Erin shakes her head vigorously. ‘No, Alan. There’s been no sign of Kitty today. If her fledgling romance with the star voted ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ continues, she’ll obviously have to get used to life in the spotlight. But for now at least, it seems she’s happy to let the pictures tell the story.’
The picture of Mitchell kissing me looms large on screen for a final time, and I wonder how much money that paparazzo actually earned from it on a cost-per-use basis. I take advantage of the momentary diversion to unleash the hounds, opening the front door and sending four barking, keyed-up dogs barrelling across the front lawn toward the news team.
Turning back to the TV screen, I see Erin’s oily grin as she says, ‘Back to you, Alan.’ But her smile turns to a look of sheer panic as she sees my canine army advancing at her. The vision cuts abruptly back to the studio, truncating Erin’s high-pitched squeal. After a startled pause, Alan starts to introduce the next item – the day’s actual news.
Of course, the dogs stop barking as soon as they reach the news crew. Their animosity quickly quelled, they’re more interested in sniffing the expensive equipment strewn across the grass than continuing their snarling interrogation of the strangers. But viewers across Sydney don’t get to see that part. For all anyone watching the broadcast knows, bubbly, flaxen-haired Erin McInerny has just been torn limb from limb by a slavering pack of demon dogs.
Of course, I know setting my dogs on this poor excuse for a journalist is wildly irresponsible (not to mention a pretty poor advertisement for my skills as a trainer), but at this point, I just don’t care.
I let the dogs sniff a moment longer, enjoying watching Erin and her frightened crew dance around them. I half hope for the lift of a leg against a piece of expensive equipment, but I’ve trained the mutts too well for that. Another whistle brings them back to my side just as rapidly as they went charging forth.
Erin turns and sees me standing on the verandah. Despite her unease, she can’t resist going for the scoop.
‘Kitty Hayden?’ she says, tripping across the lawn as fast as her high heels will carry her, microphone thrust towards me. The camera and sound guys race to keep pace with her. ‘Do you have any comment to make about your relationship with Mitchell Pyke?’
I beckon the dogs into the house. ‘Yes, Erin, as a matter of fact I do,’ I say sweetly. ‘What I would like to say, and I’m sure Mitchell would agree with me, is get your crew and your truck off my property before I call the police.’
Then I slam the door in her face.
7.
Mitchell finally calls late that night. ‘I hear you’ve been making friends with the world’s media,’ he says, a definite note of mirth in his voice.
‘How do you know that? I thought you’d been on set all day.’ But I’m relieved that he sounds relaxed. I’d expected a least a trace of awkwardness after last night, but maybe my prying wasn’t the first-date faux pas I’d imagined.
‘My publicist called from LA, demanding to know all about you so that she can concoct a media strategy for handling our relationship in the press. You know they’re calling us “Kitchell”?’
I’m momentarily speechless. I need a strategy? I’m to be handled? And Mitchell thinks we’re in a relationship?
‘I’m sorry if I’ve caused more trouble for you, Mitchell,’ I say when I regain the power of speech. ‘I don’t know how they found out all that stuff about me. About us.’
‘You have absolutely nothing to apologise for, Kitty. That information would have come from people on the movie – film sets leak like sieves. And setting the dogs on that awful reporter was a stroke of genius. I’m the one who should be saying sorry. You didn’t ask for any of this.’
I think about that for a moment. True, the barrage of interest in my personal life over the past twenty-four hours has taken me by surprise, but is it really so unexpected? I’m not totally naïve; I know Mitchell is incredibly famous. And I guess that, deep down, I knew from the moment I agreed to see him again that dating him wouldn’t be like catching a movie with the boy next door.
‘I think I kind of did ask for it,’ I say. ‘At least, I knew it would be part and parcel of being seen with you. Of having a . . . relationship with you.’
‘Ah, so you picked up on that,’ he says quietly.
‘Um, yeah.’
‘Does it freak you out? My saying that after we’ve only been on one date?’
‘Well, technically your publicist said it.’
Mitchell laughs. ‘That’s true. I guess I’m off the hook then.’
