The Valentines: Happy Girl Lucky

‘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.

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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 andthe 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?’