Valentine (3 page)

'How did it go?' Lauren called out from the kitchen, where
she was sitting at the table flicking through a magazine
and cracking open pistachio nuts, when Valentine let herself
into the flat later that night. Valentine slumped down at
the worn oak table. The kitchen was an eccentric mix of
fifties-style cabinets, a dresser full of mismatched but pretty
crockery sourced from charity shops, an old-fashioned
butler sink with a leaky tap, and bright egg-yolk-yellow
floorboards and walls because Lauren said yellow was good
for lifting the spirits. Right now the yellow was doing fuck-all
for Valentine's spirits; she put her head in her hands.

'That bad?' Lauren asked sympathetically.

'It was impro,' Valentine muttered darkly.

Lauren took a sharp intake of breath. 'Mother
fucker
!'
She'd recently become addicted to
The Wire
– the gritty
police HBO drama series set in Baltimore, which had
caused her swearing to go up a gear – even though
Valentine had told her time and time again that only
Americans could get away with saying 'motherfucker' and
then only drug dealers, cops, rap artists or Samantha in
Sex and the City
. However Valentine was prepared to let
this one go; the impro had, after all, been a motherfucker
kind of moment. With some effort she raised her head.
'I had to improvise a scene where I was a sexually predatory
older woman, trying to seduce a much younger man.
I had to dance suggestively and then kiss, or rather snog
this other actor. I felt like I was doing some kind of floor
show for the pervy director. In fact it will probably be
best if I don't get the part, as fuck knows what he intends
the play to be like!' She clasped her hands together in
anguish. 'God, why does this happen to me? Why can't
I get an audition for the RSC!'

'Wine?'

'I'm sick of my life! It's not fair. I can't go on!' Valentine
hammed it up, deliberately mistaking Lauren's meaning.

'Ha fucking ha. Come on, let's have a drink. It's your
birthday!'

'Happy birthday to me,' Valentine said miserably.

'Oh cheer up, Lily and Frank are coming up in a
minute and if you're depressed Lily will give one of her
pep talks and I won't be able to stand that.'

Lily and Frank rented the first- and ground-floor flats
respectively of the three-storey Georgian house Lauren
had inherited from her uncle in Westbourne Park, just
five minutes away from the Portabello Road. On paper
that made Lauren sound like a spoilt trustafarian. In
reality the house was falling to pieces with damp, a roof
that needed redoing, erratic plumbing, no central heating
and Lauren had no money to do it up. Nor could Lauren
sell the house, as Lily and Frank were sitting tenants.
Valentine often felt as she looked out the window from
their shabby, bohemian living room on to the beautifully
restored pastel-coloured multi-million-pound
Georgian houses opposite, that their ramshackle home
was like an ancient boat moored in a sea of wealth. Any
minute now they'd spring a leak, the water would come
pouring in and they'd be lost, but in the meantime they
had to keep going, papering over the cracks, painting
the flat in the brightest colours. It was like a metaphor
for her life.

Lily was an actress in her early seventies who still got
occasional parts in BBC radio dramas and Frank was a
retired sax player in his late sixties. He suffered from
arthritis in his hands, or he would still have played. Instead
he spent his time selling antique jewellery on the Portabello
Road market and cultivating vegetables and marijuana in
the greenhouse in the shared garden, smoking to alleviate
the pain – the marijuana that was, not the vegetables.
Lily and Frank were a couple but refused to move in with
each other, claiming that they liked having their own space
too much. They had met in their twenties when both of
them were married to other people and despite falling in
love, they had stayed married to their partners and only
met up again ten years ago when Frank's wife had died
and Lily had divorced her husband. Depending on her
mood, Valentine either thought it was wildly romantic
that they were together now or tragic that they had wasted
all those years.

As if on cue Lily knocked at the door and called out,
'It's only us; just wanted to see how the birthday girl
got on!'

Valentine rolled her eyes and muttered, 'You'd have
thought Lily of all people would know that I don't want
a bloody post-mortem!' She adored Lily, who had an
absolute heart of gold, but her habit of always asking the
girls about whether they had an audition or, when they
had them, how they did, drove Valentine to distraction.

Lauren shrugged. 'She means well.' And she called
out, 'Come in.'

