Читать книгу Happy Girl Lucky - Holly Smale, Холли Смейл - Страница 13

Now this is more like it.

‘You may shoot the cover in the drawing room,’ Grandma announces as everyone troops in, filling the hallway with designer handbags and glossy shoes. ‘I grew up in this house, and it has the best light at this time of day.’

‘We thought maybe the garden, Dame Sylvia?’ a small lady in a beige trench coat murmurs nervously. ‘There’s such a pretty patch by the tr—’

‘Yes, the drawing room.’ Grandma nods as if in agreement. ‘By the purple silk chinoiserie wallpaper. That will work perfectly. And make sure you ask about their mixed heritage, please. This interview should focus on the diversity of the modern Valentines, should it not?’

Within seconds, our Least Used Room is rammed.

A rack of designer clothes is set up in the corner, antique dressers are piled high with make-up bags, the marble mantelpiece is crammed full of hair products and a circle of powerful lights is being propped up by our enormous leaded windows.

People are suddenly everywhere, holding up outfits against Faith, flattening Mercy’s already straightened hair with hairspray and complaining that it’s hard to find the right foundation shade for Max’s skin tone.

‘It’s a good thing I’m so comfortable with my masculinity,’ he tells them cheerfully. ‘Or I’d be outraged by the implication that I’m not already perfect.’

This is by far the most exciting, important thing that has ever happened to me, and just a small slice of the epic gloriosity of my wonderful life to come.

Maggie pops her head round the door and I wave cheerfully from where I’m sitting patiently in the corner, waiting for my turn.

‘We’re going to be cover stars!’ I explain in delight. ‘With an eight-page spread officially launching the new generation of Valentines! Grandma arranged it all! What a pleasurable surprise, wouldn’t you say? Isn’t that just the best-ever gift?’

‘I’d prefer a new casserole dish myself,’ Maggie says, wiping the top of a chair. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, I never dust in here.’

Mesmerised, I watch the chaos unfold. It’s extremely important for me to absorb each tiny detail because, in the near future, I’ll probably have to do a photo shoot every single morning and an interview every single lunchtime and—

Oooh, the photographer’s assistant is cute!

He’s fair and short, and is bending over a little black box with his blue underpants poking above the top of his trousers. Of course this is how I meet The One! In my very own house! In my very own drawing room! It’s a pleasurable surprise cosmic double whammy!

I’d better go and speak to him before my big glamorisation happens. I need to know he wants me for me.

BOY

(stunned)

I don’t know who you are, beautiful girl, but I have just looked up from whatever this box is and I am now deeply in love.

Shoulders back, I sidle up behind him.

Then I lean casually against the wall, toss my head back, straighten my I LOVE YOU A LATTE T-shirt and clear my throat. ‘Hello there, so … what’s your star si—’

‘H-hi,’ he stammers, sticking his hand out at Effie. ‘I-it’s meet to nice you. N-nice to mate you. Nice t-to— Dammit.’

My One goes bright red and leaves the room.

Yet another failed audition for my Romantic Leading Man. Honestly, you just can’t find the cast these days. Undaunted, I wander over to inspect the clothes rack for items I can borrow.

‘I read yesterday the mother is having the whole lot done,’ someone whispers from behind it. ‘Nose, boobs, eyes, cheeks, knees. That’s why nobody’s seen her: they’re replacing parts bit by bit like an old car.’

‘Knees?’ someone else breathes back. ‘Is that a thing?’

‘Totally a thing. Apparently, the hotty hubby wants younger, less saggy knees, if you know what I mean.’

‘So sad when natural beauty falls apart. Like watching an apple slowly rotting in a fruit bowl. The daughter we’ve put in gold certainly got the best of both worlds, didn’t she? What a face. Dull as a cabbage, though. Always the way.’

My cheeks have abruptly got very hot; my darling Effie is not a cabbage! She’s a rare, exquisite bloom of sweetness and beauty. Also Mum’s knees are super perky. I’ve seen both of them.

