First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2019

Published in this ebook edition in 2019

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

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The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is www.harpercollins.co.uk

Text copyright © Holly Smale 2019

Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Holly Smale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008254148

Ebook Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008254155

Version: 2018-12-18

For Autumn.

It will always be a doggy-dog world.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Books by Holly Smale

About the Publisher

FADE IN: REGENT’S PARK, LONDON, A SPRING MORNING

HOPE, fifteen, stands with her back to the sunshine, blue silk dress fluttering in the breeze. Her hair glistens, her posture is excellent and you can tell right away that she is the star of this film. In front of her is A HANDSOME BOY.

BOY

(entranced)

We’ve never met before,

but somehow it feels like we know each other already.

HOPE

You feel instantly familiar to

me too.

BOY

(even more entranced)

Do you believe in fate,

beautiful stranger?

HOPE

(shyly)

Of course I do. Everything

happens for a reason.

BOY

Then … perhaps you are my

reason?

BOY holds out his hand. ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic’ music starts playing.

HOPE

This is all happening so BEEP fast …

BOY

And yet we’ve waited our whole lives. Now BEEP take my hand

and together we will – BEEP

BEEP BEEP-BEEP—

BEEEEEEPPPPP

Blinking, I stare at the hand reaching towards me.

‘You want toppings on this?’ the BOY continues, yawning through his nostrils. ‘We got chocolate sauce and chocolate sprinkles. Strawberry sauce and nuts, but that’s extra. Or butterscotch sauce or toffee sauce. Chocolate flakes are extra too, so are toffee pieces and –’

I sigh. He’s getting this script all wrong.

A few seconds ago, I was the romantic heroine poised to run away with my true soulmate – now I appear to be in a meeting with Willy Wonka’s accountant. As usual, I infinitely prefer my version.

‘Yes, please –’ I smile sweetly as the car behind me starts beeping its horn again. ‘Actually … never mind. Plain is just fine.’

‘That’s one pound thirty, then.’

Smiling harder so my dimples show, I hand the money across while gazing over the counter as intensely as possible, using all my advanced actressing skills to communicate complex, award-winning emotions.

The BOY stares back. ‘You’re ten pence short.’

‘Whoops!’ My eyelashes must have been fluttering too fast to see properly. ‘Here you go.’

Our fingertips touch lightly and I stare at them, waiting for a flash of light, a few sparkles, maybe a bit of casual levitation. Up close, his fingernails have a thin line of black under each one, there are bright red spots marking his cheeks and his apron has melted chocolate smeared on it. Although I’m actually in black jeans and a neon cropped jumper – and it looks like it’s about to start raining – so reality isn’t exactly doing either of us a favour.

But there’s definitely Potential. I just need to harness this new cinematic direction – fast.

‘So,’ I say as the car horn starts blaring again, ‘what’s your star si—’

‘HOPE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE LOOKING FOR A TOILET! DO YOU HAVE CONSTIPATION OR WHAT? GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW OR WE’RE GOING WITHOUT YOU!’

OK, the word toilet is absolutely not going in my big opening scene; I am also editing out constipation immediately.

The BOY’s eyes slide over my shoulder, then widen as he spots the huge luxury car parked behind me.

‘Whoa,’ he says, abruptly waking up. ‘Is that—’

‘Yep.’ I take a step backwards. ‘Thank you so much for this ice cream, kind stranger. I shall treasure it forever and ever, until it melts or gets eaten.’

Quickly – while he’s still watching – I take my hair out of its tangled knot and give my black curls a quick, charming shake.

Then I glance adorably back over my shoulder.

HOPE

I’m afraid I must leave you

here, but this moment will be

engraved upon my heart for the

rest of time.

‘Bye, then!’ I call brightly, waving.

BOY

Goodbye, my dream girl. I will

never serve ice cream in the

same way again.

Ice Cream Boy stares at me for a few seconds with a deep furrow between his eyebrows. ‘Bye?’

I feel an abrupt whoosh of pleasure.

Next time I visit, he’s going to recognise me and ask my name and declare his eternal love for me and everything.

This One is almost definitely The One.

‘HOPE, YOU TOTAL MUPPET!’ my sister screams helpfully. ‘GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!’

‘Coming!’ I call back.

Then – delighted with how the morning is going – I skip towards the car with the blue dress I’m not wearing fluttering behind me.

FADE OUT.

Cancer: June 21–July 22

Your natural gift is in connecting with others, Cancer. Today Mercury and Venus are in your fourth house, which emphasises home, family, roots and parents.

Use your talents to bring those bonds even closer.

I’m Hope, your new leading lady.

Nearly sixteen years ago, my parents took one look at my beaming, newborn face and thought: There’s a girl who’ll embody rainbows, sunrises and the kiss at the end of a film. There’s a girl who’ll skip when everybody else is walking, and try to see the best in all things; who’ll never need to look for a silver lining because for her there’ll be no clouds.

And you know what? It totally worked.

Hope is somehow buried inside me, planted deep in the middle of who I am, like the pip of a cherry or the stone of an avocado. My eldest sister, on the other hand, shoved her name into the ground and then tried to get as far away from it, as fast as physically possible.

A bit like a … potato.

‘What is wrong with you?’ Mercy snaps as I climb carefully into the back of the limo, precious ice cream held reverently in front of me. (His ice cream! The Ice Cream Created By Him!) ‘Seriously. It’s not a rhetorical question, Poodle. I’m looking for a clinical diagnosis.’

Twisting, I stare longingly out of the window at the ice-cream van retreating slowly behind us, my fingertips pressed up against the glass. Saying goodbye is so hard sometimes.

HOPE

Until next time, my

chocolate-covered paramour.

Music swells.

END SCENE.

‘Don’t call me Poodle,’ I object, turning to face my sister and licking my ice cream. ‘You know I don’t like it.’

‘How about Poo, then?’ Mer sighs, propping her high-heeled boots on the seat next to me. ‘Smelly, inappropriate in public and constantly disrupting plans.’

‘I am not.’

‘Are.’

‘Am not.’

I stick my tongue out and she pretends not to notice. Mercy’s seventeen and permanently glamorous; today her hair is in a tight black bun, her lipstick’s red, her silk T-shirt is black, her hooded coat is black and her trousers are black leather.

The car seats are black leather too, so every time she moves there’s a loud squeaking sound. Maybe it’s the souls of the poor cows greeting each other in another format.

Without warning, I start giggling.

‘Do you have brain freeze?’ Mer snaps, picking at a perfect red nail. ‘Or are random hysterics yet another side effect of having literally nothing in your head?’

‘Mercy,’ Effie says, looking up from her fitness tracker. ‘Would you please leave Hope alone? Does it matter if we get there a little late?’

Because, if I grew with my name inside me, and Mercy grew without any of hers, then sixteen-year-old Faith holds hers up like a flower: always gentle, always adored, always sweet.

She’s also always beautiful.

And yes, I know that’s not a character trait, but if my middle sister was being cast in a movie that’s exactly what would be written on the script. Effie’s perfect face is always the first thing the rest of the world notices, yet somehow the last thing she does.

Which makes no sense because, when my visage eventually decides to blossom into hers some time over the next year, I’m totally going to make the most of it.

Broken hearts everywhere.

‘Yes,’ Mercy snaps, glaring at me pointedly. ‘Because I’ve got better things to do on a Sunday than watch my irritating kid sister making cow eyes yet again at the zitty ice-cream boy.’

‘First off,’ I explain patiently, ‘they were not cow eyes. They were mysterious eyes designed to woo and captivate. And second off his acne is clearly healing because he has a lot of scabs, so ha.’

I fold my arms in triumph.