Lily and Frank walked into the kitchen, both of them
wheezing away in harmony. 'So darling, how did it go?'
Lily asked, as soon as she had got her breath back. 'You
didn't let me wish you good luck. I had checked your
horoscope this morning and everything was looking in
fantastic alignment.'

'It was OK,' Valentine lied, wanting to avoid the analysis.

'Anyway, happy birthday! This is from both of us.' Lily
handed over a small, expertly wrapped parcel, which
Valentine unwrapped to discover a sweet, diamante
bracelet – Lily had an eye for an accessory. As usual she
looked stylish in a black forties-style jacket nipped in at
the waist and a black and white checked pencil skirt, red
suede ankle boots, her silver-white hair cut in a sharp
bob, her face carefully made up. Lily had not let herself
go. Not for her the sexless old-lady uniform of nylon
trousers with elasticated waistbands, fleeces with paw
prints and flat Cornish pastie-style shoes. Lily still put in
the effort and Valentine admired her style.

'And here's mine to you.' Lauren handed over a present,
and Valentine ripped open the paper to reveal a gorgeous
red silk tea dress that she'd coveted for ages from one of
the Vintage clothes shops on Portabello Road.

Frank held up a sleek silver cocktail shaker and a bottle
of vodka. 'Birthday Martinis all round?'

'Thanks all of you,' Valentine said, standing up and
hugging her friends in turn. She was touched by the gifts
and Frank's offer of cocktails, especially since he was a
reformed alcoholic in AA. 'Even though I wonder what
I've got to celebrate.'

Lauren rolled her eyes. 'Lucky for you it's your birthday
or I'd tell you to stop being so sappy.'

Valentine ignored her and continued in a mock-dramatic
voice, 'The audition was just another humiliating incident
in my life as a failed actress. The only thing I want right
now is oblivion.' She had a sudden flashback to the moment
she'd kissed Jack. He had been an amazingly good kisser.
Valentine always set great store on how men kissed. It was
a failsafe equation: good kisser equalled good in bed. Bad
kisser equalled invariably the opposite. If he didn't know
what to do with his lips and tongue you could forget about
the other bits.

'You got to snog a fit lad though, didn't you?' Lauren
put in, as if reading her mind. 'And let's face it, it's been
a while since you've seen any action.'

'That's right,' Lily piped up, 'it's been six months since
your last romance.' And four long weeks since she'd last
seen Finn, not that Lily knew that.

'He wasn't good enough for you,' Frank declared,
vigorously shaking the silver cocktail shaker like a pro.
The 'he' in question was Samuel – a lawyer Valentine
had gone out with for two months in an attempt to snap
herself out of her fixation with Finn. It was doomed from
the start. He didn't get acting and she didn't get the law.
Whenever Valentine socialised with Samuel and his friends
she felt like a performing monkey, expected to entertain
them with her 'hilarious' anecdotes about the theatre
world. Valentine surveyed her friends' faces and said
sarcastically, 'Thank you so much for reminding me on
my birthday that not only am I a failed actress, but also
that I'm single as well.'

'Sam wasn't so bad. He looked lovely in a suit. And
he had that gorgeous leather briefcase – calfskin wasn't
it? Quality product.' Lily and her accessories.

Frank poured out the cocktails and passed them round,
commenting, 'Still, that Sam was much nicer than the
one before – what was his name? Finn or something. He
was a right bastard, excuse my language. No hang on,
what was it? A gutless bastard who nearly destroyed you.'
Bugger Lauren and her mantra.
Valentine flinched at the
mention of her Finn's name. Maybe one day she'd be
able to hear it without feeling as if someone had punched
her, but she wasn't there yet, not by a long way.

Lauren came to her rescue and said quietly, 'We don't
talk about him, Frank.'

Valentine took a large slug of the Martini and nearly
choked, it was so strong. Her mobile rang. It was bound
to be her mother wishing her happy birthday and
bombarding her with questions about the audition.
Wearily she picked up her phone, steeling herself for
another
How did it go, darling?
conversation and walked
into the hall. But suddenly things looked up, because it
was Sylvia telling her that she'd got the part. A surge of
happiness washed over her. Hurrah! She would be
working again! She was not the sad reject actress no one
wanted! She was just single! She glanced back into the
kitchen where everyone was looking expectantly at her
and did the thumbs-up. They beamed back at her in
response.

