morning, Mars and Saturn kick in and I get my pleasurable surprise:
Sorry, snowed under! Will catch up at the weekend! Love you. Dad xx
Finally.
Nearly two days late, yes, but I’m not going to be churlish about it. The universe has a lot to get through on any given day, what with all the moving about it clearly has to do.
Either way, my father will be arriving on a First-class flight from America late on Friday afternoon, just in time to collect Mum from rehab, take her shopping for a new dress and grab a bite of dinner at The Ivy before they arrive at the launch together. At which point there’s going to be a huge family reunion, photocall and announcement to kill off the rumours and set the paparazzi straight.
So obviously I have to be there too.
Mum was thirteen years old when she attended her very first premiere. There’s a photo on her bedside table of her next to Grandma, skinny, slightly shiny and beaming on the red carpet – two full years younger than I am now – and if that’s not proof that just one enormous celebrity party won’t damage me for life then I don’t know what is.
‘No,’ Max says when I finally track him down on Friday evening. He’s been out of the house pretty much all week, doing I don’t know what because his role lasts literally twenty-six seconds. ‘Nope.’
I open my mouth.
‘Not happening.’
‘But—’
‘Nu-uh.’
‘If he could just—’
‘No way.’
‘All I want is to—’
‘Nooooooooo.’
My brother is laughing while eating peanut butter out of a jar. He’s using the spoon to conduct me as if I’m an orchestra.
‘YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY.’
‘I do, Poodle, because you’ve been dropping the world’s least subtle hints all week. Now you’re just going to straight up demand that you attend tonight’s party for just a second because you’re so nearly sixteen and Mum was only thirteen and we’re all going without you and it’s not fair I tell you it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair.’
‘Pffft,’ I say, walking out of the kitchen with dignity. ‘I was only going to say it’s not fair twice. Idiot.’
Then I climb the stairs and stand outside Mer’s bedroom.
For a split second, I can see a much smaller girl grinning goofily, her hair in a crazy, curly cloud and missing a sock. I blink, then rap hard on the door.
‘WHAT? I’M BUSY.’
Apparently, my big sister has become nocturnal: sleeping all day, disappearing every night and having her activities logged by tabloid newspapers every morning. She’s having the Valentime of Her Life, according to Thursday’s headlines.
Quickly, I gather my best acting skills in one bundle.
As Mum said when she was preparing to play Anne Boleyn at the Old Vic, you can’t pretend to be the Doomed Queen: you have to fully embody her, find a way to step into her skin and walk around. It’s an acting technique Faith calls Being the Orange. My sister says if you can convince yourself you’re an orange then you can basically convince anyone you’re anything.
‘Oh,’ I project through the keyhole. ‘Are you getting ready for the launch tonight, Mer? Me too. Premieres are so difficult to dress for, aren’t they? So important to strike the right note.’
A pause, then her door opens. ‘You’re not going.’
‘I am, as it happens.’ Be the Orange, Hope. ‘I actually got permission from Mum this morning, so—’
‘Stop leaning on door frames.’ Mercy scowls at me. ‘It doesn’t make you look casual. And you didn’t get permission because Friday is silent day at the clinic, you lying little toad. There’s no way I’m letting you snot under my jumper tonight, Desperado. Try asking somebody who gives one.’
The door slams so I knock again.
‘GO. AWAY. MORON.’
Undaunted – that went exactly as expected – I wander down the corridor and knock on Faith’s door. Mercy was my dress rehearsal, but this is my opening night.
FADE IN: HOPE, FIFTEEN —
‘So,’ I say as it opens, leaning casually on the door frame. ‘How are we both preparing for this big glamorous party tonight that we both happen to be atten— Wait, aren’t you ready yet?’
Effie looks down at her shapeless lime-green T-shirt dress. ‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’
‘You look like a popped frog is what’s wrong with it.’ Shaking my head, I walk into her room with my hands on my hips. ‘Oh, Faith. Faith, Faith, Faith. Sooooo much raw potential, sooooo much natural beauty, but you never make the best of yourself. What on earrrrth will people think of us?’
Effie blinks a few times, then bursts out laughing. ‘That was a superb impression, you little mousebear. Brilliant.’
I have no idea who I was impressing, but I nod anyway.
‘Thanks,’ I say proudly, looking at my watch. It’s 7pm and the party starts at 8. ‘But we don’t have time for random pleasantries, Eff, so what are the other options? Let me be your fashion goo-roo.’
My sister points guiltily at her bed. It’s strewn with glittering Valentino, Armani, Dior, Givenchy and Chanel in blues and pinks and purples – thousands of pounds’ worth, lent for free – but, as per usual, my beautiful sister has selected what looks like an old nightie.
‘Take that thing off,’ I command. ‘You’re not Shrek. And instead …’ I pick out a beautiful, bright yellow, low-cut, halter-neck Elie Saab maxi dress. ‘Wear this. Tidy your hair. And don’t give me any of your sassy backchat, Faith Valentine.’
Effie nods, nostrils flaring. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Granny.’
Once she’s changed, I drag in my massive Rejects Makeover Kit (everything Mercy gets tired of and leaves scattered around the house). Then I prime and buff, powder and highlight, contour and blush, shade and enhance and gloss. I give Eff beautiful smoky eyeshadow and orange cut-ins and pink lips and huge fake eyelashes and eyebrows that are much more suitable for her face shape than the ones nature provided.
On an artistic roll, I smooth down my sister’s tight curls with serum and add a diamond headpiece, six rings, eight bracelets, an anklet, a necklace, dangly earrings and a little gold belt. A pair of sparkly electric-blue heels and a bit of glitter spray, plus three crystals on each cheek, complete the look.
Then
