‘She lives in Los Angeles. She’s, um, a Brazilian supermodel.’ Plus, I imagine she can spell ‘hundred’ and knows the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’.
Suddenly, Phillips’ colleague is at his side. His name badge says ‘McCartney’ and his eyes are shiny with excitement. ‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Are you talking about Vida Torres? And Mitchell Pyke?’
I nod. ‘Mmm-hmm.’
McCartney lets out a high-pitched ‘Ooo-hooo!’
‘You know these people?’ Phillips says sharply.
‘I wish! Vida Torres is a Victoria’s Secret Angel, Gary. Smokin’ body. And she’s got a cracking pair of —’
‘What does this woman have to do with Miss Hayden here?’
‘The man I’m seeing, Mitchell Pyke, is a well-known American actor,’ I interrupt tersely. ‘He was in a relationship with Vida Torres until about six months ago. It seems like whoever violated my window doesn’t think I’m an adequate replacement.’
Both Phillips and McCartney look me up and down, blatantly weighing up whether the brick-thrower has a point.
‘Jealous fan,’ McCartney concludes. I’m quietly pleased that he went with ‘jealous’ instead of ‘crazy’ or, say, ‘unnecessarily threatened’. Pleased and also a little disgusted to realise that it matters to me whether this total stranger thinks I’m a worthy adversary for a woman I’ve never met.
‘We’ll take the brick and the note with us, dust’em for prints,’ Phillips says, gesturing to his partner to pick the offending items up from the hall table. I notice McCartney does so without putting gloves on. Haven’t these jokers seen CSI?
‘Don’t expect we’ll find anything, though,’ the older cop goes on. ‘Just some nut, no doubt.’ He doesn’t seem at all concerned by this.
‘Well, don’t put yourselves out on my behalf,’ I say. ‘It’s just so reassuring to know the police take my personal safety so seriously.’ I know sarcasm is supposedly the lowest form of wit, but I’m not in an especially witty frame of mind right now.
McCartney looks at me, astonished. I can practically see his thoughts hanging in a cartoon bubble above his head as he lumbers away: I bet Vida Torres wouldn’t be so bitchy. Which is funny, because if he could see the thought bubble above my head it would say, I bet Vida Torres wouldn’t have to put up with this moron.
Phillips simply sets his lips in a hard line, nods brusquely and leaves. Suddenly it’s just me and a gaping hole where my window used to be. I have no idea what I’m meant to do now. Are there glaziers who make house calls in the middle of the night? And how am I supposed to keep myself and my home safe from the Team Vida lunatic brigade?
‘The dogs are fine, though Rama’s a bit shaken by all the kerfuffle,’ says Adam. I turn to see him emerging from the kitchen clutching the empty Corona carton. ‘I thought this might come in handy.’
‘Er, I like your thinking, but in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s empty. Frankie and I polished them off earlier.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘You know I adore you, Kitty, but sometimes I really do think you’re a couple of streets off the main road.’
‘Your insults are so friendly.’
‘Thank you. Now, are you going to let me fix this window or not?’ He produces the kitchen scissors and a roll of electrical tape from his back pocket and proceeds to hack the side off the carton and tape it into place over the window void.
‘Ah, I see.’
‘You will when you get this window replaced tomorrow.’ Adam looks adorably proud of his awful pun.
‘Thanks, Adam. I’m really glad you’re here,’ I say, and I mean it. Even if I still haven’t quite shaken my disquiet over Frankie being the one to summon him.
‘I’m always here for you, Kitty. Day or night. You know that, right?’ he says softly.
I nod. I do know that. Adam has always been there for me when I’ve needed him. In the first few months of running my business, when we still lived together, work was patchy and I often struggled to pay my rent – but he let it slide. He’d get up in the dark and make me a cup of tea when I had an obscenely early call time, and he’d feed and walk my dogs on the nights I was stuck on a movie set till all hours. I couldn’t even begin to put a figure on all the free veterinary treatment he’s provided over the years.
He’s been my shoulder to cry on whenever a romance has fallen apart and hasn’t complained – well, not too loudly – when I’ve fixed him up on forgettable blind dates with my friends. And when Mum died . . . well, sometimes I think I wouldn’t be here – and I know I wouldn’t be sane – if Adam hadn’t been around.