'You start rehearsing next Monday,' Sylvia told her.
'By the way,' she continued in what Valentine knew was
her agent-pacifying-client voice. She suddenly felt wary,
suspecting something was coming up that she wouldn't
like.

'I did mention the nudity to you, didn't I?'

Valentine crashed. This was too cruel. 'Whose?' she
demanded.

'Well, it's not full-frontal, but you and the other fairies
will be wearing nipple tassels and thongs.' Not words that
Kiera bloody Knightly had ever had to hear, Valentine
thought bitterly. And before Valentine could reply that
no it bloody well wasn't all right, Sylvia pressed on, 'Think
of it as a burlesque performance. It's so
now.
And
Valentine, it has been five months since you were last on
stage. You need to be seen.'

Not all of me!
Valentine wanted to say. But she knew
Sylvia had a point. She really needed this part. 'Thank
you, Sylvia, you're right. I accept the role,' she replied,
in her actress-making-the-best-of-things voice.

In the kitchen Frank was high-fiving Lily and Lauren.
'Hey, why that face?' Lauren asked as Valentine walked
back into the kitchen and once more slumped down at
the table. Slumping was all she seemed to do these days.

'I might have to do it practically nude,' Valentine
muttered, picking up and draining her seriously strong
Martini.

'Is that all?' Lauren scoffed. 'Stop making such a thong
and dance about it! She paused to look at Frank, checking
he'd got the pun. He winked and Lauren carried on,
'What's the big deal? Remember all those men who have
stripped off, like Daniel Radcliffe in
Equus
? It's much worse
for men to do naked than women. Just think how they
get judged on the size of their dicks.'

'Two words – shrivelled members,' Frank said wisely.
'You know how cold theatres can be sometimes and how
bright and unforgiving the lights – a lady's always going
to look better in the buff.'

'I'll be a laughing stock,' Valentine persisted, 'and I
might have to wear . . . she hesitated, the full horror only
just beginning to sink in – 'nipple tassels! I may as well
go the whole hog and sign up to be a lap dancer at Top
Totty.' Top Totty was a lap dancing club round the corner
and when times had been particularly hard both she and
Lauren had considered signing up – well only after they'd
both drunk too much wine. They'd always changed their
minds by the morning.

'Don't be silly,' Lily put her oar in now, 'you are going
to be performing Shakespeare; you will be naked for art!
I've done it! I bared all as Cleopatra!'

Valentine and Lauren exchanged eye-rolls, knowing that
this was a signal for Lily to take a long and meandering
walk down memory lane, or rather mammary lane. Ten
minutes later as tumbleweed was blowing through the flat
and Lily was finally coming to the end of her story,
Valentine's phone beeped with a text message. 'It's probably
Vince telling me I have to have group sex on stage
with the fairies and Bottom,' she said darkly, opening the
message, 'and I expect you'll all tell me that's no big deal
so long as there's no actual penetration involved.'

But it was from Jack – sexy, arrogant, too-gorgeous-for-his-own-good
Jack. She read the message out loud to
her friends. '
Happy Birthday Valentine, so glad you got the part,
looking forward to working with you, Jack x.
'

'Oh, how smooth can you get?' Valentine scoffed,
secretly disappointed that it wasn't from Finn.

'He sounds lovely!' Lily exclaimed. She was like a
bloodhound in trying to sniff out a potential love interest.
'A new play and maybe a new man. I imagine your eyes
will lock when you see each other across the rehearsal
studio and that will be the start of a great love!' She really
was incorrigible.

'I know where his eyes will be locking; I bet he can't
wait to see you in your nipple tassels!' Lauren teased. 'I've
got some Agent Provocateur ones in my bedroom if you
want to practise.' That wasn't all knowing Lauren, who
had a comprehensive selection of sex toys in her bedside
cabinet. Valentine gave her the finger.

Lily piped up again, 'If you're worried about the lack
of costume you really must take up pilates, so good for
your core muscles and your pelvic floor. And if you look
after the pelvic floor . . .' she paused, searching for the
word.