LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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