‘Helsinki? Do you mean Haiti?’
‘That’s the one. She’s like that Angelina Jolie, only saintlier. And more beautiful.’
‘She sounds incredible,’ I deadpan. Though I have to admit Martha’s right about one thing: Vida Torres is a stunner. Her long, toned limbs are tanned to perfection and don’t show even the tiniest hint of cellulite. Her hair is a rich, glossy chestnut and tumbles almost to her waist in loose waves. She has that flawless South American complexion and violet eyes. Violet! Who has violet eyes, for sobbing out loud? Vida Torres, that’s who.
‘So what does Saint Vida have to do with Mitchell Pyke?’ I hope my voice sounds neutral as I say his name. My dream is still so vivid in my mind; I don’t like the effect it’s having – he’s having – all these hours later.
‘Well,’ Martha’s voice becomes conspiratorial and she leans in as if she’s about to impart a Big Secret. As opposed to simply retelling a story that’s apparently been comprehensively covered by every gossip magazine in the world. ‘Mitchell and Vida were Hollywood’s golden couple. They met before she was really famous, but he was already a huge star. They were just gorgeous together. I was so sure they were going to get married.’ She sounds as shocked as if she knew the couple intimately.
‘And what happened?’
‘She left him. One day they’re on holiday together in the Caribbean and the next minute she’s shacked up with his best friend!’
‘His best friend!’ Curse Martha, she’s got me hooked.
Martha nods, wide-eyed. ‘Ellis Chevalier. He’s an actor, too. He was in that —’
‘Lyon’s Pride.’ Even I’ve heard of Ellis Chevalier. He’s just about the most famous actor on the planet.
‘Right. So Ellis and Vida got married after about ten minutes and poor Mitchell’s been trying to pick up the pieces ever since,’ she says solemnly as she fishes her phone from her handbag and taps at the screen. ‘Here. Look at this.’
She hands me the phone. The fingerprint-smeared screen displays a gossip website. A video starts to play: grainy footage of an inner-city street, the road slick with rain. The cameraman points his lens at a nondescript brown door; ‘Harry’s Bar’ is daubed on it in fading yellow paint. The door swings open and a burst of laughter and tinny music seeps into the night as a man stumbles out. It’s Mitchell Pyke.
‘Mitchell! Mitchell!’ cries the man behind the camera. ‘How you doing?’
‘Oh, I’m just greeeeat,’ a drunk Mitchell slurs. ‘Workin’ hard. Makin’ new friends. You know.’
‘Hey, man, all of us at CelebSite were real sorry to hear about you and Vida,’ he says. He’s clearly being disingenuous, but Mitchell doesn’t seem to notice. He extracts a set of keys from his jacket pocket.
‘You’re not planning to drive home, are you Mitchell?’
Mitchell smiles woozily. ‘Whassit matter to you?’
‘It matters to me. It matters to all your fans.’ Camera Guy laughs nervously. ‘You need to take care of yourself, man. She’s just a girl. Move on.’
Mitchell’s smile fades and he wobbles closer to the camera. ‘Move on? Move on?’ He peers straight down the lens. ‘Vida’s the love of my life, you fucking moron. I’ll never love anybody like I love her.’
Then he lunges for the camera. There’s a brief scuffle and the footage stops. I hand the phone back to Martha. I don’t quite know what to say. That’s one broken-hearted movie star right there.
Martha looks down sadly at the Starz magazine article, with its pictures of Mitchell and the dazzling Vida in happier times alongside an artsy black-and-white portrait of the beaming new Mr and Mrs Chevalier. ‘Ellis Chevalier,’ she says venomously, as though he’s responsible for all the world’s ills. ‘I’ll always be Team Mitchell.’
‘How kind of you,’ says a gravelly voice from the open doorway.
My head snaps up so quickly I’m worried I’ve given myself whiplash. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, is Mitchell Pyke.
He does not look best pleased, as Mum would have said.
I’m on my feet almost as quickly as the dogs are on theirs. Martha, however, doesn’t move from the couch. She’s wearing a rather unflattering deer-in-headlights expression, her double chin hanging limply against her décolletage.