‘We’re coming up to the gates,’ Effie says as Mercy smacks a palm against her forehead. ‘Please stop squabbling for, like, forty-five seconds? Be nice. And game faces at the r—’

The car screeches to a stop.

‘Yo, yo, yo,’ Max shouts, swinging a door open and poking his close-shaved head into the back of the car with a grin. ‘I see the three witches eschewed their broomsticks for the day. How’s tricks, my hubble bubblers?’

All I need to say about my nineteen-year-old brother is that he takes his name very literally.

‘For the love of—’

‘Language, Mermaid,’ Max laughs, shoving our sister over and clambering to the other side of the car, brown knees poking out of his ripped jeans. ‘Aren’t you happy to see me, sister-face? You are. I can tell you are. Look how incandescent my mere presence makes you.’

He leans forward and uses his fingers to stretch Mercy’s mouth into a scary, red-lipped, horror-film smile.

She immediately punches him. ‘How are you so annoying?’

‘Dunno.’ Max slumps in the seat and stretches his hands lazily over his head while he thinks about it. ‘I’d like to say it was a gift from the gods, but I won’t lie – I’ve been taking a few night classes. Really honing those skills.’

Then he yawns widely, showing all his back teeth, his tonsils and a single string of saliva, yet still managing to look handsome.

‘What does eschewed mean?’ I ask, leaning forward.

‘It’s a sneeze in the past tense, baby bear,’ my brother grins, fluffing my curls with his hand. ‘And I should warn you there are paps and journos everywhere. But don’t fret, sibs, I got here early and gave them a few choice nuggets. How we’re all being strong for each other, pulling together in our time of need and so on and so forth …’

He grins wickedly and Faith glances at Mercy.

That explains the mirrored sunglasses Max is wearing, even though it’s now fully raining. (My hair wasn’t really glistening in the sunshine earlier, either: that was done in my brain’s fully staffed Special-effects Department.)

‘God, Max,’ Mercy hisses, clearly livid she didn’t think of this first. ‘Attention-seeker much?’

‘God, Mer,’ he laughs brightly. ‘Jealous much?’

The car turns a final bend.

Excitement starts bubbling in my stomach. It’s very important to make the best out of every single situation.

With a practised hand, I quickly tidy my hair and reapply my lipstick. If only somebody had told me the paparazzi would be here today, I’d have contoured much more carefully – really made sure my bone structure can be seen through a tinted window.

The car glides to a stop. My siblings and I stare at each other, united briefly by what’s waiting for us outside.

‘Ready?’ 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.’

‘Would it?’ Mum says, patting me vaguely with three fingertips as I scooch over to give her more space. She struggles to her feet. ‘Goodness.’

Calmly, she smooths out the crumples I’ve made in her silk pyjamas. Then she looks down at me.

‘Hope, darling,’ she says with a tiny frown, ‘you must sit up straighter. You’re going to get a curved spine and that is so difficult to correct at your age.’

I immediately snap to attention. ‘Sorry.’

‘Faith.’ Mum glides over and takes Effie’s beautiful face between her hands. ‘My love, are you using that cream I gave you? Your pores are looking quite large. Don’t forget that those high-definition cameras will magnify each flaw.’

‘Every night, I promise, Mum.’

‘Good girl.’

Now it’s Max’s turn. ‘And how is the Barbican, my dear? I know the ghost doesn’t have any lines, but it’s a solid part. I did try to call in a few favours, but a lot of it is down to your own acting skills, I’m afraid.’

My brother’s left eye twitches. ‘It’s good. I mean, I’m dead before the curtain goes up. That’s the dream, right?’

Mum ignores him and turns to Mercy.

‘Those leather trousers are glorious on you, darling. But have you considered a size fourteen? They look uncomfortable in a twelve.’

A muscle in Mer’s jaw goes ping. ‘They fit perfectly, thanks.’

‘Of course they do.’ Mum smiles wanly. ‘I’m only thinking of you, darling.’

‘Are you? That makes a nice change.’

There’s a silence.

‘Mum,’ Faith says, stepping abruptly forward. ‘You might want to move away from the window. Max brought the paps and they’ve got long lenses.’

Mum’s back straightens immediately.

‘Ah,’ she nods, gliding nearer to the window and opening the curtains wide. ‘Such vultures. Is there no privacy any more? No respect for our personal space? Do these coyotes do nothing but take, take, take while we give, give, give?’

Mercy, Faith and Max glance at each other with lifted eyebrows.

‘Yeah,’ Mercy snaps. ‘Weird, that.’

Mum angles her beautiful high cheekbones towards the light, then stares bleakly into the far distance, silvery eyes shimmering. ‘Did you, perchance, happen to see anyone from the LA Times out there?’

‘Nope,’ Max grins. ‘But I did see the Telegraph. Wait, Grandma reads that, doesn’t she?’

Mum abruptly closes the curtains and steps away.

‘How … is she?’

‘She wants to know why you’re living here instead of at home with your children,’ Mer says, looking at her blood-red nails. ‘It’s a question we’re all quite eager to have answered, when you get a spare moment.’

‘Oh, my darlings,’ Mum says with a soft smile. ‘You are so sweet to worry about me. I will triumph, I promise you that.’ She perches neatly on the chaise longue, legs crossed elegantly at the ankle. ‘Although I’m afraid I’m feeling terribly tired. I have a two o’clock appointment with a very well-respected herbologist, so …’

There’s a silence while Mercy looks pointedly at her watch. It’s not quite ten in the morning yet.

‘Sure,’ Effie says, chewing on her bottom lip. ‘You must be wiped, Mum. We’ll see you next Sunday, yeah?’

Impulsively, I fling myself at Mum again.

‘Neptune is in retrograde,’ I whisper into her neck as she steadies herself on the plumped cushions behind her. ‘Which explains everything. So get lots of fresh air, stay away from the colour red and put this inside your pillowcase.’

Before my mother can respond, I sneak a little pouch of lavender into her hand, kiss her cheek and flit out of the room.

Exiting the scene beautifully.

LOCATION SETTING: REHAB RECEPTION

‘Well,’ Max says as my siblings and I stare at each other blankly. ‘That was quite a lot worse than I thought it would be.’

Faith nods. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Does she have no shame at all?’ Mercy screws up her nose. ‘It’s pathetic. Tragic. Sad.’

We’re reading from exactly the same page of the same script at the same time, like a seamless run-through of a Tony Award-winning sitcom.

‘So tragic,’ I agree emphatically, trying to grab all six of their hands at once in comfort. ‘So sad. Mum’s last big romantic film was so intense and so all-consuming that, to wall intensive purposes, it has totally worn her out. I think it’s time for Dad to hurry up and come back from LA as soon as possible.’

Max abruptly glances at me.

‘Hope,’ he says, studying my face carefully. ‘It’s for all intents and purposes. Mum’s not in rehab for bricks. And you do understand what’s going on, don’t you? You don’t actually believe—’

‘Effie,’ I burst out cheerfully. ‘That’s a good question. What are we going to do? We should compile our brainpower and find a way to stay positive. We need to keep Mum happy until Dad arrives home, because happiness is the most important thing there is. Apart from love, obviously. Any ideas?’

Max, Mercy and Faith stare at me.

‘I don’t have any,’ I say quickly, because they look very expectant. ‘You’re going to have to think too. I can’t do it all on my own.’

‘Blime-y,’ Max exhales. ‘How were you even made, Po? Were you put together in a doll factory, wrapped in pink tissue paper and left randomly on our doorstep?’

‘Are you trying to tell me I’m adopted?’ I reply in amazement. ‘Because, if so, your sense of dramatic timing is truly terrible.’

