The Ex Factor

by Laura Greaves

  ‘You make me sound like some adolescent groupie.’

  ‘Don’t forget that Mitchell asked you out after you slapped him across the face in front of a hundred people. He’s seen you at your worst and he wants to get to know you anyway. He’ll call you when he calls you. Now,’ she stands and ushers me back into the fitting room, ‘try on the black one.’

  ‘What’s the point in buying a dress if he never calls?’ I cringe inwardly at how pathetic I sound.

  ‘Then screw him. At least you’ll have one halfway decent frock in your wardrobe.’ She snaps the curtain shut as if to say ‘no further correspondence will be entered into’.

  I buy the dress. And shoes and a bag. But I still feel like a teenage drama queen.

  That is until I check the messages on the home phone and discover that Mitchell called at nine o’clock this morning, while I was out walking the dogs.

  ‘Hi, Kitty. I should be done here by four today,’ that deep American drawl booms into my hallway. ‘I thought if you’re up for it we could hit the beach for a late swim and then grab some dinner. I guess I’ll make it to Narrabeen around five . . . oh. This is Mitchell Pyke.’

  I glance at the Alessi wall clock – another of Frankie’s investments. It’s a quarter to five. Oh, good. The international superstar will be here in fifteen minutes and he expects to see me in swimwear.

  ‘Frankie! Help!’

  My sister appears at the end of the hall, her arms laden with bikinis. ‘I heard it,’ she says. ‘I’ve had a look through your cossies and obviously they’re all foul. You go shave your legs while I pick one of mine. The dress you bought is all wrong for a casual dinner, so I’ll find you something for that, too. Go!’

  I nod and race for the bathroom. Sometimes my sister is exceedingly useful.

  By the time Mitchell knocks on the door – on the dot of five, I’m both impressed and peeved to note – my legs have been denuded and my hair piled into a messy topknot and secured with a print scarf. I’m wearing a retro-style emerald-green one-piece under a voluminous Camilla kaftan – both Frankie’s – and flat beaded sandals. The shoes, at least, are mine. So are the silver and turquoise bracelets clanking on both wrists. Well, they’re mine now; they once belonged to my mother.

  ‘You look amazing,’ Frankie whispers as she gives me a final once-over.

  ‘Are you sure? It’s not a bit too . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. Talitha Getty circa 1968?’

  Frankie arches an incredulous eyebrow. ‘Yeah, I don’t know who that is. Go on your date, but tomorrow we’re going to get you some twenty-first-century style references.’ And she shoves me unceremoniously toward the front door.

  But it’s not Mitchell standing on the other side of it after all. It’s Adam.

  ‘Greetings, m’lady,’ he says, doffing an imaginary cap. ‘My, don’t you look resplendent. You didn’t need to get all dolled up on my account.’

  ‘Oh! Adam, I’m so sorry. I didn’t . . .’

  Over his shoulder, I see the now-familiar black four-wheel drive roll to a stop at the kerb. The back door opens and Mitchell jumps out. There’s clearly no battling Sydney’s rush hour when you’re a movie star.

  The instant I set eyes on Mitchell, I know my sister was right: the tarty black dress would have been totally wrong. He’s wearing khaki board shorts with a sky-blue, short-sleeved shirt and no shoes. He could pass for the quintessential Aussie surfer boy if not for that intangible ‘something’ he exudes. I guess it’s what they call ‘star quality’.

  He saunters up the garden path. ‘Wow,’ he says with a broad smile. ‘You look . . .’

  ‘Like the hippie that time forgot?’

  ‘I was going to say incredible.’

  ‘Oh. Well. Thank you.’

  We grin stupidly at each other for a moment.

  ‘Ahem,’ says Adam.

  ‘Hey, there,’ says Mitchell, thrusting a hand in Adam’s direction. ‘I’m Mitch.’

  ‘Adam,’ he replies, shaking it meekly.

  ‘You’re a friend of Kitty’s?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m her vet.’ I’ve never seen Adam look so pale.

  ‘Adam! You’re not my vet. I mean, you are, but . . . Mitchell, Adam is my best friend. We used to live together.’

  I’m babbling like an idiot. Why, of all the tidbits I could have chosen to tell Mitchell about Adam, did I go for that one?

  ‘Oh?’ Mitchell says coolly.

