The Valentines: Happy Girl Lucky

I don’t know why I’m apologising – I had literally nothing to do with it – but it’s lovely pretending for a minute that I did.

‘So,’ my grandmother concludes, ‘I have taken the necessary steps.’ She gives the tiniest nod.

Outside, the other car doors start opening and dozens of people emerge: glamorous, expensively dressed men and women laden with huge bags, boxes, lights, cameras, hangers full of clothes. It’s like a signal only big brothers can hear.

‘Grandmother!’ Max calls, bounding down the stairs three at a time. ‘What a joy! I was just examining my lines for my big stage role – inspired by you, dear matriarch! – and thinking, What would Grandma do? And here you are!’

Mercy sticks a finger down her throat.

‘Yes.’ Grandma nods, unruffled by either of them. ‘I suspected you would appear around now, Maxwell.’

Together, my siblings and I spin towards what is clearly a crew. They look very official – a million miles away from the yelling and shoving and lying on the floor of the paparazzi camped outside the rehab centre yesterday.

‘But,’ I say blankly, ‘who are they?’

‘Variety magazine.’ Grandma looks at us sharply. ‘Otherwise known as Damage Control.’

(#ulink_3dd6e0b9-4bf0-592c-b2bd-82169e6e049f)

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 diversityof 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 spreadofficially 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 LATTET-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’tfind 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 superperky. I’ve seen both of them.

‘Actually,’ the other continues, apparently steaming a pair of trousers, ‘it’s the eldest girl I feel reallysorry 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 professionalistand 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.