The Ex Factor

by Laura Greaves

  ‘Non! We are too far behind schedule as eet ees. Ze dog can manage one more take,’ du Renne declares.

  Anger twists my insides and I can feel a crimson flush starting to colour my cheeks. I find myself wishing Martha were there to help me fight my corner, but she grew bored after an hour and went to sit in the van with her magazine.

  ‘No, he can’t. It’s no problem – Zulu or Caesar can step in. But Sphinx is done,’ I say, my voice tight.

  Du Renne rolls his eyes. ‘Eet will take you’ow long to exchange zees dog for anozer and to prepare zee next animal? Twenty minutes? Thirty? But eet will take just ten minutes to do zee take! He can manage one more.’

  He claps his hands as if it’s all settled and heads back to his skyscraper chair. Mitchell gets to his feet and trudges in the direction of the factory door. The nearby crew members cast furtive glances in my direction, waiting to see what I’ll do next. I get the impression there’s not supposed to be a next move once du Renne has issued a diktat.

  But then I look down at Sphinx, curled up in that awful, hot steel box with his little eyes shut tight. He’s knackered, the poor lamb. And I’m not about to cause a dog to suffer just to make life a little easier for the likes of Mitchell Pyke and Alphonse du Renne.

  ‘He cannot manage one more, Mr du Renne. It’s very hot, he’s been working for four hours without a rest and he’s exhausted. I’m here to protect the welfare of the animals, and I will not allow Sphinx to continue in this state.’

  Du Renne stares at me, clearly shocked. At what I’m saying or just the fact that I’m saying anything, I can’t tell.

  I jut my chin forward and carry on. In for a penny and all that. ‘If you wish to continue shooting this scene, you will wait for me to prepare a stand-in dog. And . . . that’s that.’

  The atmosphere on the set fizzes with tension. Finally, du Renne throws up his hands. ‘Switch zee dogs,’ he says. ‘We will use Zulu.’

  I squat down and loop my arm around Sphinx’s backside, preparing to lift him.

  ‘You cannot be serious, Alphonse!’ Mitchell has abandoned his post inside the factory and is striding toward me once more. ‘You said it yourself, it’s ten minutes. You’re going to let the dog trainer direct the movie now?’

  He stops next to the gun locker and pushes his face close to mine. It’s not nearly such a traffic-stopping visage when it’s all contorted with fury. ‘Do your job and get the damn dog out of the box,’ he says, punctuating each word by jabbing his finger at Sphinx’s temporary home.

  ‘I am doing my job, Mr Pyke,’ I say, standing to face him. ‘My job is to look after the animal actors on this film.’

  ‘No, your job is to train the “animal actors”’ – he actually uses finger quotes –’on this film, and so far your training is really goddamn shitty.’

  He underlines the word ‘shitty’ by aiming a savage kick at the gun locker. Unfortunately, Sphinx chooses this precise moment to poke his head out of the box and collects a steel-capped boot in the nose for his trouble.

  And when I say unfortunately, I mean it’s unfortunate for Mitchell Pyke.

  Sphinx yelps and races away. My rage is instantaneous and so consuming that the edges of my vision start to blur. My hands shake and I can’t seem to catch my breath. I feel at once burning hot and frozen to my very core.

  This guy thinks he can kick my dog? This childish, tantrum-throwing actor, with his over-inflated muscles and his artfully designed stubble? This pompous American, who feels it’s appropriate to mansplain to me what my job is? This guy, who thinks pointing out that it’s unusual for a woman named Kitty to be a dog trainer is an original joke?

  This. Guy?

  It doesn’t feel like it’s actually me who raises her right hand in the next moment and slaps the Famous Actor Mitchell Pyke hard across his chiselled face. It’s an out-of-body experience, as if I’m huddled behind du Renne’s playback monitor, watching to see how it looks as some other madwoman strikes Mitchell with an audible thwack.

  And you know what? It looks pretty damn good.

  Obviously I’m fired immediately.

  ‘Out!’ du Renne screams as the set erupts in the wake of my blow; I’m quietly pleased to hear a smattering of applause among the excited chatter. ‘Get off my set at once! You are an insane person!’ His face has turned an unflattering shade of puce.