‘Guess so.’
‘Except that I’m saying it, too. When I said last night that I think there’s really something between us, I meant it.’
But for how long, I wonder. Filming on Solitaire is set to wrap in six weeks. What happens to our ‘relationship’ then?
‘So all my crazy-girl questions about your ex didn’t scare you off?’
‘Not at all. I want you to know everything about me. And I want to know everything about you. I want to know every part of you.’
There’s a sudden intensity in his voice that makes my stomach flip. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
‘Where are you right now?’ Mitchell goes on.
‘In my bedroom.’ I’m actually sitting on the floor in the hall, but I quickly get to my feet. If this conversation is headed where I think it is, I’m going to need privacy.
‘Are you in bed?’
So he is saying what I think he’s saying. In a nanosecond, I mentally debate the pros and cons of engaging in a spot of telephone hanky-panky with a megastar. Cons: I hardly know the guy. He probably does this with fifty different women every night; I’m just another notch on his verbal bedpost. I’ve never been very good at dirty talk and am liable to say something ridiculous. My phone might have been tapped by some muckraking reporter.
Pros: Mitchell is off-the-charts sexy. This is my chance to make up for being denied more than a kiss last night. And there’s the not-insignificant fact that I want to do this.
‘Kitty? Are you still there?’
YOLO, as Frankie might say.
‘Uh-huh. I’m in bed.’ I race toward my bedroom, Dolly and Bananarama at my heels. They look positively outraged when I shut the bedroom door in their faces, then hopeful when I open it again a second later to eject Reggie and Carl, who had been sleeping on my bed. I climb onto the bed and arrange myself against the pillows.
‘Tell me what you’re wearing.’
‘Really?’ I wrinkle my nose at the cliché.
Mitchell laughs, a low, gruff sound that’s more like a growl. ‘Really.’
I cast an eye over my outfit. I’d taken the dogs to the park earlier, once I was sure my garden was free of lurking reporters, so my ensemble is entirely practical: jeans and a black tank top under a blue hooded jumper.
‘I’m wearing a silk slip, a black lace bra and matching panties,’ I lie. I don’t actually own anything made of silk and I’ve never used the word panties in my life, but hey, it’s about painting a picture. ‘The silk feels so cool against my skin. It’s so hot in here.’
That part, at least, is true. Weatherboard cottages are a nightmare for retaining heat.
‘Take the slip off,’ he says.
I lay the phone beside me as I wriggle out of my layers. Briefly, I consider switching it to speaker mode, but the thought of Frankie overhearing what may follow is mortifying.
‘Underwear too?’ I ask in what I hope is a coquettish tone. The reality of my faded cotton knickers and mismatched bra is somewhat different to what I’ve described.
‘No. Leave those on. I want to unwrap you a little at a time.’
A delicious shiver starts in my toes and ripples through my entire body. So much for his pledge last night to take things slowly.
‘Hey, why do I get all the attention? Let’s talk about you for a second. Are you at your hotel?’
‘Yes. I’m sitting by the window, looking out over the Oper
a House and the Harbour Bridge. It’s a beautiful night out there.’
‘Curtains open?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘So, you can be seen?’
There’s a pause at the end of the line and I can tell Mitchell hasn’t actually considered the possibility that he might be observed. The realisation could kill our little game dead. Or . . .
‘I’m on the thirtieth floor, so it’s unlikely anybody’s looking. But yeah, I guess someone driving by on the expressway or in one of the neighbouring buildings could watch me if they wanted to.’
‘How does that make you feel?’
‘Hard.’
A gasp escapes my lips. In my mind’s eye, I see a shirtless Mitchell sprawled in an armchair in front of a floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window, a telltale bulge straining against the denim of his designer jeans.
‘Interesting. In that case, unzip your pants.’
His breathing deepens and I hear a faint, obedient zzzip.
‘Done.’
‘Good. Take it out. No, wait. Imagine me taking it out.’
Mitchell gives a soft moan as he follows my instruction. ‘And now?’