‘Actually,’ the other continues, apparently steaming a pair of trousers, ‘it’s the eldest girl I feel really sorry for. That nose. That nineties eye make-up. Used to be quite cute, back in the day. Remember that show?’

‘Oh my God, right? But you can’t blame her. Didn’t she—’

‘Hello there!’ I part the clothing abruptly and peer through with a confident smile. ‘If you’re not too busy, would you like to get me ready now? You may have my autograph, if you like.’ Stepping over, I hand them both a pre-signed photo.

Mainly because I am a professionalist and a Valentine, and I’m pretty sure Acting Classy does not include punching your adoring potential public right in the face because they’re spreading nasty rumours about your family again. Also, Mercy is my big sister and therefore exclusively mine to be mean about.

‘I’m sorry,’ the tallest one says, staring at me. ‘Who … are you?’

‘Hope.’ I give a little twirl so they can take my measurements in a single glance. ‘The youngest Valentine, and very soon to be the most famous. I’m right on the end of your list, but don’t worry. I’m already highly trained in the subtle art of beatification so I can totally assist you.’

They glance at each other in alarm, then I guess they think that I can’t have heard anything and visibly relax.

‘Isn’t beatification what happens when the Pope turns someone into a saint?’

‘Yup,’ the other nods. ‘But sure. Can’t see the harm in it.’

‘I won’t harm anything,’ I reassure them, beaming. ‘Indeed, you will find me an absolute parasite of professionalism.’

Thrilled, I select a gorgeous purple Vera Wang gown.

After a bit of frustrated tugging – my hair has looser waves on one side, tighter ringlets at the back and short bits of fluff at the front – they give up and secure my hair in a ponytail again. Then they spend six minutes searching for the right foundation before compensating with a heavy layer of bronzer. I also get shimmery purple eyeshadow, lipstick and gold highlighter that pops.

In the meantime, I’ve been practising my range in the mirror: biting my lip and smiling, looking enigmatic and adorably confused, etc. That photographer’s assistant is going to be kicking himself when he realises I exist, which is going to be literally any second. I am a freaking vision.

Glittering, I race over to my siblings.

They’re grouped tightly together, shimmering in front of the lights: Faith in gold, Mercy in silver and Max in bronze.

‘I’m here!’ I say breathlessly, shoving between them. ‘Sorry I’m late! Don’t worry – we can start now!’ Then I suck in my cheeks, push my chest out and turn at an angle so I look two-dimensional. ‘And … shoot!’

There’s a long silence while my siblings stare at me.

Then at each other, then at Grandma.

Then at each other, then at the photographer.

Then at me again.

‘Umm,’ says Max.

‘Po,’ says Faith.

‘Idiot,’ says Mercy.

‘Hope.’ Grandma frowns at me from her position directly behind the photographer. ‘I assumed you understood the situation. You won’t be in this shoot or the interview.’

I stare at her. ‘But—’

‘You know the rules. You’re not sixteen yet.’

It feels like my character’s been killed off seconds before the opening credits roll.

‘But I’m sixteen any minute,’ I blurt desperately, wiggling further into the group and sticking my elbows out so they can’t dislodge me. ‘Like, so very nearly. My birthday’s less than four months away. By the time the magazine comes out, I’ll be basically sixteen already!’

‘I’m afraid this is non-negotiable.’ Grandma looks round. ‘Margaret, please remove my youngest grandchild from the room before things get … emotional.’

‘No!’ I use Max as a shield. ‘Please, please, please, please.’

My big brother smiles sympathetically, but then peels me away and nudges me out of the group. I’m then dragged across the room by Mags, dropping my pre-signed photos on the floor as I go.

Emotional? I’ll give them emotional.

Pulling air into my diaphragm, I clench my fists, lift my chin high and prepare my vocal cords for maximum dramatic output: lights, camera—

‘THIS ISN’T F—’

The door is closed in my face.