‘Come on,’ he says. Taking my hand, he leads me into the living room and settles me on the sofa, then disappears into the kitchen once more. Seconds later, I hear the hum of the electric kettle. ‘Why don’t we watch a movie?’ he calls. ‘There’s bound to be one of those terrible horror flicks you love so much on TV at this hour.’
Suddenly, I’m very, very tired. What am I doing? I mean, really. Why am I up at two a.m., being judged by sexist cops and attacked by deranged fanatics of some guy I hardly know? Why have I spent my day fielding unbelievably intrusive questions from total strangers and worrying that I don’t measure up to some Amazonian goddess whose every picture is no doubt Photoshopped beyond recognition?
Is it worth it? Is being Mitchell Pyke’s chosen arm candy for a few weeks really worth the intrusion and the scrutiny and the dead-of-night vandalism? Girls like me don’t live happily ever after with film stars. Girls like me end up living in blissful anonymity with nice, dependable guys with normal jobs.
Girls like me end up with guys like Adam.
As he returns to the living room bearing two steaming mugs of Milo – girls like me end up with guys who drink Milo – I try to see my best friend through fresh eyes. With his dark hair, his eyes the colour of cinnamon and his pale complexion, Adam is definitely handsome – though he’s the polar opposite of Mitchell’s sculpted ‘action man’ brawn. Adam isn’t a man who gets a lot of sun – not with the hours he puts in at the clinic – and it shows. If he appears bookish and serious, it’s because he is. He wears contact lenses when he’s working, though glasses suit him better. I’m forever badgering him to wear them more often; girls love that ‘intellectual hipster’ look.
While Mitchell’s muscles have muscles, Adam is taller and his frame leaner. He reminds me of all those ethereal indie rock stars I had such crushes on in my teenage years.
So yes, Adam is a good-looking guy. He may not set my pulse racing the way one glance at Mitchell does, but I definitely find him attractive. Who needs a movie star face unless they’re an actual movie star, anyway? And besides, Adam’s personality is his most appealing quality. He’s fiercely intelligent, very funny and unfailingly kind. He uses words like kerfuffle. He’s financially secure and owns an apartment, which I guess is something that’s supposed to matter to me now that I’m in my thirties. He also loves dogs just as much as I do, and honestly, that’s a quality I value pretty highly. I don’t think many guys would understand my dedication to my dogs or the amount of time I need – and want – to devote to them. All in all, Adam is really quite a catch.
Could I be more than friends with my best friend?
‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ Adam asks suddenly. I realise I’ve been gazing thoughtfully at him for several moments.
‘What? Oh! Um.. I just . . . I was . . . I’m . . .’ I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in the biscuit tin. I take a deep breath and try again. ‘Sorry. I’m really tired.’
‘That’s hardly surprising. You’ve been through the wringer tonight.’ He gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind my right ear. ‘It’s really none of my business, Kitty, but are you sure this guy is worth it?’
I smile. If only he knew I’d just been having that same debate in my head.
‘We should have dinner sometime soon,’ I say, ducking his question. ‘It’s been too long since we spent any quality time togethe
r. When are you free?’
‘I’m not sure off the top of my head,’ he says, draining his mug and standing up. ‘I’ll check my diary and call you tomorrow. Or rather, today. I’ll just pop my head in and say goodbye to Frankie on my way out.’
In an evening full of surprises, I find myself taken aback once more. ‘What? Why?’
Adam pauses. ‘She’s the one who called me,’ he says after a long moment. ‘Seems only polite to let her know I was here.’
Sure. At this hour, when my sister is probably fast asleep, etiquette comes first.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t disturb her, though,’ Adam says, registering my dubious expression. ‘You’ll tell her I came over, right?’
‘Sure,’ I reply, still not quite sure what he’s really saying. A few days ago Adam was criticising Frankie and encouraging Bananarama to answer the call of nature in my sister’s bedroom. Now he wants me to tell her he popped by?
‘Okay then,’ he says and swoops in to peck me on the cheek. ‘Sleep well. Call me if you need anything.’ And then he’s gone.