There’s a light cough and I jump. An incredibly hot blond boy with deep brown eyes is hovering behind us.

You see? This is what happens when you take your eye off the ball: The One can sneak up while you’re not even pushing your chest out properly. Quickly, I flick my hair, open my eyes wide and bite the inside of my cheeks so my cheekbones look sharper.

Too hard. Ow.

Max laughs loudly. ‘I don’t think they put in enough bubblewrap, Fluff-pot.’

You know what? In my next life, I’m coming back as the oldest sibling and giving Max stupid nicknames in front of his soulmates too.

‘May I assist with transport?’ my new The One asks politely with a subtle dip of his head. ‘There are a range of options we could organise: a Bentley, motorbikes, a …’

Wow, he’s so powerful and efficient. I bet he’d know how to call me a rescue helicopter if I fainted subtly in his arms and everything.

Mer snarls. ‘Do you think we swam here?’

‘We have a car waiting,’ Effie says quickly, giving him a devastatingly gorgeous smile. ‘But thank you.’

My One goes red and blinks at my middle sister as if she’s suddenly spotlit – even though she’s wearing no make-up, a shapeless orange hoodie and neon-yellow leggings – and I immediately send him to my reject pile.

He failed the audition.

Next.

‘VALENTINES!’ the crowd shouts as the metal gates swing open again. ‘What happened? How’s Juliet? When’s she coming out? Can you tell us anything? Anything at all?’

There’s a nanosecond for me to give them my most enigmatic movie-star smile before Mercy’s jumper goes over my head again.

‘Is it exhaustion?’ I hear a journalist yell through the fluff. ‘Depression? Insanity? Total mental collapse?’

‘Have divorce papers been issued? What about reports that your dad’s engaged to another actress already?’

‘Will Juliet be at her film premiere next weekend?’

‘Where are those boots from?’

That last question must be aimed at Mer because Max, Effie and I are all wearing trainers covered in Nike ticks. Mercy has stiffened, so – curious – I rummage around inside her jumper until I can peer out of an armhole.

Slowly, eyes blazing, my big sister turns to face the crowd.

‘This,’ Mer says coldly into a sudden silence, ‘is an intensely private matter. While the three of us may live our lives in the spotlight, it is not a spotlight of our choosing. We owe you nothing and you do not own us. Please try to remember that …’ She pauses for a fraction. ‘We are just teenagers, trying to … hold on to our mum.’

There’s a tender crack in her voice and Mer’s chin quivers as her eyes fill with tears. The journalists are completely still, Dictaphones frozen in the air.

I stare at my sister in amazement.

‘Please,’ Mercy continues, her voice hoarse. ‘Let us deal with our heartbreak in peace. Let us be, for a moment, the normal family we are.’

She blinks quickly, then turns, but not before we all see a tear trailing down her left cheek. ‘Gucci,’ she adds quietly. ‘My boots are Gucci, although I don’t see why on earth it matters.’

And she disappears into the limousine.

Stunned, the rest of us climb in after her.

The second the doors lock, I rip the jumper off my head and wrap myself round my sister’s neck.

‘Oh, Mercy,’ I whisper, patting her left ear awkwardly in an outpouring of compassion. ‘Don’t you worry – Mum’s going to be fine. She’ll be home any day now. They’re just horrible rumours. But we’re here for each other. I love you so much and—’

There’s a shout of laughter.

‘You total cow,’ Max chuckles, taking his sunglasses off and rubbing his eyes. ‘You almost had me there for a second, Mermaid. God, you’re good.’

I pull away, feeling slightly sick.

Mercy wipes the single tear off her face with a red nail and flicks it away. ‘Runs in the family,’ she shrugs, smiling tightly. ‘We’re very skilled at pretending to be something we’re not.’

She stares out of the darkened window.

‘Well, what are we waiting for? Drive the hell on.’

Cancer: June 21–July 22

Mars and Saturn send thunderbolts today, leaving you feeling slightly restless. But a pleasurable surprise is on its way, so harness that energy and put your best foot forward!

The next morning, it’s all over the papers:

HEARTBREAK FOR THE VALENTINES

There’s a large photo of Faith’s face – luminous in its orange hood – much smaller photos of Mercy and Max, and a blurry insert of Mum staring wistfully out of the window.

And – ooh! – there’s my left arm peeking out in the corner!

Elbow looking good, if I do say so myself.

‘Seems like you had quite the day yesterday.’

Our housekeeper, Maggie, dropped off the papers first thing, then made us all a large breakfast. Now she’s drinking a coffee and leaning against the Aga, calmly watching us stuff our faces.

‘Right? Listen to this.’ Max piles egg into his mouth and waves a full-page article in the air. ‘Wait –’

He stands on a chair and flings his arms out.

‘After months of silence, following a brutal dumping by prominent African-American film director husband, Michael Rivers, the full mental breakdown of now single and lonely Juliet Valentine, one of Britain’s most beloved stars of stage and screen, has been confirmed—’

I roll my eyes and Maggie frowns at him. ‘Max …’

‘Wait, Mags, it gets better. Mercy Valentine, Up-and-Coming It Girl and Professional Big Nose, whose eyes filled with eloquent tears yesterday—’

‘It’s not my fault you’re not quoted,’ Mer shrugs, savagely pulling apart a croissant. ‘If you didn’t want to be outshone, you probably shouldn’t have invited the media in the first place.’

‘You invited the media?’ Maggie frowns and puts more eggs on the table. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’

‘They were writing about Mum anyway,’ Max declares defensively. ‘I figured they might as well hear it from us.’

‘From you, you mean,’ Mercy corrects.

‘It’s such nonsense,’ I pipe up through a mouthful of toast, shaking my head humorously. ‘Where do they get this crazy gossip from? And they call themselves professionalists!’

‘No, they don’t, because that’s not a word, Po.’ Max looks back at the article. ‘What else have we got? Natural beauty, Faith Valentine, girlfriend of pop sensation Noah Anthony, said everything without saying anything.’

‘Please stop,’ Effie says, sipping orange juice. ‘They’re toxic.’

‘And yet they still like you the best,’ Max laughs. ‘Looks like you’re going to need that nose job if you want the main shot, Mermaid.’ He nudges Mercy with his foot and then hops to another chair so her punch doesn’t reach him. ‘Let’s see how online feels about the Valentines today, shall we?’

He picks up his iPad and clears his throat.

‘Grandmother, no comment … diva posho Mum’s finally lost it … Dad’s upgraded … the kids are talentless nonentities …’

‘Max.’

‘A century of privilege … entitled brats, living off their parents’ money …’

‘Max.’

‘Who do these people even think they—’

‘THAT IS ENOUGH, MAX!’ barks Maggie.

Max sits down abruptly. ‘Apologies, Mags. At least Dad told them to – direct quote – kiss my American butt, so you can take some comfort in that.’

‘Of course he did,’ I say cheerfully, licking blackcurrant jam off my fingers. ‘I mean, I’ve never heard such trash in my entire life. Always jumping to ridiculous conclusions! Hahaha – journalists or journo-nots, am I right?’

I look triumphantly at everyone, but they’re busy eating.

‘Anyway,’ Maggie says smoothly, cleaning the top of the Aga, ‘I’m afraid I’m not around this evening. Ben’s back for a holiday so I’m taking the rest of the week off.’

Max, Mercy and I swivel immediately towards Faith.

Ben is Maggie’s son and has been madly in love with Effie since they were both six years old: he used to follow her around the grounds, giving her caterpillars to eat as a sign of his eternal devotion. I thought it was very romantic, but she never ate them.

‘He is?’ Faith flushes and avoids our eyes. ‘How’s he finding school up north? You must miss him so much.’

