LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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