  ‘We were flatmates. And now Adam has come round to check on Bananarama’s eyes and I completely forgot and I’m the worst best friend ever.’ Yep, definitely an idiot. ‘You don’t mind waiting a few minutes, do you?’

  Mitchell shrugs. I get the feeling he does mind. He minds quite a bit.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Adam pipes up, apparently having regained his ability to string sentences together. ‘You two go on your . . . date. Have fun! I’ll see to Bananarama and be on my way. Is Frankie in or should I lock up behind me?’

  Without waiting for an answer, Adam strides into the house.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Mitchell says after a moment. ‘I thought we could walk. You’re only a couple streets from the beach, right?’

  I nod and step out of the house, pulling the door closed behind me. I make a mental note to call Adam later and grovel. He was clearly mortified. Although, come to think of it, there was really no reason he should have been. Sure, it was flaky of me to forget he was planning to drop by, but there seemed to be more to it than that. Was he star-struck?

  As Mitchell and I stroll past his car, a burly black man steps out of the driver’s side and begins to follow us. He doesn’t say anything and lags a few metres behind, but his mere presence is unnerving.

  ‘I know we didn’t get off to a great start yesterday, Mitchell, but is the chaperone really necessary? I promise I won’t slap you again.’

  Mitchell glances back at the behemoth behind us. ‘Oh, sorry. That’s Mack. Don’t mind him. He’s just my bodyguard.’

  I try not to appear as disconcerted as I feel. ‘Your bodyguard? What do you imagine is going to happen to you on the mean streets of Narrabeen?’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ he says darkly. His tone makes the skin at the back of my neck prickle.

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  Mitchell turns and sees the freaked-out expression on my face. ‘No! Sorry, Kitty. I don’t mean to sound dramatic. It’s just, well . . . I’m not sure how to say this.’

  I’m not sure I want him to, whatever this is. But I say ‘Go on’ anyway.

  ‘The thing is, I’m really famous.’

  ‘I know.’ Believe me, I know.

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t think you do. I mean, really famous. I’m not saying that to be arrogant. It’s the truth. I’m recognised wherever I go. All over the world, people want a piece of me. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, there’ll be someone trying to take my picture, to sell it to one of those god-awful magazines and make a quick buck out of Mitchell Pyke.’

  He sounds bitter, and I guess it’s justified. Although nothing really justifies talking about yourself in the third person. That’s just not okay.

  I scan my quiet suburban street. ‘It looks like you’ve got a night off tonight though,’ I say. ‘No photographers here.’

  Mitchell gives a thin smile and what looks like genuine sadness flashes in his eyes. It’s the same expression he wore on the cover of Starz magazine.

  He stops walking and leans in close. ‘See that red Hyundai over my right shoulder?’ he says quietly. I peer in that direction. Sure enough, there’s a battered Accent parked about a hundred metres away. In the passenger seat is a man with a telephoto lens trained on us.

  ‘Oh my god!’

  ‘And the pizza delivery guy on the opposite corner?’

  I turn and look the other way. A skinny guy in a Domino’s uniform is fiddling about with the front tyre of his delivery bike. I can see a camera slung over his shoulder
, too.

  I can’t believe it. Paparazzi. In my street! ‘How did they even know you’d be here?’

  ‘These two followed me from the set. That happens in LA, too. They’re permanently camped outside my house. Or people tip them off.’

  ‘Tip them off?’

  ‘Yeah, like if I go to a restaurant, the maitre d’ will call a snapper and pocket a hundred bucks for his trouble. Or, you know, the receptionist at my doctor’s office will fax my medical records to TMZ.’

  ‘You are kidding me!’

  He shrugs, as though having the details of your tonsillitis or ingrown toenail sold to the highest bidder is an everyday thing. But now I see that it is an everyday thing, at least for someone like Mitchell. All of a sudden, the silent presence of Mack the Bodyguard makes a lot more sense.

  ‘Why do you want to go to the beach, then, knowing those guys were on your trail? Isn’t it a bit public? We could have had dinner at my house.’

  ‘Because fuck them, that’s why,’ he says, and I instinctively recoil at the malice in his voice. ‘If people think they’re somehow better off because they saw a picture of me on a beach, that’s their damage. I’m not going to change the way I live my life just because my job makes me interesting to some people. Why should I?’