‘I do.’ Maggie nods and wipes her hands on a tea towel. ‘But he loves living with his father in Edinburgh so I try not to show it. And I know I’m biased, but he’s turning into a bit of a heartbreaker. Every girl in sixth-form chess club seems absolutely besotted.’

Max and Mercy start sniggering.

‘How proud you must be,’ Faith says, flashing them warning eyes.

‘How proud,’ Mercy agrees, snorting. ‘Is he still obsessed with Scrabble too? Do you remember when he used to meaningfully play words like beguile and ardour all the time, Eff?’

I should probably mention here that Ben is short and skinny with crispy mouse-coloured hair in a side parting. The last time I saw him he had a spidery moustache that he stroked every now and then as if for luck.

‘Umm,’ Faith says, fiddling with her spoon. ‘I don’t really remember. It was such a long time ago.’

Mercy and Max are twiddling air-moustaches and pretending to play the bagpipes until Maggie quirks her eyebrows at them. ‘You want to make your own dinner tonight, Downton Abbey?’

That shuts them up: none of us know how to cook.

‘I can’t wait until I’m famous,’ I sigh with starry eyes, gazing at the newspapers. ‘I wonder what nonsense they’ll make up about me. Right now, I could get attacked by zombies and there’d only be a picture of my elbow, slightly nibbled on.’

‘Oh, please.’ Mer’s nose twitches slightly. ‘If zombies ever invaded England, you’d just fall in love with the most rotten one, Poodle.’

‘Oh, Handsome Zombie!’ Max cries, pretending to reach into his chest and throw the invisible contents across the table. ‘You have my heart, now and forever! Do with it as you will!’

Pretend slobbering, Mer catches my heart and eats it.

‘There’s no harm in a bit of romance,’ Maggie says sternly as my siblings start sniggering again. ‘Now, you lot, behave, please. I don’t want the media circling while I’m trying to cook my top-secret shepherd’s pie.’

Then she puts her cardigan back on and leaves us to it.

‘No harm in romance …’ Max erupts as soon as she’s gone. ‘Unless it’s with the flesh-eating undead.’

‘I’m sure the zombie will love you to pieces, baby,’ Faith says, leaning over and kissing my cheek. ‘Like we all do.’

‘Yeah, literally bits and pieces.’

‘You know what?’ I say as my siblings laugh and get up from the breakfast table. ‘If I did fall for a zombie, I can promise you that our great love would ultimately triumph against the odds. It’d be a blockbuster romance that my adoring public would pay millions to see, so there.’

‘Don’t worry, little sis,’ Mer grins, finishing her croissant in one bite. ‘You’ll find a boy with a huge chunk of his brain missing one day, I have no doubt.’

Now they’re draining their drinks and checking their phones. So I jump up and do that too.

‘What are we doing now? Oooh, why don’t we watch a film together? How about The Heart of Us? We haven’t seen that in ages.’

It also happens to be the very film Mum and Dad met on: an epic, sweeping romance set in London in the Second World War. And, yes, I watched it last night, but it doesn’t count if it’s on your own.

‘Sorry, Poodle,’ Max says, shoving toast in his mouth and heading towards the stairs. ‘Three whole lines to learn. Just in case Messenger Two literally breaks a leg.’

I look hopefully at Effie.

‘Not this morning.’ She winces as her phone starts buzzing. ‘Noah’s been touring Europe for weeks, which means he has to tell me about every single meal he’s eaten in exquisite detail.’

So I turn to Mercy, much less optimistically.

‘Not in a billion, trajillion years,’ she yawns. ‘It’s a dumb film, you’re annoying and I’m going back to bed. Go play fetch with Rabbit or something.’

I used to have an imaginary puppy when I was little, and my siblings still think it’s hilarious to mention him, even though I haven’t played with him for years. Obviously.

‘His name was Rocket,’ I say indignantly. ‘And if you just wait a minute maybe we could—’

Nope. They’ve already gone.

RICHMOND, A SUNNY MONDAY MORNING

The camera scans over an enormous, stately red-brick mansion with fifteen bedrooms and a swimming pool set in the middle of large grounds. It’s surrounded by trees and an enormous wall, a long gravel drive runs up to the front door and a babbling brook winds through the bottom of the garden.

HOPE, fifteen, stands gazing out of a large front window, wearing a T-shirt that says I LOVE YOU A LATTE and pale blue jea—

PAUSE.

Quickly – before I lose the flattering lighting – I run to the laundry room and rummage through Mercy’s reject pile from last week until I find a gorgeous black Chloé jumpsuit, way too big, with a stain on the front, but much more appropriate.

Delighted, I tug it on, tie it up with a coat belt and snatch some towering pink suede Prada heels from the hallway. Then – inspired – I find a stray red Chanel lipstick in Mercy’s coat pocket, slick it on and totter back up the stairs again.

OK, universe, as you so rightly advised me, my best foot is now forward.

And – PLAY.

HOPE gazes out of a large front window, wearing a Chloé jumpsuit and red lipstick. She looks glamorous yet casual and laid-back, as if she can sit down easily at any given moment. Her expression is thoughtful, her posture excellent.

A HANDSOME BOY strides up the long driveway.

BOY

(looking up)

How have I walked this path so many times and never seen that girl before?

HOPE

(amazed)

How have I stood at this window so many times and never seen that boy before?

BOY

Beautiful girl, will you open the window and talk to me?

HOPE

What?

BOY

(makes gesture with hands)

OPEN. THE. WINDOW.

HOPE

Oh!

She opens the window.

HOPE (CONTINUED)

Sorry, I couldn’t hear you. I was just lost in my poetic thoughts that were focused over there in the far distance. Hang on.

Violins start to play. She runs down the stairs, opens the door. They gaze at each other for a few seconds.

BOY

It’s like we already know each other somehow.

HOPE

And yet you are also totally new.

He leans forward. They k—

‘HOPE!’ Mercy yells down the stairs. ‘TAKE MY CHLOÉ OFF RIGHT NOW AND STOP LURKING AT THE WINDOW. YOU ARE NOT IN SOME BASIC HORROR FILM.’

Her door slams.

Sighing – I’m in a romance, thanks very much – I return to my room to get changed. Any day now, a handsome newspaper boy or somebody gorgeous who works for Harrods food delivery is going to show up unexpectedly, but I won’t be at the window to bewitch him. I will blame my eldest sister for this tragic misdirection entirely.

Back in my jeans again, I click on my phone for more details of today’s horoscope. There’s a ping and a garish pop-up – IS LOVE ACTUALLY DEAD? EVERYONE’S FAVOURITE COUPLE IS OVER AND WE’RE CRYING – next to photos of my beautiful parents in their heyday. I immediately close the shameless journo-not clickbait.

Then I swap around my film posters so the giant one of a couple kissing is directly in front of my bed. The universe works in its own mysterious ways, but it might be open to direct hints, right?

Carefully, I rearrange my favourite bits of memorabilia: a clapperboard from Great-Grandma’s 1920s silent classic It Didn’t Happen Here!, Grandma’s silk gloves from Evening Rain, the long, jewelled sword Mum carried in The Hurtful Ones and the director’s chair from Dad’s Golden-Globe-winning Waves of Time. (Although – if I’m being honest – I’m not entirely sure why it won: it’s about the navy and there isn’t any love story at all.)

Smiling, I straighten a little old photo of my grammy and grampy on Dad’s side – beaming outside the adorable frilly house they had in New Orleans – so they don’t feel left out.

I turn on The Heart of Us so it’s running very loudly in the background. Then I grab my phone and hit speed dial.

‘Hey there,’ a deep American voice booms. ‘This is Michael Rivers. If your call is work-related, try my agent at First Films. If not, go right ahead and leave your message after the beep.’

