The Valentines: Happy Girl Lucky

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.

(#ulink_861f20b6-862a-5e96-b3fc-046c8d9943b4)

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 versionof 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 believein 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!’