  I understand what he’s saying, really I do. And I can’t imagine having to put up with that degree of daily intrusion. I don’t even like it when Frankie wants to know what my weekend plans are.

  But at the same time, I also think Mitchell’s attitude is kind of selfish.

  ‘Well, maybe because it’s not just your life,’ I say.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You don’t care if you’re photographed at the beach, because you’re used to it after so many years in the spotlight. But the person you’re at the beach with might not be so relaxed about it. That’s the reality of your life, but for mere mortals the possibility of being seen in swimwear by thousands – maybe millions – of strangers is kind of overwhelming.’

  I keep my gaze trained on the cracks in the footpath. It feels as if, in the thirty-six hours I’ve known Mitchell Pyke, I’ve done nothing but tell him off. I’m sure his patience is going to wear thin any moment now.

  Right on cue, Mitchell stops in his tracks. Behind us, Mack stops, too. ‘You must think,’ Mitchell says, ‘that I am a grade-A asshole.’

  Not quite the response I was expecting.

  Mitchell grasps my hand between both of his and presses them to his shirtfront. Knowing my hand is just a whisker from that broad, powerful chest has a dizzying effect.

  ‘First I kick your dog, then I turn up unannounced on your doorstep, and now I’ve thrown you to the paps like a piece of meat to a pack of wolves.’

  I wrinkle my nose at his gruesome analogy.

  ‘Kitty, I’m truly sorry. I swear I’m not the thoughtless prick you must think I am.’ He doesn’t let go of my hand as his green eyes search mine. I think this is what Frankie would call ‘Having a Moment’. The intensity of Mitchell’s gaze is unsettling.

  ‘I don’t think you’re a . . . I don’t think that.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. I’m not in the habit of going out with grade-A assholes. Even famous ones.’

  This makes him smile. But only for a second. The second after that, he’s leaning in close and brushing his lips softly against mine. Maybe it’s all the practice he’s had with his gorgeous co-stars over the years, but damn, this guy can kiss.

  But just as I start to melt into his embrace, Mitchell pulls away.

  ‘There I go again,’ he says huskily. ‘Thinking I can call the shots. I should have asked before I did that.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t have.’ I close my eyes and tilt my chin up to kiss him again.

  Then, suddenly remembering I’m kissing a famous person in broad daylight and in the middle of the street, I stop and glance around us. From his sentry post a few metres away, Mack is watching the lorikeets fluttering in a jacaranda tree. He must have been taking acting tips from Mitchell, because it’s the perfect portrayal of studied nonchalance.

  Beyond Mack – but still close enough to raise my hackles – the red Hyundai has crept nearer. The driver’s face is obscured by his camera, but in the still of the early evening I can hear the shutter clicking away as aggressively as if it were gunfire.

  On the corner, the pretend pizza guy has abandoned the pretence of tinkering with his moped and is now pointing his camera directly at us, blatantly capturing our entire interlude for posterity. When he sees me looking in his direction, he lowers it and gives me a little wave. Cheeky bugger.

  ‘Just out of curiosity, if a picture of you leaving a restaurant can earn a waiter a hundred bucks, what’s a shot of you kissing some obscure woman likely to go for?’

  ‘You’re not obscure, Kitty,’ Mitchell says, planting a quick peck. ‘You’re worth a million bucks. Now, how about that swim?’

  He keeps hold of my hand as we stroll on. But even after I feel the ocean spray against my skin and the warm sand between my toes, I’m still wondering. Was Mitchell serious? Is a picture of me and him worth a million dollars?

  Why do I feel like I have a bounty on my head?

  6.

  Being wrenched from sleep by the sound of my sister screaming is becoming tedious, to put it mildly. But at least when her ear-splitting shrieks pierce the morning quietude this time, I can tell right away she’s excited as opposed to terrified.

  I roll over and pull Dolly’s paw across my ear, but it’s no use. Frankie’s squeals are approaching crescendo as she ricochets down the hall toward my bedroom. In the next second, my door bangs open and she launches herself onto the bed.

  ‘Kathryn Hayden, you saucy minx!’ She swats me over the head with what feels like a newspaper.

  With a sulky whuff, Dolly gives up her position on my bed and curls up on the floor, firing an irate look at Frankie. I force my eyes open and look at my bedside clock.

