The Valentines: Happy Girl Lucky. Холли Смейл

‘Nobody will see me. I’ll be invisible. A ghost. I will make an absolute spectacle of myself. I won’t even say hi to Mum and Dad when I see them, I promise.’

      ‘It’s spectre, mousebear.’ Max frowns slightly and puts his arm round me. ‘Remember, Po, you make your own destiny, OK?’

      I roll my eyes. What does he think I’m trying to do?

      ‘This one’s with me.’ Max grins at the bouncer, plopping the wide-rimmed hat back on my head. ‘Who doesn’t like a bit of trouble, eh?’

      With an unnecessarily grand gesture, my big brother bows and flings the doors of the party open with an attention-seeking bang.

      ‘It’s time to party.’

      

      And the hunt is on.

      ‘Hi there!’ I beam at the cute skinny boy offering me a welcome drink, pushing Max’s hat back so it frames my face properly. ‘So tell me, what’s your star s—’

      ‘At least get through the door first,’ Max laughs, handing me a shimmering glass of blue crushed ice and pushing me firmly into the room. ‘For crying out loud, sis. Try to be cool.’

      My brother is so wise. I don’t want to accidentally pick a terrible soulmate just because he’s holding a tray of – I take a sip – admittedly delicious beverages.

      Grinning, I gaze around to get my bearings.

      The lower floor of the Tate Modern is vast, with ceilings a hundred metres high hung with enormous white icicles. Real-looking snow crystals sparkle on the floor, there are overstuffed white leather sofas to lounge on and blue lasers criss-cross the air above us. At this end is a circular bar – lit blue and covered in frost-covered glasses – and at the other a DJ is bopping up and down with one hand on his outsized headphones.

      Around us, IMAX-sized photographs of mountain peaks have been projected on to the walls, and Mum’s flickering in tiny filmed fragments between them: a graceful arm, a swish of blonde hair, a flash of grey eyes.

      I glance quickly across the crowd, but there doesn’t appear to be any sign of my parents yet, though it’s pretty late.

      Told you they’d be cool; they are total professionalists.

      ‘Max!’ A man swings in front of us and a camera starts flashing. ‘Max Valentine! Can I ask you a few questions? Max, over here!’

      ‘Go,’ my brother whispers to me, pulling the brim of my hat down low and pushing me away. ‘Run like the wind in what actually used to be the Turbine Hall, little Poodle. You’re freeeeeee.’

      Buzzing all over, I clutch my frosty drink and deliberately head into the deepest, most crowded and therefore most interesting part of the party. Beautiful people I recognise but have never met are twinkling, laughing, drinking, chatting: radiant and lit vaguely blue.

      There are so many hot boys I’m light-headed.

      ‘Some ridiculously basic theming going on here,’ a woman says loudly in a South African accent, lifting a heel up and staring at it in disgust. ‘Tacky as you like. This fake snow is ruining my shoes.’

      Her friend laughs. ‘You wanted subtle from Juliet Valentine?’

      ‘True. Guess that’s what happens when you’re too old to be a romantic lead. You have to produce schmaltzy mountain movies yourself. I haven’t seen it yet but I bet Pinnacle is a flop.’

      I swallow hard. My mum is the ultimate romantic lead and Pinnacle is going to be the ultimate romance film. But Valentines Always Act With Class so, as a future icon, I’m going to rise above it.

       Be the Orange, Hope.

      ‘Hey there,’ I say as a really good-looking waiter with big brown eyes and brown hair in little tufty peaks offers me a goat’s cheese vollyvont. ‘So … what’s your star sign?’

      He stares at me. ‘… Aries.’

      ‘Ah,’ I nod knowingly. ‘The Ram. I should have guessed from the hair and the snacks.’

      Honestly, it’s not a great love combination – Arians can be aggressive, competitive and prone to smashing things with their heads – but I’m sure we can work through his flaws together. ‘And … do you come here often?’