away. I should never have – had no right to – can’t believe I—’ Her voice is thickly wet. ‘I made a huge mistake,’ she sobs, holding a shaking hand over her face. ‘And I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me, Faith. Don’t hate me, don’t hate me, don’t hate me�
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  My heart is roaring so loudly I can’t move. Pain surges up my throat until it shuts with a click.

  Two years ago the Valentines didn’t just detonate, they exploded into a million tiny pieces.

  ‘I can’t …’ Mercy crumples to the floor, sobbing into her hands. ‘I can’t— Please forgive me, Eff. Please. I can’t lose another sister.’

  Eight years ago.

  ‘Lights! Camera! Action!’

  ‘That’s not what film people say,’ Max points out loudly from the side of the stage, swishing his mustard skipping rope over his shoulder. ‘Total urban myth.’

  ‘Oh, you are such a damp squid,’ Hope sighs. ‘Just leaking your water everywhere. Leak, leak, leak.’

  ‘Damp squib. Squids are always damp. Obviously.’

  ‘What’s a squib?’

  ‘It’s a firework!’ somebody calls out from the back. ‘That’s why it’s a saying – you can’t light a wet firework.’

  Beaming, Hope turns to face the famous audience. ‘Oh hello, I forgot you were there! Thanks very much!’

  There’s general laughter.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ My sister holds her hands out wide. ‘Highly steamed members of the industry of Hollywood! WELCOME to your entertainment! Tonight, to celebrate our mother and father’s ten-year wedding anniversary, we – the infamous and celebrated Valentine children – will be inraptoring you with our very own, specially written performance!’

  She twirls round in her bright turquoise sweater and starts flapping her arms. We shrug at each other: What’s she doing? Does anyone ever know?

  ‘Prepare yourself for a state of mesmi– mesima– mesme—’ My little sister pauses thoughtfully. ‘Amazement! And please feel free to collect my business card from the table to the right. I shall be available for all good actressing parts in just over eight years. I thank you.’

  Po gestures dramatically at a pile of scribbled-on scraps of cereal box to a warm ripple of laughter.

  ‘Innnntrrrroooduuuuuucccing – Murder on the National Express!’

  She retreats to loud claps.

  As Mercy and Max squabble over who gets to blow the trumpet, I tuck myself further in the corner of the marquee. Everything’s so beautiful – the flowers, the food and the dresses – and there are so many people I recognise here, movie stars stretching across generations.