Seeing the look on my face, she quickly adds, ‘I know, it’s a ridiculous name for an advertising agency. But it’s also appropriate: our work is really good.’ Danica rattles off a list of big brands her company has made award-winning TV ads for; I’ve seen all of them.
Reggie and Bananarama suddenly come barrelling up onto the beach and vigorously shake the water from their coats, showering Danica’s white capri pants and bronze silk tank. Instinctively, I open my mouth to apologise, but then stop. This is a dog beach, after all, and that’s a totally inappropriate outfit for it.
Luckily, Danica hoots with laughter. ‘I think I deserved that!’
‘How can I help you, Danica?’ I know I must sound rude, but I don’t particularly care. The serenity I felt during my swim is long gone. I’m pretty much over people wanting a piece of me.
‘Yes, of course,’ she says, suddenly all business. ‘Obviously you’ve been the talk of the town the past few days and when I heard that you’re a dog trainer for film and TV, I checked out some of your work on YouTube.’
‘My work is on YouTube?’ Some people have way too much time on their hands.
Danica nods. ‘As it happens, we’ve just landed a large pet client. And when I say large, I mean huge.’ She leans in conspiratorially. ‘This company owns pretty much every major dog- and cat-related product you can think of.’
‘Well . . . congratulations?’ Seriously lady, make your point.
‘Thank you. We’re totally rebranding them. Going to make a dozen new TV ads for them in the next year alone. And that’s hopefully where you come in.’
‘Me?’
‘I’d like to offer you a job, Kitty. We need a great dog trainer and I think you’re it.’
Just when I think my life can’t get any weirder, an advertising bigwig offers to end my unemployment woes while I’m dripping wet in a bikini.
‘Oh! Wow. That’s . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m incredibly flattered, of course. I’m just not sure I’m looking for a nine-to-five position at this point.’
A regular income does sound appealing, but I love the variety and flexibility my freelance business offers. I’m not sure I really want to give up being my own boss and shackle myself to someone else’s way of doing things. That said, I’ve had no other offers since being fired from Solitaire and I guess beggars can’t be choosers.
‘I’d be more than happy to discuss flexible terms,’ Danica says. ‘The work won’t be strictly Monday to Friday. Some months we might shoot three ads, and the next month it might be none. We could work around your schedule to a large extent. And, of course, the salary would reflect your expertise.’
She says a figure that makes my jaw drop. It’s more than I’ve ever earned in a single year. In fact, it’s almost more than I’ve earned in the six years I’ve been running my business. Clearly I should have been focusing harder on advertising all this time, rather than films and TV.
‘Look, I know it’s a lot to take in. Especially when you’ve been ambushed on the beach. Why don’t you take my card’ – she draws a glossy black business card from her pocket and hands it to me –’and call me when you’ve had a chance to think it over?’
‘Thank you. I will,’ I reply dumbly, turning her card over and over in my hand.
Danica smiles, gives Carl another scratch and sashays toward the car park. It’s only after I’ve watched her climb into her silver Audi and drive away that I realise – she doesn’t even have a dog. Was she spending her Sunday just loitering in the dog parks of the Northern Beaches in the hope I’d show up? People really never cease to surprise me.
I collect the dogs – Reggie flees straight back into the water at the sight of his leash, forcing me to go in after him – and load them into the van for the drive home. The Indian-summer weather has brought what feels like the entire population of Sydney to the beaches, and the traffic inches along in the fading late-afternoon light. Not that I mind; I’m grateful for the time stuck crawling along Pittwater Road to mull over Danica’s job offer.
Is it the right time to commit to what is for all intents and purposes a full-time job? My business has been steady over the past couple of years, but I’m not exactly rushed off my feet. The number of feature films shot in Sydney – like everywhere else – dwindles each year. Ads are lucrative but don’t crop up every day, and canine roles seem to be the first to be cut from TV scripts – producers and directors just don’t want the headache of dealing with animal actors. We’ve come a long way from the days when Bouncer, the Neighbours Labrador, was one of the small screen’s most popular stars.
