The Valentines: Happy Girl Lucky

What does Mum say when she’s not listening?

‘I’m just multitasking,darling.’

‘Let’s see if we can single-task first,’ Mr Gilbert says, closing his eyes briefly. ‘Then we’ll consider branching out to more than one. And please don’t call me darling.’

He looks tired, which is strange because up until two years ago he had to teach all the Valentine kidsand now it’s just me. You’d think it would be a lot less hard work.

‘Shall we push on?’ Mr Gilbert coughs. ‘We write the molecular formula of the repeating unit in brackets, putting an n where—’

My eyes start wandering around the room.

I can’t believe I’m in here, surrounded by thousands of books in brown, beige and snot-green, when I could be out there, telling Variety my entire life story. What does a nearly movie star need with this information anyway?They’re not exactly going to quiz me on repeating units for a feature in Vogue Japan, right?

Bored, my eyes flick across the chintzy wallpaper, windows, wallpaper, books …

Finally, they reach a small, oily and deep grey/brown painting I haven’t paid attention to before because it was made before they invented proper colour paints.

‘Is she dead?’ I ask abruptly. ‘Or sleeping?’

Mr Gilbert pauses from polywhatsits and rubs his face. ‘Who?’

‘That woman. The one lying in the boat.’

I peer more closely. She’s got long blonde hair, her eyes are shut, she’s covered in flowers, people are crying … and I may have just answered my own question.

‘That’s Elaine,’ my tutor says in an exhausted voice. ‘She was in love with the knight Lancelot, but he loved Queen Guinevere who was married to King Arthur.’

He says this in a flat tone, as if it’s not the most interesting thing he’s ever told me.

I lean forward. ‘And then what happened?’

‘She was trapped in a tower, cursed to only watch the world through a mirror.’

‘And then?’

‘Lancelot rode past and Elaine spun round to see him.’

Mr Gilbert has no ability to tell even a basic story properly. ‘And then?’

‘The mirror breaks and she dies.’

My heart is swelling; my eyes are losing focus. ‘That is … the most … beautiful … and … romantic … film … I have ever …’

‘It’s not a film, Hope. It’s The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson – we studied this poem last month. Have you been listening at all?’

Umm, no.

Honestly, I heard a lot of dull stuff about barley and rye, and figured it was a vegetable-based poem about baby onions. This is exactly why titles and visuals are so very important.

I’d have called it Lancelot’s Lover is Dead and it would have been huge.

‘OK,’ my tutor sighs, shaking his head. ‘So where were we? Hydrogen atoms, Hope. How many electrons do they have?’

Kill me. ‘Five?’

Mr Gilbert and I are in tune: he clearly wants to kill me too.

‘One. And, because they only need one more to complete the first shell, they seek out other easily available atoms to combine with, which means they’re weaker and less stable …’

‘But … what if they’re not.’ I lean forward and jab the page with my finger. ‘What if they’re meant to be with other atoms, Mr Gilbert? What if they want to be? What if it’s their atomic destiny?’

‘It kind of is, Hope,’ my tutor nods, unexpectedly delighted. ‘Chemically speaking. Well done.’

I glow at him, even though I was obviously talking about myself.

‘So,’ he continues, ‘hydrogen perox—’

There’s a soft knock at the door.

‘OH NO!’ I shout, jumping up. ‘It must be someone from Variety, come to disrupt my pivotal lessons! They’ve realised I am an integral part of the interview and they can’t go on without me! What an unexpected twist! What will I do?’

Effie’s head appears. ‘Sorry for butting in, Mr Gilbert.’ Then she grimaces at me. ‘Bad luck, Po. I tried my best to talk Grandma round, but … you know what she’s like. If it helps, I can’t answer without Mercy or Max interrupting me.’

I sit back down again with a sigh. ‘At least you’re not an ostrich.’

Faith blinks. ‘An … ostrich?’

‘Yes.’ I nod sadly. ‘I have been ostrichsized by my own family.’

‘Do you mean ostracised?’

‘That is what I said.’

Opening the door fully, Faith laughs and swishes towards me – shimmering and gold – and kisses the top of my head. ‘You’re my favourite,’ she whispers into my hair.

‘Is it over now?’ I ask hopefully, tidying my ponytail again. ‘Can I come out? Is the … photographer’s assistant still there? I just … thought he might need … help. With his little black box or … other photography-based props.’

I am prepared, on very careful reflection, to give him a second audition.

Not everyone nails it first time round.

‘We’re not done yet,’ Faith says with a small twist of her mouth. ‘It’s just they … uh.’ She hands me a bag full of my crumpled jeans and T-shirt. ‘They need the dress back, sweetheart.’

Devastated, I look down at my beautiful purple Vera Wang gown.

Can’t I even study chemistry flawlessly?

Sighing, I walk behind a jammed bookshelf and clamber back into my jeans and T-shirt. Four months, only four months, although frankly, if my family don’t stop using up all the attention, we’re going to run out.