‘Hmm. Now . . . now I think it’s my turn again.’
I know I’m being cruel, but if Mitchell is frustrated I can’t hear it in his voice. ‘Put your hand in your panties,’ he says thickly. ‘Tell me how it feels.’
I do as he asks and an electric thrill snakes through me. I’ve never done anything like this before. Getting it on over the phone has always seemed so, I don’t know, tawdry. It’s not something I imagine a lot of thirty-year-old dog trainers do in their spare time – not with one of the most famous men on the planet at the other end of the line, anyway. I’d imagined that, if I ever tried it, I’d feel awkward or self-conscious. But there are demands and declarations on the tip of my tongue right now that would make a porn star blush. I feel quite the libertine.
‘Tell me,’ Mitchell urges again. His breathing is rapid and shallow and I know he’s touching himself, too.
‘It feels . . .’
But I don’t get to find out how it feels, because at that moment there’s an almighty BANG at the front of the house, followed by the unmistakable tinkle of breaking glass. Then comes the Scooby Doo scrabble of claws against floorboards as the dogs dash toward the commotion, barking as if their lives depend on it.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’ Mitchell purrs.
‘No! I mean, yes, but . . . something’s happened. I’m sorry, Mitchell. I’ll have to call you back.’ I press ‘end call’ before he can respond, spring out of bed and yank on my jeans. Not bothering with my tank, I zip up my hoodie and dart into the hall, almost colliding with Frankie as she careens out of her bedroom.
‘What the hell was that?!’
The dogs are at the front door now, scratching at it and whining. Reggie throws his full, impressive weight at it, literally foaming at the mouth in his desperation to get to whatever lurks outside.
I can see the narrow windowpane next to the door has been shattered. Shards of glass cover the floor of the hall, glinting in the silvery moonlight. I feel panic rising as I imagine the potential carnage should soft paws make contact with the razor-sharp fragments.
‘Frankie, help me grab the dogs! There’s glass everywhere.’
She flips on the hall light and races to the laundry to get the dogs’ leashes as I pick my way through the minefield that stands between me and my pets. Ancient Dolly and laidback Carl are pretty easy to subdue. I grab their collars and gingerly guide them toward me, sweeping the largest glass shards from their path with my big toe. Frankie quickly leashes the pair and leads them into the other room.
‘Check their feet,’ I call after her. From the bedroom comes the insistent ring of my mobile. Mitchell. That’s twice – if I’m counting my dream – that we’ve been rudely interrupted just as things were getting interesting. Right now it’s difficult to imagine I’ll ever have an opportunity to turn my fantasies into reality.
Not that this is the moment to be thinking about that; not when I have Reggie to deal with. Dolly and Carl might have been pliable, but there’s no way forty kilos of pure, snarling muscle is going to stand down and come quietly – not when he thinks he’s doing his sacred duty and defending his pack against an enemy he can’t even hear. And the fact that he’s so wild when he hasn’t actually heard anything chills me: what’s out there that he can sense?
My hand signals won’t work because Reggie won’t look at me; he’s too busy firing his laser glare at the door. Though I’ve never felt so much as a millisecond of fear around Reggie, I know better than to get all up in the business of a dog in full flow. There’s only one option.
Taking a deep breath, I lean forward and grasp the door handle.
‘No, Kitty!’ Frankie yells over Reggie’s racket. ‘You don’t know what’s out there.’
‘There’s no other way to calm him down,’ I say. Clearly this is karmic retribution for my earlier stunt with the TV reporter.
The TV reporter. What was her name – Erin? Could she have returned to settle the score? But breaking a window is so juvenile. And Erin would have to know she’d be the first person I’d think of. Surely she can’t possibly be that stupid.
I pull the door open and Reggie bolts outside, triggering the automatic sensor light. Realising there’s no one he needs to attack, he begins patrolling the perimeter of the garden, madly sniffing everything in sight. As my eyes adjust to the sudden glare, I’m stunned. I don’t quite know what I expected to see, but it wasn’t this.
Nothing.