  ‘With pleasure,’ I reply. ‘But just so we’re clear, I’m taking the dogs with me. You’ll have to find some other poor creature to out-act this guy.’ I jerk my head in Mitchell’s direction.

  He regards me with a strange expression. He’s the only one on set who’s neither enraged nor exultant at what I’ve just done, which is weird since he’s the one I did it to. His gaze doesn’t waver even as my handprint emerges on his cheek like a livid Polaroid. Am I imagining it, or his Mitchell’s look one of newfound respect? That or he’s planning to kill me in my sleep.

  I’m tempted to poke my tongue out at him, but instead I muster what dignity I have left and march off the set.

  By the time I’ve trudged back to Mitchell’s trailer, I’m smarting as though I’m the one who got slapped. What was I thinking? As if losing this job isn’t bad enough, what have I done to my business? Word of my little brain-snap is bound to get out – what if I never work again?

  I’ve never been fired from a job before. I’ve never lost my temper like that, though I’ve worked with plenty of directors and actors every bit as demanding, egotistical and downright nasty as du Renne and Mitchell. I’ve certainly never slapped a Hollywood megastar before. While I can’t bear cruelty to animals in any form – even when it’s accidental – I don’t think it was Mitchell kicking Sphinx that sent me over the edge.

  I think it was Mitchell himself. Something about him just got under my skin.

  Martha is pacing agitatedly by the van. I’m relieved to see Sphinx has found his way back to her; he’s sitting in the shadow cast by the raised tailgate, a doleful look on his face. Sphinx is flanked by Zulu and Caesar, who seem concerned.

  ‘There you are!’ Martha says, rushing over to me. ‘What’s happened? Sphinx came racing back here with his knickers all in a twist, then that stick-up-her-arse assistant rolled up in a golf cart yammering into her headset and said our services are no longer required. Was Sphinx no good? Do you need one of the others?’

  ‘Sphinx was great,’ I tell her. ‘Too good, actually. He worked and worked and worked for those people, and then when he couldn’t work any more they didn’t like it.’

  I give Martha the nutshell version of the whole sorry tale. When I get to the part about Mitchell’s boot becoming unexpectedly acquainted with Sphinx’s snout, I fumble. ‘The thing is . . . Mitchell was frustrated and . . . Sphinx picked a bad moment to . . . his timing was off and . . .’

  I’m trying to find a way to avoid telling Martha the movie star kicked her dog. I’m worried Mitchell Pyke might find himself being slapped twice today.

  But there really is no other way to say it. ‘Inadvertent contact was made’ isn’t quite going to cut the mustard.

  ‘What happened, Kitty? What did that talentless hack do to my Sphinxy?’ Something tells me Team Mitchell has lost its captain.

  ‘He . . . well, he kicked him. In the face.’

  Martha closes her eyes and inhales deeply. She sucks her cheeks in like a fish. A really, really angry fish.

  ‘And then Sphinx ran away and I slapped Mitchell across the face and then I got fired.’

  She opens her eyes and slowly exhales. ‘Good girl,’ she says at last, patting my shoulder. Then, to the Pharaohs, ‘Let’s go, puppies!’ Martha loads the dogs into the van, slams the tailgate and lumbers around to the passenger side.

  ‘So, you understand that we won’t be getting paid, right Martha?’ I offer a silent thank you to the universe that I had the foresight to include a ‘no work, no pay’ clause in my contract with Martha. At least I’m not obliged to pay her a cut of the fee I’m no longer going to
earn.

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried about that, darl,’ she says as she eases herself back into the passenger seat. ‘We’ve had a day out and you’ve taught the boys all kinds of wonderful new skills. You won’t hear any complaints from me.’

  I take my seat behind the wheel and slip the key into the ignition. I feel a little bad for being so uncharitable in my earlier assessment of Martha.

  Seeing my glum expression, Martha leans over and pats my knee.

  ‘There, there,’ she says. ‘Look on it as a learning experience. You know what they say, after all.’

  ‘What’s that, Martha? Never work with children or animals?’

  ‘No! Never meet your heroes.’

  4.

  Frankie eyes me suspiciously as I slink through the front door. ‘What are you doing home while the sun’s still out?’

  ‘Hello, Frankie. Lovely to see you. Good day?’