  ‘Frankie, it’s five-thirty in the morning. Whatever this is, can’t it wait?’

  My sister’s response is to peel back my doona and fling it on the floor, where it covers the somehow still-snoozing Reggie, Carl and Bananarama. Not one of them moves.

  ‘No! It most certainly can not wait.’

  The instant the pre-dawn chill caresses my skin, I’m wide awake. I admit defeat and haul myself into a sitting position. ‘What are you even doing up at this hour?’

  ‘Oh, I . . . had some things to do. But that’s not important.’ She spreads the newspaper across my lap. ‘Explain yourself, madam!’

  Groggily, I peer down at the front page of the Daily Telegraph. Mitchell Pyke in seaside tryst, screams the headline, which seems a bit much, even for a rag like the Tele. The headline is accompanied by a grainy picture of me and Mitchell holding hands as we sit side by side on the sand in the fading twilight. The caption reads:

  BEACH BABY, BEACH BABY, GIVE ME YOUR HAND:

  Superstar Mitchell Pyke, in Sydney shooting his latest blockbuster Solitaire, thrilled fans at Narrabeen beach late yesterday as he frolicked with a mystery redhead. So much for the thirty-five-year-old movie god’s vow to never love again. Do YOU know the identity of Mitchell’s lady love?

  There’s even an email address for readers to dob me in to the paper. I wonder how long it will be before I’m outed.

  ‘Hmph, I’d have thought the photo would be better quality, considering how close they were,’ I say. ‘And we were hardly frolicking. Who frolicks in this day and age?’

  I wouldn’t consider myself a redhead either; my locks are more a coppery auburn. Although I must admit the term ‘lady love’ gives me an unexpected thrill.

  ‘Wait, you knew about this?’ Frankie trills.

  ‘These photographers aren’t exactly discreet.’

  ‘There’s more pics inside,’ she says, flipping the pages until she finds a two-page spread that virtually charts Mitchell’s and my entire evening i
n real time. Our walk to the beach has been documented, along with our quick dip (I’m pleased to see I look pretty good in my borrowed cossie) and our relaxed dinner at a beachfront steakhouse.

  But the biggest picture – it fills almost a whole page – is of course the one in which Mitchell and I are locking lips. He has one arm cinched around my waist while the other hand caresses my cheek. Funny, I was so consumed by the electric sensation of his soft lips touching mine that I barely noticed the way he held me. It’s surreal to see it there in front of me, as if I’m looking at someone else. Not many people get to see what their first kiss with a new guy looks like from an outsider’s perspective.

  ‘Ohmigod,’ Frankie breathes. ‘Kitty, this was taken on our street! You only managed to get a few metres down the road before you had your tongue down his throat?’ If I’m not mistaken, there’s definite pride in her voice.

  ‘If you want to get technical about it, he actually had his tongue down my throat.’

  Frankie shakes her head and looks at me admiringly. ‘Well, well. My sister and the movie star. I didn’t think you had it in you.’

  I flash what I hope is an enigmatic smile.

  ‘So did you?’ Frankie asks.

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘Have it in you?’

  ‘Frankie!’

  ‘Oh, don’t play coy with me, Kitty! After all the hand-holding and the romantic beach walk and the public displays of affection. You slept with him, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ I can tell by the look on her face she thinks that’s about as believable as a genuine Philippe Starck Ghost chair popping up on eBay. ‘Honestly, Frank. I’d tell you if I had. Actually, I probably wouldn’t have to bother – you’d be able to read about it right here.’

  I’m telling her the truth. There was definitely no hanky-panky last night. After we swam, we grabbed a quick beer at the local pub and then I took Mitchell to my favourite local restaurant, where I insisted (despite Mitchell’s protests) that Mack join us to eat. The man had been good enough to carry a pair of shoes for Mitchell all the way from the car; I wasn’t about to let him starve. But his presence at the table did preclude much deep and meaningful conversation. When we weren’t being interrupted by a steady stream of Mitchell’s fans – all female, I noted with a weirdly peevish feeling – we mostly talked about his crazy life in Hollywood and his work on Solitaire (he thinks Alphonse du Renne is psychotic, too), as well as my job. It was fun, but hardly deeply romantic.