‘Mitchell! I mean, uh, Mr Pyke. Hello!’ I thrust my hand awkwardly in his direction. He looks at it with the undisguised contempt of a man who’s just been offered a piece of rotting meat. The look on his handsome face can only be described as sour. I try to remind myself this is an entirely reasonable reaction from someone who’s just stumbled upon two total strangers dissecting his train-wreck of a love life, but his rudeness definitely rankles.
‘Who are you?’ Mitchell speaks softly, which makes him sound completely menacing. The threatening vibe is enhanced by his action-man costume: torn blue T-shirt, form-fitting jeans and sturdy boots. His hair is dishevelled to perfection and a makeup artist has expertly smeared his face with apocalyptic grime; the mud spatters and streaks of soot make his green eyes blaze.
Although I know he’s really not happy to see me, the remnants of my dream pull at the edges of my consciousness once more and I feel a faint warmth spreading through my belly.
‘Oh! Yes, of course. Sorry. I’m Kitty Hayden, the dog trainer.’
The vaguest hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. ‘Your name is Kitty?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re a dog trainer?’
Please. As if I haven’t heard that one before. Like on every film set I’ve ever worked on. I nod and arch one eyebrow. Come on, Mr Movie Star. Is that the best you’ve got?
But what passes for Mitchell’s wit clearly tickles Martha’s funny bone. She bursts into loud, slightly maniacal laughter. Mitchell’s steely gaze shifts to the sofa as he notices her for the first time.
‘Mr Pyke,’ she says, adopting a strange artificial voice that makes her sound like a newsreader. She stands and sashays her bulk across the floor. ‘I’m Martha McGuire. I’m your biggest fan. Really, I am. Truly.’ She offers her hand, too; again he ignores it.
‘Martha breeds Pharaoh Hounds,’ I explain, since Martha evidently doesn’t intend to do so herself. ‘She owns Zulu, Sphinx and Caesar here.’ I gesture to the dogs, who are eagerly sniffing Mitchell’s boots.
That hint of a smile gone entirely, Mitchell casts a disdainful glance at the dogs. ‘So you thought you’d just wander on into my trailer and park your mutts here, did you?’ His American drawl somehow makes the condescension in his question all the more obvious.
Next to me, I feel Martha bristle. She may have a major crush on this guy, but no crazy dog lady worth her salt is going to stand by and hear her prize pooches insulted. Mercifully, she keeps her mouth shut.
‘I do apologise,’ I say, trying to sound gracious even though I feel the opposite. ‘Your assistant – Elspeth, is it? She asked us to wait for you here and there wasn’t anywhere outside that had access to fresh water or was shady enough to set up your co-stars.’ I offer my best ‘aw, shucks’ smile.
He scoffs. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Kitty. This movie only has one star and it sure as shit doesn’t have four legs and a tail. Got it?’
‘Of course,’ I say through gritted teeth. Oh, I get it. I get that you’re a total douche.
Elspeth’s face suddenly appears in the doorway. ‘Oh good, you found each other,’ she says briskly. ‘Mr Pyke, you’re wanted on set. Kitty, we’re starting with scene seventeen.’ She unclips a copy of the script from her clipboard and holds it out to me. ‘Oh! I just realised – your name is Kitty, but you’re a dog trainer!’
I wave the script – and that tired gag – away. ‘That’s okay, I’m familiar with scene seventeen. Jack and Koda investigate the abandoned weapons factory, right?’ I hate having piles of scripts and storyboards cluttering my space, so I always memorise the scenes that feature my dogs.
Elspeth nods. ‘Impressive,�
�� she says, maybe a little grudgingly. Mitchell says nothing.
‘Will the director want to select which dog we start with or should I do that?’ To the untrained eye, Zulu, Sphinx and Caesar are identical and one can easily be switched in for another, but I know from experience that directors aren’t always the type of people who like to leave decisions up to someone else.
‘Bring them all, just in case,’ she says. ‘Alphonse is a very, uh, hands-on director.’ Which I take to mean he’s a dictator with a loudhailer.
‘Okay, but is there somewhere out of the sun I can set them up? Otherwise I have a portable gazebo in the van.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Mitchell suddenly erupts. ‘Why are you wasting my time with this crap? They’re just fucking dogs.’
He turns and stalks away. Elspeth hurries after him. Martha watches her erstwhile dream guy retreat with the disappointed eyes of a mother whose child has just been caught in his first lie.