  Coming home to find Frankie still in her PJs at four in the afternoon – tapping away at her laptop with the TV blaring, an assortment of dirty plates and coffee cups littering every available surface and no visible evidence of anything resembling gainful employment – would challenge even the sunniest disposition. Throw in the lack of sleep, an expensive trip to Adam’s clinic to make sure Sphinx’s run-in with Mitchell hasn’t done any lasting damage and the possibility that I’ve hit the self-destruct button on my career, and it’s fair to say I am in no mood for my sister’s attitude.

  ‘Yeah, it was okay,’ she says, predictably failing to absorb the subtext of my greeting. She goes back to staring at her computer screen.

  ‘Where are the dogs?’ All I really want right now is a glass of shiraz, a phone-book-sized wedge of blue cheese and some serious canine cuddling.

  ‘Dunno. Sleeping in your room, I guess.’

  I don’t bother disguising my eye-roll. Reggie, Dolly, Carl and Bananarama could have been press-ganged into piracy while I was out and Frankie wouldn’t have noticed. I drop my bag onto the expensive marble-topped coffee table, because I know Frankie hates it when I do that, and head toward the sanctuary of my bedroom.

  ‘There was a phone call for you before,’ she calls when I’m halfway down the hallway.

  I pause and wait for further information. None is forthcoming.

  ‘Do you want to give me a hint?’

  ‘I wrote it down on the pad by the phone.’ I can hear the shrug in her voice.

  I glance down at the telephone table, where it says ‘Michael P’ in Frankie’s inimitable scrawl on the back of an envelope. I don’t know anyone called Michael. I pick up the message and take it back into the living room.

  ‘Who’s Michael P?’ I thrust the envelope under her nose.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says.

  ‘Well, did he say what he wanted?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘What time did he call?’

  At last, Frankie wrenches her gaze away from her Mac and turns to face me. ‘I don’t know, Kitty. I’m not your secretary. I have actually been working today, you know.’ She pushes out her lower lip. Her indignation would be hilarious if she wasn’t so serious.

  ‘Well, did he leave a number?’

  ‘Look, all I know is some American guy named Michael rang and he said he’d try again later. Okay?’

  ‘American? But I don’t know any Americans called . . . oh my god.’

  ‘Now what?’ But Frankie looks up at me, interested in spite of herself.

  ‘Frankie, are you sure his name was Michael? It wasn’t . . .’ I can’t believe I’m about to say this aloud. ‘It wasn’t Mitchell, was it?’

  She snaps her fingers. ‘That’s the one. Michael, Mitchell. Sounds the same. Some American dude called Mitchell.’

  I drop heavily onto the sofa next to her. Cupping my index finger and thumb around her chin, I manoeuvre her head to face me. ‘Now, think about this carefully. Did you take this message in the morning or the afternoon?’

  She sighs irritably and searches the recesses of her memory. ‘It was this afternoon. About an hour ago,’ she says finally. ‘Why? Who’s Mitchell?’

  ‘Mitchell is Mitchell Pyke.’ And this message was left post-slap.

  Frankie’s blue eyes widen and her mouth falls open. She looks like a very surprised owl.

  ‘Mitchell Pyke?’ she squeals. ‘The Mitchell Pyke?’

  ‘I think so.’ It seems insane, but who else could it be?

  ‘Why would he be calling you?’ she asks. Except that it comes out as ‘Why would he be calling you?’, as though there must have been a terrible mistake.

  ‘Probably to tell me that he’s going to sue me for everything I’ve got and make sure I never work in this town again.’

  Frankie’s eyes grow even wider. Now she’s more lemur than owl. I relay the awful story of the slap once again. Surprisingly, like Martha, Frankie is more amused than aghast.

  ‘You go, girlfriend!’ she crows, because apparently it’s 1995. ‘What a complete tool. Who cares if he sues you? No court in the country will convict you!’

  I can’t help but smile at Frankie’s sisterly support. ‘There are no convictions in civil cases. There can only be damages awarded.’ Although, actually, Mitchell could lay criminal assault charges. Plenty of people saw what I did. Any court in the country would convict me. Oh good, one more thing to stress about.

  ‘That’s even better, then. We don’t have anything a mega-rich movie star would want,’ Frankie says.

