Faith says, biting her lip.
‘Steady,’ I agree, trying not to look too exhilarated. ‘Rock steady. Or whatever’s steadier than a rock. Stone. Cement?’
Mercy rolls her eyes, pulls up the hood of her black coat and nods in silence.
Max pops his sunglasses down. ‘AND … GO!’
Simultaneously, we swing open the back doors of the massive black limousine.
There’s a flurry of lights and clicks.
‘Valentines! VALENTINES!’
Click. Flash.
‘This way! Faith! Max! Mercy! Look over here!’
Flash click flash click flash.
‘Talk to us! Can you tell us what happened? What’s the news? How’s Juliet?’
‘What can you tell us, kids? This way, turn this way!’
Flash.
‘Talk to us! Faith! Faith! Look sad for the cameras, ladies!’
Flash flash flash flash flash
Because there’s a couple of tiny things I forgot to mention.
Mum’s in rehab.
And we’re one of the most famous families on the planet. A dynasty of movie stars stretching back four generations.
So, when I was introducing us a minute ago, it was probably our surname I should have started with. Aka the one name the entire world knows us by.
We are the Valentines.
You didn’t recognise me, right?
It’s OK, you’re not supposed to. I’m not quite sixteen, which means I’m not allowed any of the fame or money or acting jobs or awards or parties or swanky restaurants or designer clothes and shoes, etc. for another four months: it’s a Family Rule.
And that means I have time to practise.
When I’m finally unleashed on my adoring, impatient public, I’ll be so talented and glamorous that my world-renowned siblings will collapse with jealousy. They’ll beg me to explain my wondrous movie-star ways so they can copy me exactly.
I’ll be the heroine you’ve all been waiting for – the kind that gets the lead in every romance without even auditioning – and every boy who co-stars will fall madly in love with me before the end of the first read-through.
In the meantime, I’ve just had a jumper put over my head.
‘Can I come out now, please?’ I think I’m being led by the hand through the giant electronic metal gate – I can hear the beeps. ‘My nose tickles.’
‘Stop snotting on my Burberry cashmere.’ Mercy pokes my waist. ‘Have you ever considered gluing a layer of fluff straight on to your face, Poodle? Then we wouldn’t have to do this every single time.’
Effie gently takes my covering off and the world reappears: a cute little cottage with a muted grey-green front door, pretty flowers, neat hedges, tiny trees and an enormous six-metre-high steel fence shutting everyone else out.
‘You won’t have to do it much longer,’ I remind them as we crunch up the soggy gravel path. ‘In just over a third of a year, I’ll be so famous you’ll be able to sell my snot on eBay for millions and then some creepy boy, who’s totally obsessed, will buy it and grow a mini snot version of me in a test tube to keep forever.’
Mercy checks her jumper in horror before stuffing it into her Fendi handbag and Faith laughs.
‘I’d get one of those,’ she smiles, kissing my forehead. ‘To put in my pocket for when you’re not around, Po.’
‘Exactly how much is this ridiculous Privilodge of Mum’s anyway?’ Max asks as Effie punches yet another complicated passcode into a metal box embedded in the stone wall. ‘Twenty grand a month? Thirty? It’s insane.’
The cottage door swings silently open.
‘We shouldn’t use that word here,’ Effie objects as we’re beckoned down a shiny corridor.
‘Mum’s not,’ I say quickly. ‘She’s just really tired.’
‘Sure. Because it must be so hard doing nothing all day for twelve weeks solid. I’m sure our mother is absolutely exhausted, sitting in a steam room, getting facials and drinking green tea. She must be worn out, poor thing.’
I’m glad Mercy understands. Obviously, Mum wouldn’t be here if she didn’t need to be; she’d be at home with us, or on a film set, or maybe on an extended holiday in the Maldives like last summer.
‘Selfie!’ Max demands loudly as we cluster outside a familiar door, holding his phone in the air. ‘I’ll post GONE TO SEE THE MAD WOMAN IN THE ATTIC LOLZ hashtag sadface.’
Effie shakes her head at him, then clears her throat.
‘Mum?’ she says softly, knocking on the door. ‘Can you handle some visitors?’
There’s a very long silence.
A few rumbling sounds of furniture moving and bags unzipping; the snap of a mirror compact shutting. Then a weak voice says: ‘Oh yes, I think so. Please do come in, my darlings.’
We push into an enormous suite.
Everything is shiny monotone, as if we’re in an old black-and-white movie. Even the huge vases of flowers on every available surface are white and silver.
Mum’s lying on a chaise longue positioned artfully in a flattering ray of sunshine. She’s wearing loose white silk pyjamas and is fully made-up. Her platinum-blonde hair is perfectly smooth, her eyes are closed and one hand is held delicately against her forehead. I’m deeply impressed. My mother really knows how to command a scene.
‘Oh, you have got to be kidding me,’ Mercy sighs flatly.
‘My darlings.’ Mum opens her silvery eyes with a flicker and stares at the ceiling. ‘It’s so good of you to come. I’ve missed you all so very much. Right in my bones, in the very essence of – oof.’
I’ve lobbed myself on top of the chaise longue too.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I say, trying to wrap my arms round her. ‘We miss you too! How are you? Have you been for a walk in a field yet? You should, because you’re a Taurus so it would be an excellent health remedy for your pacific constitution.’