So it’s going to be that kind of shoot. On the bright side, I feel strangely grateful that Mitchell Pyke in the flesh is entirely repellent. He’s nothing like my night-time suitor, which means I just might be able to work with him after all.
3.
WC Fields was an idiot. The old vaudeville star may have been famous for saying ‘Never work with children or animals’, but he had it totally backwards. Kids and dogs are easy to work with on movies. It’s the adult humans that cause the problems.
Especially when those adults have egos the size of Mitchell Pyke and Alphonse du Renne’s.
‘Cut! Reset!’ du Renne screams for what feels like the millionth time this afternoon. I groan inwardly as a buzzer sounds and bright light bathes the set. The crew swings into action, hurrying to restore lights, sound equipment and scenery to their original positions so the scene can be shot from the top yet again.
Du Renne jumps down from his chair – and it is an actual jump, since he’s only about five foot tall – and strides onto the set. He clambers up a heap of smouldering debris, atop which sits Mitchell with his arm around Sphinx the Pharaoh Hound. He squats so he’s at eye level with his star.
‘Non! Non, non, non!’ he shouts. ‘Why are you stroking zees dog? You are not playing fetch wees eet! Jack ees alone in zee world, Mitchell. He has lost everysing. He does not recognise zees . . . zees flea bag as a companion. Not yet. Zees dog is an annoyance, not an ally. Jack needs a woman, not a dog!’
Du Renne spits out the word ‘dog’ as if it’s something unpleasant he’s eaten. Sphinx cowers slightly, as though he can tell his abilities as a loyal companion are being maligned. My heart breaks a little. Well trained as he might be, a dog in a movie doesn’t really know he’s a dog in a movie. As far as Sphinx is concerned, he’s just having a nice time sitting in the dirt, getting scratched behind the ears and the occasional treat for his efforts. He doesn’t understand why this angry little Napoleon wannabe is shouting at him, nor why he’s been doing so at ten-minute intervals for the past three hours.
‘I’m sorry, Alphonse, but I just don’t agree with you,’ Mitchell replies in his disconcertingly even way. ‘Jack has lost everything. He can’t get his family back, so I think he absolutely would adopt Koda as his companion right away.’
Du Renne sighs theatrically. ‘Just try eet my way, okay? One take. Don’t stroke zee dog. Zat is all I am asking you.’
Mitchell shakes his head. ‘We’ve been trying it your way all afternoon and it’s not working. Even you don’t seem to like it your way.’ He sounds petulant.
‘Just do eet, okay? I am your director. Please allow me to direct.’
There’s a moment of charged silence as Mitchell considers du Renne’s demand. Finally, wearily, he gets to his feet and picks his way down the debris pile.
Sphinx looks over to where I’m standing just out of the camera’s view. I waggle my fingers in a ‘come’ signal and he ambles over to me. He sits in front of me without being asked to and stares pointedly at the bag of liver treats holstered in my utility belt. I give him a generous handful, then spray him from top to tail with water from the bottle hanging by my left hip to cool him down and slough some of the dust from his coat.
Sphinx is a young dog – only three – but he’s obviously tired. He’s scaled that towering, unstable mountain of wreckage more than two dozen times, and every time he returns to me at the end of a take he’s moving a little more slowly. Throw in the intense heat of the lights burning above his head and it’s no wonder he’s now snoring lightly at my feet.
Sphinx is going to need a break soon and I’m really, really not looking forward to explaining that to du Renne.
‘Okay, we are ready, yes?’ du Renne screeches as he climbs back into his chair and dons an enormous pair of headphones.
A chorus of ‘ready!’ comes back from various crew. Mitchell disappears into the burnt-out warehouse that’s meant to be a munitions factory.
I gently wake Sphinx and guide him to his ‘mark’, a dented and disfigured steel gun locker lying on its side amid the detritus. He looks up at me as if to say, ‘Really? Again?’ But he steps dutifully inside. I position myself opposite him and crouch down low, so I’m out of the camera’s view but still in Sphinx’s line of sight.
Du Renne nods to Eric, the infamous assistant director, who calls, ‘All quiet, please!’
A hush falls over the set.
‘Lights,’ says du Renne. The bright lights are shut off and the ‘factory’ is suddenly illuminated by a soft pre-dawn glow.