  But I’m worried that’s where she’s wrong. Two years ago, it would indeed have been pointless for Mitchell Pyke to sue me. I had no assets, no savings. But then Mum died. Sure, her estate wasn’t huge, but thanks to her careful planning I’m now a homeowner with a small nest egg in the bank. And so is Frankie. If Mitchell Pyke and his team of bloodthirsty Hollywood attorneys decide to avenge his on-set humiliation, my sister and I could lose everything.

  ‘Don’t sweat it, Kit. He got exactly what he deserved,’ my sister says as though she’s reading my thoughts.

  ‘Really? Given your stance on our four-legged friends, I wouldn’t have thought you’d object to a bit of dog kicking. I was actually a bit surprised Bananarama didn’t cop a boot up the bum early this morning.’

  Frankie looks genuinely hurt by my suggestion, but also, I’m pleased to see, a little embarrassed. ‘I would never hurt Rama, Kitty. Surely you know that,’ she says quietly. ‘I know I was a bit over the top this morning. I was just tired and . . .’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Things didn’t go so well with Dominic last night. He dumped me.’

  Now it’s my turn to adopt the wide-eyed stare. My sister does not get dumped. Like, I literally can’t remember it ever happening. Frankie is a catch. She’s gorgeous, for one thing, with her blonde locks, blue eyes and athletic figure. She’s whip-smart, too, though it often feels as if she goes out of her way to appear the opposite. And she’s fun. Sure, I’m regularly driven mad by her fleeting attention span and refusal to commit to anything, but guys seem to love that quirky, messed-up-in-an-adorable-way thing. They just lap that stuff up. Especially hipster idiots like Dominic.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frank. Do you feel like talking about it?’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about. He just said he liked me but he didn’t think I was The One. So, you know, whatever.’

  I didn’t think The One was even a thing anymore. In my experience, ‘love’em and leave’em’ is how most guys operate these days. Then again, it’s been so long since my last relationship I really don’t have much to go on.

  ‘Right. There’s only one thing for it. I’m opening a bottle of red and busting out the smelliest cheese I can find.’

  Frankie laughs as I leap off the sofa and disappear into the kitchen. ‘Drinking in the afternoon! Who are you and what have you done with my sister?’ she calls after me. ‘I can’t wait til Mitchell Pyke phones back so you can give him another serve!’

  But Mitchell Pyke doesn’t phone back. Instead, he
waits until Frankie and I are deep into our second bottle of shiraz and then knocks on my front door.

  I don’t know whether it’s the wine or just the sheer absurdity of the situation, but it takes me a good few seconds to comprehend who I’m looking at. The resemblance between Mitchell Pyke and the hulking figure on my doorstep, silhouetted against the fading twilight, is uncanny. Same broad chest. Same sculpted jawline. Same sage-coloured eyes.

  Same angry welt across his left cheek.

  But it can’t be. What would Mitchell Pyke – an actual celebrity – be doing at my door?

  ‘Hello there,’ the man at the door says amiably. Then, noting the half-full wine glass I’m clutching, he adds: ‘I hope I’m not interrupting?’

  I don’t answer. I just keep peering at him through narrowed eyes, as though he’s a distant cousin whose name is right on the tip of my tongue.

  He looks at me quizzically. ‘Sorry, how rude of me. It’s Mitchell. From earlier? You punched me in the face?’

  ‘I did not punch you in the face,’ I say hotly, my brain finally engaging. ‘I slapped you and you deserved it. You kicked my dog.’

  I’m pleased to find I’m not about to let this guy charm his way into my good books, even while cocooned in the heady comfort of my wine cloak.

  ‘Yes, well, about that,’ he says, his brow furrowing. Am I imagining it or does he look a bit sheepish? ‘Perhaps I could come in and we can discuss it?’

  He takes a step forward. I don’t budge.

  ‘What, you want to size the place up? Get a sense of where you might put your waterbed and your bearskin rug?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘I know your game. You’re the big movie star who thinks he can just walk all over the little people. Well, not this time. My mother left me this house and you’ – I take a swig of my wine to emphasise my point –’can’t have it.’

  Now it’s Mitchell’s turn to narrow his eyes, but rather than trying to figure out who I am, he’s trying to determine if I’m crazy. Over his left shoulder, I notice an enormous four-wheel drive with tinted windows idling at the kerb in front of the house. His bodyguards? I wonder if they have guns.