Beep.

‘Hello, Dad!’ I chirp, turning the film up two more notches and holding my phone out so he can hear the amorous ack-ack-ack of the opening gunfight. ‘How’s the filming going? You must be nearly finished, yeah?’

I prod his old director’s chair with my toe.

‘Anyway, I think it’s time for you to wrap it up and come home, OK? By Friday ideally. Also, can you bring me an expensive and irreplaceable memento from set? Like the leading lady’s shoes? Size six, although I can totally scrunch my toes into a five if I have to.’

Trailing my finger along the peacocks in the wallpaper, I wander vaguely back into the corridor.

‘So I’ll see you at the end of the week. Have a safe j—’

Out of the window I can see an enormous silver Mercedes crunching slowly up the driveway, followed by five much smaller cars in blue, red and black that I definitely don’t recognise. Holy horoscopes, the surprise sent by Saturn! The pleasurable one! Thank goodness my best foot is permanently forward.

‘Gotta go,’ I say, hanging up.

Then – with studied grace – I get right up against the glass, gaze into the distance and make my face as wistful as possible.

Hold it for five, four, three, two —

Then, hanging on tightly to the bannister, I swish down the stairs, still wearing the gigantic pink heels (I was told to take her jumpsuit off, but Mer said nada about footwear).

Next, I use my remaining few moments to prepare with dramatic breathing exercises the way Effie taught me: pulling air deep into my stomach and then letting it out with a loud SSSHHHH SSSHHHHH and an AAAAAAAHHHHH and a HA! HA! HA! HA! H—

‘Stop that,’ a sharp voice says from the other side of the front door. ‘What are you doing? This is not a zoo.’

Heaving the huge door open, I beam and hold my arms out. ‘Grandma! What a pleasurable surprise this is! I didn’t know you were coming!’

An emerald green velvet coat is dropped over my arms.

‘Yes,’ my grandmother says coldly, surveying the hallway. ‘Although I think you probably should have guessed.’

You obviously know Dame Sylvia Valentine already.

But – to aid my very busy casting team – she’s exactly the same now as she is in her fifty-six films: small, rigid, with grey eyes, platinum-blonde hair in a bun and a withering gaze. (Except in real life she gets to invent her own lines and facial expressions so they tend to be even less friendly.)

‘How are you?’ I ask, expertly air-kissing – mwah mwah – so I don’t stamp her with borrowed red lipstick. ‘It’s not Wednesday yet, is it? Don’t you normally come on Wednesdays? And hello, Genevieve! You’re here too! What a wonderful addition!’

My grandmother’s assistant nods silently from behind her.

‘Darling, you’re far too enthusiastic,’ Grandma snaps, leaning on her walking stick. ‘Try to attain a higher level of ennui, especially so early in the morning. This Americanised zeal for living is utterly exhausting.’

‘I’m half American,’ I point out cheerfully.

‘An unfortunate fact I remain painfully aware of.’ Grandma picks non-existent fluff off her brocade skirt and stares round our vast dark hallway with her nose wrinkled delicately.

I have to say it: her posture is excellent.

‘Are your wayward siblings here? Or can I assume that they’re currently running amok, as befits a colony of teenagers with no parental guidance?’

I glance up the stairs. Mercy pokes her tousled head over the bannister, widens her eyes and pulls it back again.

‘Umm,’ I say loyally, looking subtly in the opposite direction. ‘I’m … afraid … they’re … not … here … right now … so …’

‘Come down, please!’ Grandma calls without raising her eyes. ‘Mercy, I presume.’

There’s a short pause, then Mer thumps down the stairs.

‘FAITH!’ she yells over her shoulder. ‘MAX! NANNA VEE IS HERE.’

My grandmother flinches with one eyelid. Nanna Vee is not on her approved list of terms of endearment.

Seconds later, Faith appears. And I swear I’m not editing this, but a ray of sunshine appears at exactly the same moment, settling on her skin and hair as if it’s literally coming from inside her. Unfortunately, it’s also settling on her electric-blue leggings, orange sports bra strap and huge lime-green T-shirt, and those really didn’t need emphasis. She already looks like a bag of highlighters.

‘Oh!’ Eff says sweetly, skipping down the stairs. ‘Hello, Grandma! Have we moved our lesson to today? I was just about to go for a long run, but it’s not a problem! Shall I go and get my books instead?’

Mercy rolls her eyes.

Every Wednesday since she turned sixteen, Faith has been getting secretive lessons in How To Live Forever As An Immortal and Internationally Beloved Movie-star Goddess (we assume).

All we know for sure is that Mercy definitely didn’t get them.

I’m excited to find out if I will.

‘Not today, Faith,’ Grandma says curtly, using her walking stick to punctuate her words on the stone floor. ‘We have more preoccupying matters to discuss, such as how this family ended up splashed across the front pages of the tabloids this morning like marauding soap stars.’

She says soap as if she’s just eaten it, and Effie and I glance guiltily at each other.

Mer sticks her nose in the air. ‘It was Max,’ she states defiantly. ‘He told them we were going to be there. I was just—’

‘Yes,’ Grandma says, holding up a pale, ring-spangled hand. ‘I believe we know what you were doing, Mercy. Where is your brother?’

Now we all shrug: ranks closed.

‘Let me make something very clear.’ Our grandmother tightens her lips. ‘We are not reality-television celebrities or popular musicians. We are not Beauty Loggers or what they call Tubers. We do not air our dirty laundry in public for the entertainment of the masses.’

Now is probably not the time to tell her that Max started his own channel nine months ago: 600k+ followers watch him give loud opinions weekly, often with no top on. Also, Beauty Logger makes it sound like they’re using lipsticks to cut down trees.

‘We are actors,’ my grandmother clarifies in her small-theatre voice. ‘Artists. And, while I appear to be unable to prevent your mother from throwing her emotional toys out of the perambulator, I will not allow the Valentine name to be cheapened further.’

Eyes closed, Genevieve is nodding as if in prayer.

‘My mother did not build this dynasty a hundrrrrred years ago,’ Grandma projects beautifully, now in her big-theatre voice, ‘for her prrrrrogeny to destrrrroy it with unscrrrrripted doorrrrstep drrrrama. Am I making myself abunnndddaaaaannntly clear?

‘VALENTINES. ALWAYS. ACT. WITH. CLASS.’

And there’s the family motto, somehow spoken in a different font.

We are suitably chastened.

‘Sorry, Grandma,’ we chime together. ‘We won’t do it again, Grandma.’

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.’

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.

LOCATION SETTING: THE CLASSROOM

It’s two hours later, and my friends and I are sitting together at the back of class, furiously passing indignant notes and discussing this absolute injustice. Olivia can’t believe it and Sophia is sympathetic; Madison’s calling for mutiny, but she always overreacts so we ignore her.

Finally, we simmer down and our conversation turns to normal topics: parties, clothes, teachers, the new boy who’s just started at school. He’s clearly very bad news (he has piercing green eyes), but he keeps staring at me across the classroom. We all suspect that, deep down, he has an interesting backstory and a secretly good heart.

And Olivia is all, ‘Oh, Hope, when are you going to realise?’

‘Hope.’

Sophia is all, ‘You two are meant for each other.’

‘Hope.’

Except I can’t see it, because—

‘HOPE.’

Jumping, I blink at Mr Gilbert. ‘Mmm?’

‘Are you listening, or shall I take this absorbing lesson outside and teach a squirrel to pass their fast-approaching exams instead?’

Umm, good luck getting them to hold a pen.