There’s absolutely no sign of anyone or anything either on my property or in the inky darkness beyond the glow cast by the light. The street is as still and quiet as a church. Even the resident possums have turned in for the night.
The only hint that anything is amiss is the smashed window and —
Oh.
Lying on the verandah, directly under the window it pulverised, is a red brick. It must have rebounded after breaking the window. Wrapped around the brick is a piece of paper.
‘What is it?’ asks Frankie, appearing in the doorway. Reggie trots onto the verandah too, having apparently given the garden the all-clear. He sniffs curiously at the brick.
I prise the paper out from under the rubber band lashing it to the brick and unfold it. It’s a note.
MITCHELL PYKE IS TOO GOOD FOR YOU WHORE! YOUR A FUGLY SLUT! VIDA’S WORTH A HUNDERD OF YOU. WATCH YOUR BACK BITCH!
‘Frankie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Do me a favour and call the police.’
The police arrive at the same moment as Adam.
‘Are you all right, precious?’ he asks as he wraps me in a big bear hug. The two constables peering at the ruined window exchange glances.
‘I’m fine, Adam, but how do you —’
‘Frankie called and told me what happened.’
On a scale of one to totally bizarre, this is only slightly less shocking than having a brick hurled through my front window at midnight.
‘Frankie? My sister? That Frankie?’ The sister in question is nowhere in sight: having declared she didn’t want to impede the police investigation, she’d gone back to bed.
‘That’s the one.’
‘But . . . why?’
Adam looks peeved at my question, and rightfully so. The guy had dragged himself out of bed – possibly not even his – to dash to my side at this hour, and here I was giving him the third degree.
‘Sorry, Adam. I don’t mean why are you here. It’s great that you’re here. I love that you’re here.’ I give his arm a squeeze to underscore my point. ‘In fact, I would have called you myself. I’m just surprised Frankie got in first. You two aren’t exactly bosom buddies.’
‘I guess she thought perhaps you’d want me to give the dogs the once-over,’ he says with a shrug.
I ponder this for a moment. If Adam’s right, it means Fr
ankie not only thought about someone else before herself – i.e. me – but that she also gave consideration to the dogs’ welfare. She barely acknowledges their existence except to complain when they damage her pricy interiors. Something about the whole scenario just doesn’t compute.
But before I can probe further, the stockier and more middle-aged of the two constables is standing in front of me, pen poised over his notebook.
‘This Mr Pyke, ma’am?’ he asks, jerking his head towards Adam. ‘This who the note refers to?’
I offer a silent thank you to the universe for sending me possibly the only person in the world who doesn’t know anything about Mitchell – and presumably doesn’t have an opinion about my dating him.
‘This is Adam Katz, my friend and my dogs’ vet. He’s just come to make sure they’re okay.’
‘I came to make sure you’re okay,’ Adam says quietly.
‘Where is Mr Pyke, then?’ the policeman asks.
‘Yes, Kitty,’ Adam chimes in. ‘Where is Mr Pyke this evening? Does he know what’s happened here tonight?’
‘Ah, no. I haven’t had a chance to call him yet.’ I’d switched my mobile to silent mode and shoved it in my pocket while Frankie and I cleaned up the broken glass and waited for the police. Grabbing it now, I see I have six missed calls from Mitchell.
With a look that can only be described as smug, Adam says, ‘I’ll just see to the dogs.’ He heads toward the kitchen, where Reggie, Dolly, Carl and Bananarama are staging an orchestral performance of howling and whining in protest at being shut away.
‘So this Mr Pyke is your boyfriend, yes?’ says the cop, whose name badge reads ‘Phillips’.
‘Oh! Well, I don’t . . . I mean, he hasn’t really . . . we’ve only been on one date,’ I blather. Should I mention the phone sex? Probably not.
Phillips is unmoved by my ham-fisted attempt to define Mitchell’s and my relationship. ‘Uh-huh. And this Vida person mentioned in the note – you think she threw the brick?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’
Phillips looks up from his notebook with a look of feeble interest. ‘And why’s that?’
The Ex Factor Page 8