I check on the dogs – all sleeping soundly, despite their earlier excitement – and prod Adam’s makeshift window repair. It looks like it’ll do the job until daylight, though I’m not looking forward to spending my Sunday morning on the phone to the insurance company.
I retrieve my phone from my jeans pocket once more and see that I have another four missed calls from Mitchell. Maybe it’s the events of the evening, or maybe it’s my newfound appreciation of Adam’s charms, but I feel strangely vexed to see Mitchell’s number pop up on the screen.
‘Something’s happened,’ I’d said when I’d abruptly ended our earlier, uh, conversation. He was obviously concerned enough by that to call me ten times in the past two hours – just not concerned enough to leave his cushy hotel and come over to check I was okay. Not even after the day I’ve had wrangling the world’s media because of him. Adam had turned up in a matter of minutes, and he and I aren’t on nearly such intimate terms.
As if he’s receiving my thoughts via telepathy, Mitchell’s number lights up my mobile phone screen once more. I let it ring for a good few seconds.
‘Yeah?’ I answer at last.
‘Are you all right?’ Mitchell says, dispensing with a greeting. ‘Why haven’t you been answering your phone? I was starting to get worried.’
‘Then where are you?’ I reply through gritted teeth.
‘I’m still at the hotel. But I’m in the bedroom now.’ His voice drops an octave as he adds, ‘Naked.’
I gasp. But not in a good way. In a really, totally opposite of good way.
‘You’re not serious,’ I say flatly. He can’t be. He cannot genuinely be trying to get me to talk dirty to him right now.
‘Okay,’ he says quickly. ‘What’s happened, Kitty?’
I open my mouth to relay the whole sorry tale, but suddenly I find I just can’t be bothered. I just want to go to sleep and temporarily forget all about broken windows and crazed fans and Brazilian Barbie dolls. And I particularly want to forget about my odd best friend and my clueless not-quite boyfriend and the fact that my name is apparently on everyone’s lips for all the wrong reasons.
‘You know what, Mitchell? Just look at a news website in a few hours. I’m sure you’ll be able to read all about it.’
Then I hang up.
8.
It’s early afternoon before I surface. Frankie is nowhere to be found and the Sunday paper is happily free of any mention of last night’s drama. I feel a grudging sort of gratitude toward the brick-thrower for striking after print-media deadlines.
But that’s not to say that word hasn’t got around. Phillips and McCartney must have spilled the beans immediately, because the message bank on the home phone is freshly crammed with requests from reporters for comment on the incident. It’s also the top story on News.com.au: ‘You’re no Vida’ – sickening attack on Pyke paramour Kitty Hayden.
Illustrated, naturally, with the requisite photos of Vida looking impossibly stunning and me looking like a mythical creature that lives under a bridge. At least they corrected the appalling spelling in the actual note.
There’s no message from Mitchell.
I decide to postpone the insurance company–glazier rigmarole until tomorrow and take the dogs for a swim instead. They’ve had a fraught few days, what with defending their turf against marauding news crews and stealthy vandals, and it looks like a glorious early autumn day outside: the sky is a cloudless, azure blue and the temperature is still in the balmy low twenties.
I slip into shorts and a T-shirt and round up the hounds. Jamming my feet into worn Havaianas and slipping on my favourite black Ray-Bans, I briefly consider the possibility that I might be photographed when I step outside my front door. But the prospect of spending twenty minutes applying makeup and taming my bed hair is too much to bear. And besides, the dogs are jittery with excitement and I don’t want to make them wait while I indulge my vanity.
It’s even warmer outside than I expected and I immediately scrap my plan to go to the closest dog-friendly beach at Curl Curl. It’s a lagoon rather than open ocean and the water quality is dubious at best; the dogs don’t mind it, but I fancy a swim too and there’s no way I’d submerge myself in that swamp. Instead, we head north toward Pittwater, where there’s a brilliant – and pristine – harbour beach at Bayview.
Pulling into the car park, we’re greeted by the happy din of dogs barking and splashing about in the sheltered bay. Reggie, Carl and Dolly virtually fly out of the van the instant I open the door, tumbling over each other in their haste to get to the water.