‘I’m listening,’ I ad-lib quickly: we world-class actresses have to be able to think on our feet. ‘And … in … ah … 1052 William of Normandy claimed that he was the rightful heir to the throne, and thus began the Norman Conquest!’

‘In 1052?’ Mr Gilbert frowns.

‘1053? 54? 55?’

His ancient bushy grey eyebrows are going up a fraction at a time.

‘56 … 57 … 58 … 59 … 60?’

They’re still going up.

‘61 … 62 … 63 … 64 … 65 … 66 …’

They stop moving.

‘In 1066!’

‘Excellent. I’m glad we finally got there, Hope. What a shame we’re studying chemistry this morning, not history.’

I stare at the red book in front of me.

If only Sophia or Olivia or Madison or New Boy had pointed this small technicality out to me earlier, but they didn’t. Mainly because I’ve never been to school. I study alone in our library with a tutor and none of my friends actually exist in real life … which makes it hard for them to warn me about stuff.

‘Ah,’ I nod.

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 kids and 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.

Then I hand the beautiful dress to my sister.

‘Do you want to hang out tonight?’ I ask as Faith heads towards the door. ‘Maybe watch Waves of Time together? Then we can quiz Dad on all the behind-the-scenes information and ask him why there isn’t a single kiss in it.’

‘I … would.’ Effie smiles slightly. ‘But Noah’s cooking dinner so I need to get there before the papers rifle through his bins to work out if we’ve split up yet.’

I nod resignedly because Max will be at the theatre and Mercy will be Out.

‘Cool,’ I say as the door closes. ‘That’s cool.’

It’s at times like this that I really miss Rocket.

‘Right,’ Mr Gilbert says, tapping the book. ‘Where were we? Hydrogen peroxide.’

Cancer: June 21–July 22

Jupiter is in transit, which should bring luck and growth. But, as a water sign with Pisces rising, you might be feeling extra sensitive this week so try to avoid unnecessary confrontation and find harmony.

I wouldn’t call the rest of this week a classic. Honestly, if Monday to Thursday was a film, I’d have given it one star – Where’s the narrative arc? What direction is this going in? – and switched it off by now.

I’ve stayed upbeat by focusing on Friday night – the premiere for Mum’s new film (the third most expensive movie ever made).

On Tuesday 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 I lead her proudly out of the room, down the stairs and into the hallway like my most prized pony.

‘Jeez-us,’ Mercy says, appearing from the kitchen in a black tux and burgundy lipstick. ‘Look at the state of you.’

‘Yes,’ Effie says firmly, raising her beautiful, brand-new eyebrows. ‘Look at the state of me, which our little sister has gifted so carefully, with much generosity and patience.’

Mercy looks at me, hesitates, then nods. ‘Good job, Poodle.’

Honestly, I’m so proud I could burst.

My sisters look like angels, although admittedly one of light and joy, the other of darkness and pain (there’s possibly a can of pepper spray hidden in Mercy’s spiky-heeled black boot).

‘Rightio,’ Max says, whizzing out of his room and down the stairs in black trousers and a white shirt, trying to do up a bow tie. ‘See you in the—’ He double-takes. ‘Blimey, what happened to youuuu—’ Faith widens her eyes ‘—uuurrr handbag? She’s going to need a handbag with that lovely get-up, Poodle.’

Quickly – oh, he’s so right! What a fool I am! – I run into Mum’s room and grab a gold Gucci one with a silver clasp and speed back downstairs.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be working tonight, Max?’ I point out, handing it over. ‘In the Shakespeare play? You know, your job?’

‘Oh.’ He coughs loudly and puts a hand on his forehead. ‘Yeah. I’m very sick for the next six and a half hours. Possibly dying. Possibly even dead already. Fingers crossed, tomorrow I’ll be able to play the ghost for real.’

‘No wonder they don’t give you any lines, Max,’ I say sympathetically. ‘You’re a terrible actor. I can help you with that if you like. Give you some professionalist tips.’

Max laughs and pinches my cheek. ‘Cheers.’

‘Thank you for your help, little one,’ Effie smiles, clipping a subtle fitness tracker to the waistband of her dress, transferring a handful of items from her sports rucksack to the handbag and giving me a bright pink kiss. ‘You’re the most helpful mousebear ever.’

Then my glamorous siblings head out of the front door – chattering and glittering and smelling like Christmas.

And I’ve only just realised that in all the excitement of getting Faith ready I totally forgot about me.

‘Guys!’ I shout at their retreating backs. ‘If you just wait a mi—’

But they’ve gone again.

OK, unexpected scene edit.

It takes only a few seconds to recalibrate: being able to respond positively to direction is one of my strongest life skills. In this version of events, I can focus on getting ready without any distractions. I can make my own way to the party at my own speed and thus ensure I turn up just late enough to make a dramatic entrance.

Those idiots are going to get there on time in a limo, like total keen-beans.

Ha! Amateurs.

‘Has Mercy double-locked her bedroom door, though?’ I wonder out loud as I lay place mats on the dining-room table. ‘Because if she has I’m going to need to climb on top of the conservatory and slip through her window that doesn’t latch properly.’

I polish two champagne glasses by breathing on them and rubbing them on my jumper.

‘If not, a hairslide should do the trick.’

Five white candles are placed in the middle of the table.

‘I’m thinking the long black Prada, or maybe the short Calvin Klein, and definitely her favourite McQueen heels.’

Two glasses of fresh orange juice are poured and I put two croissants on plates next to them.

‘Or maybe she’s left something in the laundry again, although honestly I’m really looking for something without deodorant stains all over the—’

‘Hope? Who are you talking to?’

I blink at Maggie in the doorway.

‘Oh.’ I glance round the empty room. ‘Umm. Monologuing skills should be practised wherever possible, Mags. It’s important to nuance your cinematic voice, and also prepare for award acceptances, interviews, charity announcements – that kind of thing.’

Also, my imaginary friends just sounds weird.

Maggie lifts her eyebrows into her hairline as she looks at the awesome breakfast setting I’ve laid. It’s my big surprise for Mum and Dad, giving their first morning home together a nice romantic start.

With a flourish, I make a big heart out of pink petals in the middle of the tablecloth, then – with Maggie still watching – quickly grab the newspapers from the week and head up to my room with scissors. There’s so much news to catch up on and I need to do it fast.

On Monday the moon entered Gemini, which resulted in an energetic shift inwards (I was particularly thoughtful that day), then on Tuesday Jupiter started traversing and my sixth house of health was highlighted (I sneezed, like, three times). Wednesday, Saturn and Mercury were in conjunction – that’s probably why I failed that maths test – and yesterday’s transit inspired a lot of chocolate eating.

I mean, it’s not that I completely believe in horoscopes. As Max said, it does seem highly unlikely that there are only twelve personalities on the planet, allocated by the time our parents procreated, but …

That’s also exactly what a Leo would say.

Checking my watch – I’ve still got another hour and a half before I have to leave in time to be perfectly late – I quickly scan Max’s fate for the last few days, then Mercy’s (Aquarius) and Faith’s (Pisces). They’re having quite nice weeks, which is reassuring. Then I cut out my own horoscopes for this week and stick them round the glowing bulbs of my Mirror of Destiny so I can keep track of what’s going on.

It goes without saying that I’m a Cancer, aka the Crab: imaginative, loyal, emotional, sympathetic, intuitive, easily attached and sentimental. There are some other qualities – less attractive ones about scuttling away and hiding – but they don’t seem to match me so they’re not important. I also have Pisces rising – another water sign – which is probably why I officially don’t have a favourite sibling but I do and it’s Effie.

‘Hope?’ There’s a knock on my door. ‘I made you a cup of tea.’

‘Come in!’