‘Effects.’ The debris pile starts to smoulder anew thanks to the wonders of dry ice.
‘Speed.’ The sound technician cranes his boom microphone into place.
‘Roll film.’ The cinematographer gives a thumbs-up to indicate he’s recording.
‘And . . . action!’
Du Renne isn’t watching Mitchell as he comes staggering through the factory door as Jack; he’s glued instead to a tiny TV monitor that shows how the scene will appear on screen. He doesn’t see Mitchell’s biceps rippling with the burden of all the pilfered guns he’s carrying – although they’re actually made of polystyrene and weigh hardly anything. He doesn’t notice the sweat beading on Mitchell’s forehead or the razor-sharp focus in his eye.
But I do. And my body does, too. That now-familiar tingle makes its presence felt once more.
Mitchell – Jack – looks frantically around him, desperate to find somewhere to stash his haul before he’s discovered by the bad guys. He turns to his right, and that’s my cue.
I hold up a clenched fist and Sphinx’s gaze locks onto it. Then I open my hand three times in quick succession as if flicking water from my fingers. Sphinx translates my ‘speak’ command in an instant, opens his mouth and howls.
Jack freezes. He looks over his shoulder toward the source of the sound, spotting the upturned gun locker. No, he’s thinking. It couldn’t be – could it?
Against his better judgement, Jack lays his cache gingerly on the ground and pulls a twisted sheet of galvanised iron over it as a rudimentary camouflage. He takes three steps toward Sphinx’s hiding place and stops.
I give the ‘speak’ command again and Sphinx lets out another gut-wrenching howl. It never fails to amaze me how much pure emotion a dog can pour into a sound like that. Seriously, they should hand out canine Oscars for Most Moving Performance.
‘Koda?’ Jack calls as he moves steadily towards Sphinx. This time I draw a circle in the air with my fist and Sphinx whines.
Jack starts running. He drops to his knees and slides the final metre or so through the mud to the gun locker. With a grunt, he heaves away the cinder block obscuring the exit – the camera can’t see that the rear side of the box is entirely open – and Sphinx tumbles out and covers his long-lost owner with slobbery dog kisses.
At least, that’s what’s supposed to happen. That’s what happened in every one of the twenty-five takes Sphinx has done so far. But that’s not what happens now.
What happens when Mitchell
drags the cinder block aside this time is precisely nothing. Sphinx doesn’t leap into Mitchell’s arms. He doesn’t move. He simply looks at Mitchell, then looks at me. If he could shrug, I’m sure he would.
Frantically, I search my brain for a command that will get Sphinx out of the gun locker, but come up with nothing. Well, nothing aside from yelling ‘move!’ or running into frame and pulling Sphinx out of the box myself, both of which would undoubtedly make du Renne incandescent with rage. I’ve rehearsed this scene a million times with all three dogs, with me standing in for Mitchell. Sphinx knows that a face appearing on the other side of the locker is his cue to get his furry little backside in gear. I haven’t taught Sphinx a separate ‘go’ command because Mitchell’s presence is the go command.
Mitchell, though, refuses to be outsmarted by a dog and tries to soldier on. ‘Koda!’ he cries. ‘It is you. I thought I’d lost you. But you’re tougher than that, aren’t you buddy?’ He raises his arms to the sky. ‘You’re tougher than all of us!’ he roars.
Sphinx lies down in the box and rests his head on his paws. Tough indeed.
Mitchell glares at me coldly. To someone watching in a cinema, who can’t see me on my hands and knees hissing at the recalcitrant Pharaoh Hound from just out of shot, that look would read as stoic Jack gazing into the middle distance in steely defiance. But I know naked antipathy when I see it.
‘Cut!’ du Renne screeches at last. There’s an audible whoosh as the assembled cast and crew let out the breath they’ve been collectively holding. ‘What ees eet now? What ees ce chien stupide doing?’
I may never have ventured further afield than Bali, but I know a French insult when I hear one.
‘I’m sorry, Mr du Renne. The dog is very tired. It’s been close to four hours and he needs a break,’ I say, swallowing the choicer comebacks that have sprung to mind.
‘Oh, fantastic. Let’s just hold everyone up while the diva dog has a massage,’ Mitchell mutters. This draws chuckles from the crew. People will laugh at literally anything a famous guy says.
The Ex Factor Page 3