Bananarama waits patiently in the back of the van for me to carry her to the water’s edge. ‘Sorry, Rama, I guess they just couldn’t wait for you, honey.’
She gives me a lick on the nose as I pick her up and I notice she’s still trembling. All four dogs shake when they’re really excited about something – dinner, a tennis ball, a ride in the van – but it usually subsides as soon as they get what they want. Rama’s flutters feel different. I clip her retractable leash to her collar and set her gently on the sand, where she immediately lowers her nose to the ground to begin her sensory mapping of her new surroundings. She looks a bit wobbly, but seems happy as a clam as she totters up and down the beach. And yet a knot of foreboding twists in the pit of my stomach.
‘Not yet, Rama,’ I whisper as I stroke her fluffy white coat. ‘Please don’t go yet, little one.’
She responds with a wag of her tail and wades confidently into the shallow water. I’ve chosen a quieter stretch of beach that’s separated from the main dog-swimming area by a narrow spit of sand. There’s less likelihood Rama will be bowled over by an ecstatic canine missile here and it also means I can take a dip without having to strip down to my swimmers in front of my fellow dog owners. Ordinarily it wouldn’t bother me, but I think the general public has seen quite enough of me in swimwear for the time being.
I peel off my denim cut-offs and green T-shirt and tiptoe in up to my knees. Instantly, Dolly is at my side. I think it must be a Border Collie thing: they’re never far away if their ‘person’ is even partially submerged. With a rather inelegant duck dive, I plunge into the emerald depths. The water is cool but still retains much of the warmth of summer, so it doesn’t take long to acclimatise. Breaking the surface, I take a deep breath and stroke out towards the sailboats bobbing gently on their moorings in the middle of the bay. I’ve never been that keen on ocean swimming; the aggressive pounding of the waves is a little too intense for my taste. But slicing through the glassy waters of tranquil Pittwater, with its fringe of thick bushland and million-dollar homes, is my idea of heaven.
I reach the closest boat and grab onto its mooring rope. It’s deeper here – I can’t touch the sand – but by looping my arm around the rope and rolling onto my back, I don’t need to tread water. I float like that for a little while, eyes closed, my face turned up toward the sun’s warmth. I feel weight
less, free, and for a few moments I can imagine the world of celebrities and tabloid media and unhinged film fans simply doesn’t exist.
A faint whimper drags me back to the here and now. I open my eyes to see Dolly swimming fevered laps around me, evidently very concerned about my welfare. She’s done this ever since she was a pup, but her advancing age means she can’t keep it up for long these days. The expression in her eyes clearly says Please don’t make me drag you back in.
‘Okay, girl, let’s head back to dry land. Your bodyguard duties are done for today.’ Of course, saying ‘bodyguard’ aloud immediately makes me think of Mack, and Mack makes me think of Mitchell. Why hasn’t he called?
I release the rope and begin a slow front crawl back to the beach. Dolly imitates with her own version of the doggy paddle. Reggie and Bananarama are splashing about together in the shallows, Reggie gleefully emitting the strange, tuneless sound that passes for his bark. Carl sits patiently on the sand; he doesn’t like swimming with his muzzle on, and I can’t say I blame him.
Next to Carl is a woman, and she’s waving at me. As I get closer she calls out, ‘Aren’t you Kitty Hayden?’
My toes hit the sand and I stand up, suddenly feeling very exposed in what is actually a pretty modest two-piece.
‘You are, aren’t you?’ the woman says as I hurry past her to grab the towel I’ve slung over a fence post. Wrapping it around me, I finally feel shielded enough to turn and face her.
‘Yes,’ I say warily. Is this another nutty member of the Mitchell Pyke army?
The woman looks thrilled by my confirmation. ‘Well, this is just positively providential,’ she exclaims, clasping her hands together like the heroine of a Victorian novel. ‘I’ve just left you a voicemail. And here you are with your lovely fur babies!’ She bends down and gives Carl a scratch behind the ears. He looks typically nonplussed.
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ I say pointedly.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Oh dear, listen to me, blathering on without even introducing myself.’ She thrusts out her hand, grabs mine and pumps it furiously. ‘I’m Danica Keane. I’m the creative director at Really Good Ads.’
The Ex Factor Page 9