I’m flicking through this morning’s paper: I totally forgot to check today’s forecast. Sometimes I get them online, sometimes from the paper – it really depends which prediction I like the best. ‘Thanks!’

Maggie walks into the room and puts my FUTURE OSCAR-WINNING ACTRESS mug down on my dressing table. Then she automatically goes over to smack my long red velvet curtains. Apparently, they collect a lot of dust, but that seemed like a small price to pay for year-round Hollywood glamour.

‘Casablanca’s wonky again,’ Mags sighs, straightening the framed kissing couple on my wall. ‘These two are so unnecessarily passionate that they must keep pushing each other over.’

I cough and nod: that, or I sometimes stick a photo of my face on top of Ingrid Bergman’s to see how I look in an intense make-out session.

Pretty romantic, it has to be said.

Smiling, I keep flicking through the paper, pausing briefly on page six – taken up mostly by Mercy falling out of a taxi – then whizzing past a blurry, long-lens shot of Dad jogging next to a brunette under the headline Rivers Runs Through It.

‘You know,’ Maggie says, gazing at my Marilyn poster, ‘it must be hard when you’re stuck at home on your own like this.’

‘Not really,’ I say cheerfully, scanning through the zodiac: Aries, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius … ‘I’m very happy. There’s lots to keep me busy. And there’s only four months left before I’ll be out all the time so this way I get to build my strength up in preparation.’

Capricorn, Leo, Gemini, Aquarius—

‘Still,’ Mags continues, ‘it must get lonely.’

‘Oh no.’ Taurus, Virgo, Pisces. ‘I mean, there’s always a film to watch or a horoscope to—’

Cancer!

As Venus moves, so your love destiny moves with it. Someone very special is on their way, Cancerian, so keep your eyes open or you’ll miss them. Romance is calling!

My heart just stopped.

Quickly, I scan the horoscope again: someone very special someone very special.

Someone. Very. Special.

Every hair on my arms is standing on end. Deep down, I knew it was coming. I could feel it – the change in the air, the planets aligning, the stars shifting in their course, a build-up of dramatic tension – and I was RIGHT.

This is it.

Because, honestly, who cares about Saturn and Pluto? It’s Venus – the Goddess of Love – I’ve been patiently searching for every morning.

And now she’s finally here.

‘… difficult couple of years … You’ve all been through so much … it’s not surprising that you feel so …’

Clutching the paper, I jump up and run to the window.

Where is he? Who is he? Maybe a floral order is on its way and he’s driving the van? A newspaper or milk delivery? Maybe he saw my elbow in the papers, fell in love instantly and spent the entire week tracking me down. Oooh, I wonder what he’s going to look like, what he’ll be wearing, what he’s going to say, what I’ll say back …

‘… things will get better … your time will come … You’re still so very …’

Except … Of. Course. He’s at the premiere tonight, isn’t he?

Keep your eyes open or you’ll miss them.

Alarmed, I glance at my watch – it’s already nine thirty. All the other Cancers have been out there all day, meeting their Special People and falling in love for hours and hours. What if I’m so cool and late that one of them takes mine?

What if – oh no! – they’ve already taken him?

A wave of panic surges through me. I can’t believe I might miss my soulmate because I was trying to make a dramatic entrance.

‘… so I’ve texted Ben and he said he’d like to pop over in a bit – keep you company. Maybe you can watch a film together …’

Blinking, I stare into my Mirror of Destiny.

We only get one opportunity for true love. What if my soulmate turns up to meet me and I’m not there yet?

What if Venus gets bored and doesn’t come back again until I’m, like, thirty-six and it’s too late?

What if, for the sake of a couple of hours, I get a second-rate boyfriend or – worse – end up single forever?

If you thwart The Stars, they might get really offended and give up permanently. There is no more time to waste.

Quick as a flash, I run into my walk-in wardrobe and slip on the dress Mum wore in the end scene of The Heart of Us, just before she got (spoiler) blown up by a hand grenade. It’s a pretty, vintage, knee-length dress in silvery grey. I tie the satin belt and quickly stick some cotton-wool puffs down my bra.

Then I slick on some lipgloss and head towards the door. I’ll have to do this barefaced. It’s a shame, but my Special Someone is going to think I’m beautiful anyway because that’s how it works.

‘… over in half an hour, after he’s been to the … Hope? Where are you going?’

I spin back to Maggie.

‘Mum’s premiere,’ I say, tugging on some of Effie’s sporty pumps. I’m going to need to run to meet my fate – this is no time for heels. ‘There’s someone I’m supposed to meet.’

Because it’s official: romance is calling.

And I’m going to answer.

HOPE sprints along the banks of the River Thames. The night is warm, the air is fragrant, the stars are shining. A HOT BOY—

OK, I think I might be running the wrong way.

And reshoot.

HOPE sprints along the banks of the River Thames in the opposite direction. A HOT BOY, busy examining the stars because he has a poetic soul, slams into her.

BOY

(blinking in amazement)

I thought all the beauty of the universe was above me, yet nothing could compare to the wonder standing in front of—

No, he has to play a bit hard to get.

BOY

(angry)

HEY! Watch where you’re—

Just rude.

BOY

(embarrassed)

I’m terribly sorry! Can I make amends by taking you for a long, meaningful walk in the moonlight?

Ooh, I like that one.

Obviously, this scenario is ridiculous. I’m going to meet Him at the party, not running as fast as I can from Waterloo Station. But it’s a good idea to prepare my shocked-but-humble-yet-illuminated expression.

Once I meet Him, I might need a brief sit-down and maybe an energy drink.

Plus, it’s such a great setting.

Twinkling lights are reflected in the river, a busker is playing the violin and kissing couples are scattered like rose petals every few metres. My epic romance is on the verge of starting, I can feel it. By tomorrow, half of one of those couples is going to be me.

Tingling, I arrive at the Tate Modern.

It’s impressive – immense and squat with thin windows and a long chimney sticking out of the middle like a nose. And it’s 10pm so the party’s in full swing. The floodlights are blue, the trees in the grounds are blue-lit, there are blue lasers shooting into the air and there’s an ice-blue carpet running up to the front doors. It’s surrounded eight-deep by my future adoring public, patiently screaming and cheering and clapping.

Somewhere inside this very building are Mum, Dad, Mercy, Max, Faith …

And Him.

Huffing and slightly sweaty, I shove with effort through the crowd, shrug off Mercy’s coat and hand it to a bouncer.

‘Will you look after this, please?’

I pull my shoulders back. Posture: excellent.

‘Please don’t crumple it! It’s Prada and not mine. Thank you so much.’

The bouncer’s mouth drops open.

Then I dip under the blue rope, put a hand on my hip and sashay rapidly down the carpet, waving and nodding, pausing once or twice so people can take my photograph. I’m in deep trouble once Mum and Dad catch me here, but I might as well enjoy this moment of glory while I can.

‘WHO EVEN ARE YOU?’ somebody yells.

‘It’s top-secret!’ I call, blowing them a kiss. ‘But check the papers in about four months’ time and my identity will be revealed!’

With a dazzling smile, I slip through the glass entrance.

The windows are dark, and there’s yet another bouncer. This one’s got a clipboard and a list of names – time to Be the Orange again, Hope. Quickly, I inflate my already heaving diaphragm, lift my chin and make sure I truly embody my role of very-much-invited-party-attendee.

Casually, I lean against the door frame with one hand.

‘Oh, hello there,’ I puff as a glamorous couple nod at the bouncer and are immediately waved through. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you my real name right now –’ another sparkling couple glide past me, followed by an old man I know from action films – ‘but let me assure you –’ a girl a few years older than me pushes past – ‘that I am in no way banned from this party. Relax in the knowledge that you can totally let me—’

A shout of laughter. ‘You flaming little mousebear.’

I freeze.

‘Why are you breathing so hard?’ Max steps out from a dark corner and puts his phone back in his pocket. ‘Did you run after us, Poodle? Ears flapping, tongue trailing in the wind?’

A really gorgeous boy with a Mohican walks past and winks at me. Then he disappears through the door.

I automatically stretch after him – a wink! He’s The One! – and get pulled back by the shoulders. Max is wearing a new black felt hat. His new hat is dumb. The hat is dumb and my brother is dumb and I hate them both.

‘Actually,’ I tell the bouncer desperately, shoving my hand in Max’s face. ‘I’m afraid this is just a maniac fan of mine who wants to ruin my life. I’ve got a restraining order so if you could escort him out of the area and into the river that would be very helpful.’

‘Is this one being a nuisance, Mr Valentine?’

‘Usually,’ Max grins at the bouncer, dragging me by the arm towards the exit. ‘Almost always, actually.’

Another beautiful A-list couple swish past us, disappearing into the Magical Kingdom of Party filled with All the Hot Boys. A pulse of alarm ripples through me.

My Love Destiny is happening in the other direction.

‘Oh, please.’ Bending my knees, I shove my heels into the floor, tense my leg muscles and grip on to a snowflake-covered cloth hanging from the wall. ‘Please, Max, you don’t understand. Tonight is so important. I’m already late! It’s in my stars, Max – it’s my fate. The universe needs me to be here – it told me, Max. VENUS IS MOVING.’

To our left, there’s loud music and chatter.

Glasses are being clinked and flashes of light glint through the edges of the door. Every time the door opens, I see slices of life: beautiful clothes, beautiful food, beautiful people, beautiful conversations. Mum’s in there being beautiful with Dad, Faith and Mercy and Grandma, and photographers, and olives on sticks, and loads of boys I have the potential to fall in love with.

I stretch towards it again.

‘The universe needs you to be here?’ Max frowns at me. ‘Hope, you have got to stop doing whatever those horoscopes tell you. They’re not instructions – they’re random lines made up by a loser sitting in a cupboard somewhere.’

‘You’re made up by a loser in a cupboard somewhere.’

‘That doesn’t even make sense. Do you know how much trouble I’d be in if I let you in, Poodle? I’m already playing a dead person every night as it is.’

To our left is the clink of champagne glasses.

‘Please, Max.’ My voice is wobbling, which is weird because I’m telling it to be confident and assertive. ‘Please. Life is happening in there, but I’m always out here. I don’t think I can wait any longer. I’m so tired of always, always, always being on my own.’

My brother blinks. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

‘The point is— Max?’ He’s staring blankly at my forehead. ‘Max.’ I pull hard on his tux sleeve. ‘Hello? Listen to me! I am talking to you, Max.’

‘Pipe down, Poodle. I’m thinking.’

Before I know it, there’s a hat on my head.

‘What are you doing?’ I snap in irritation, taking it off again. ‘If you want to look like a fashion-tasteless idiot, that’s up to you, but don’t destroy my Look.’

‘You’ll have to look like an idiot too if you want to go to this party.’

I stare at him. What the hell is that supposed to—? ‘Oh my GOSH, REALLY? If I wear the hat, you’ll take me in? Do you really mean it? Really, truly? Inbu— Inbudi—’

‘Indubitably? Yes.’ Max smiles. ‘You need a night out. Possibly a mindfulness app. Definitely a dictionary.’

With a happy squeak, I spin in a circle.

I love my brother! He’s the best big brother that ever lived and I retract everything I just thought about him.

‘Do me a favour, though,’ Max says, grabbing my shoulders. ‘Keep a low profile and stop with the twirling. Bring anyone you meet to see me first. Anyone. Avoid Granny, Mer and Faith, keep your head down, stay quiet and stick to the edges of the room. You’re a phantom this evening, understand?’

‘Absolutely.’ I nod passionately, holding my hand in the air. ‘Nobody will see me. I’ll be invisible. A ghost. I will make an absolute spectacle of myself. I won’t even say hi to Mum and Dad when I see them, I promise.’

‘It’s spectre, mousebear.’ Max frowns slightly and puts his arm round me. ‘Remember, Po, you make your own destiny, OK?’

I roll my eyes. What does he think I’m trying to do?

‘This one’s with me.’ Max grins at the bouncer, plopping the wide-rimmed hat back on my head. ‘Who doesn’t like a bit of trouble, eh?’

With an unnecessarily grand gesture, my big brother bows and flings the doors of the party open with an attention-seeking bang.

‘It’s time to party.’

And the hunt is on.

‘Hi there!’ I beam at the cute skinny boy offering me a welcome drink, pushing Max’s hat back so it frames my face properly. ‘So tell me, what’s your star s—’

‘At least get through the door first,’ Max laughs, handing me a shimmering glass of blue crushed ice and pushing me firmly into the room. ‘For crying out loud, sis. Try to be cool.’

My brother is so wise. I don’t want to accidentally pick a terrible soulmate just because he’s holding a tray of – I take a sip – admittedly delicious beverages.

Grinning, I gaze around to get my bearings.

The lower floor of the Tate Modern is vast, with ceilings a hundred metres high hung with enormous white icicles. Real-looking snow crystals sparkle on the floor, there are overstuffed white leather sofas to lounge on and blue lasers criss-cross the air above us. At this end is a circular bar – lit blue and covered in frost-covered glasses – and at the other a DJ is bopping up and down with one hand on his outsized headphones.

Around us, IMAX-sized photographs of mountain peaks have been projected on to the walls, and Mum’s flickering in tiny filmed fragments between them: a graceful arm, a swish of blonde hair, a flash of grey eyes.

I glance quickly across the crowd, but there doesn’t appear to be any sign of my parents yet, though it’s pretty late.

Told you they’d be cool; they are total professionalists.

‘Max!’ A man swings in front of us and a camera starts flashing. ‘Max Valentine! Can I ask you a few questions? Max, over here!’

‘Go,’ my brother whispers to me, pulling the brim of my hat down low and pushing me away. ‘Run like the wind in what actually used to be the Turbine Hall, little Poodle. You’re freeeeeee.’

Buzzing all over, I clutch my frosty drink and deliberately head into the deepest, most crowded and therefore most interesting part of the party. Beautiful people I recognise but have never met are twinkling, laughing, drinking, chatting: radiant and lit vaguely blue.

There are so many hot boys I’m light-headed.

‘Some ridiculously basic theming going on here,’ a woman says loudly in a South African accent, lifting a heel up and staring at it in disgust. ‘Tacky as you like. This fake snow is ruining my shoes.’

Her friend laughs. ‘You wanted subtle from Juliet Valentine?’

‘True. Guess that’s what happens when you’re too old to be a romantic lead. You have to produce schmaltzy mountain movies yourself. I haven’t seen it yet but I bet Pinnacle is a flop.’

I swallow hard. My mum is the ultimate romantic lead and Pinnacle is going to be the ultimate romance film. But Valentines Always Act With Class so, as a future icon, I’m going to rise above it.

Be the Orange, Hope.

‘Hey there,’ I say as a really good-looking waiter with big brown eyes and brown hair in little tufty peaks offers me a goat’s cheese vollyvont. ‘So … what’s your star sign?’

He stares at me. ‘… Aries.’

‘Ah,’ I nod knowingly. ‘The Ram. I should have guessed from the hair and the snacks.’

Honestly, it’s not a great love combination – Arians can be aggressive, competitive and prone to smashing things with their heads – but I’m sure we can work through his flaws together. ‘And … do you come here often?’

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