Still, taking myself ‘off the market’ to work virtually full-time for Really Good Ads feels scary after all the hard work I’ve put in to get where I am. Am I cut out for the monotony of working with the same people on the same subject matter, day in, day out? What if my dream film gig comes up and I have to turn it down because it clashes with one of Danica’s pet-food ads? Sure, she says the company will accommodate my other work, but how flexible can they really afford to be? They need someone who’ll be on call to train whatever furry critter needs training; it wouldn’t be fair of me to sign on the dotted line if I’m not prepared to be that someone.
I sigh irritably; I’m getting nowhere. I’ll have to make a list of pros and cons when I get home – Mum was a great list-maker and it’s a habit that’s rubbed off on me.
The traffic is still at a standstill, so I flip on the radio to distract myself from the confusion in my head.
‘. . . police say they have few leads on who threw a brick at the home of Mitchell Pyke’s new love, Kitty Hayden, last night,’ comes the nasal voice of the news announcer.
I whack the ‘power’ button with more force than is necessary and the van’s cab is silent once more. I’d almost forgotten about Mitchell and the attack on my home. I should have known the rest of the world wouldn’t have. How stupid of me.
Actually, the repetition of a ‘day job’ should probably be right at the top of my pros list at this point. I may think I crave variety and unexpected thrills, but if the past few days have taught me anything, it’s that I should be careful what I wish for. Maybe a sensible job is just what I need to go with the sensible boyfriend I’ve decided to find. Predictability is highly underrated.
At last the Pittwater Road parking lot starts moving and I make it the rest of the way home in just a couple of minutes. But while my house number is on the mailbox, the house I pull up in front of doesn’t bear much resemblance to the one I left.
The first thing I notice is that the smashed window has been repaired and looks as good as new. The second thing – and it strikes me as weird that I didn’t spot this right off the bat – is that my front yard has been transformed from a pleasant slice of suburban greenery to, well, Hollywood circa 1960.
Towering potted palm trees, wreathed with twinkling fairy lights, frame the path from the kerb to the front door. A waistcoat-clad waiter with Brylcreemed hair and a Tinseltown smile stands by the garden gate proffering a silver tray that holds two flutes of what looks like champagne. To his left, a pair of retro rattan sunbeds that could have been plucked from beside the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel have been set up on the lawn next to an ice bucket. The lounger cushions are festooned with an olive-green tiki print that would be truly awful if it wasn’t so fabulously kitsch.
Even the air has had a Hollywood makeover: somehow, from somewhere, the dulcet tones of Dean Martin drift into the twilight.
But the pièce de résistance is parked in the driveway: a cherry-red 1958 Plymouth Fury, complete with whitewall tyres and tail fins and dripping with chrome. I don’t know much about cars, but I’d know this beast anywhere: it’s the main ‘character’ in my all-time favourite schlock-horror movie, Christine. And the only person I’ve told about my dubious cinematic tastes recently is now opening the driver’s door and stepping out of the car.
Mitchell.
Before I can remind myself I’m still mad that he
failed to rush to my side last night, a huge grin hijacks my face. He looks relieved to see me smiling, which makes me smile even more broadly.
I pluck the champagne glasses from the tray and hold one out to Mitchell as the waiter quietly retreats into the lengthening shadows. ‘I thought you didn’t drink?’
Mitchell crosses the garden. ‘It’s sparkling apple juice,’ he says, taking the glass.
‘You are a crazy person, Mitchell Pyke!’
Mitchell clinks his glass against mine. ‘I am crazy, Kitty. I’m crazy about you,’ he says and kisses me softly on the lips. ‘You’re right, I should have been here last night. I should have jumped in my car the second you hung up the phone.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Honestly?’ He looks a little sheepish. ‘I didn’t come because I was trying to be a “regular guy”. You’re such a smart, capable, independent woman and I know you’re not impressed by any of the trappings of money and fame.’
‘I don’t know about that. You parking the car from Christine in my driveway is pretty impressive.’
He laughs. ‘Well, then, I wish I’d done that sooner. But I figured you wouldn’t want some arrogant – what is it you Aussies call us? Yank? – bursting through your door like an action hero last night. Believe it or not, I was trying to play it cool.’
‘You were playing the part of a normal boyfriend?’
‘Yes, and not very well. When I found out what happened . . . when I realised you were in danger because of me —’ Mitchell breaks off and shakes his head, clearly furious with himself.
‘Hey, it’s fine,’ I say, lacing my arms around his neck and bringing his face close to mine. ‘I’m fine.’
‘The thing is, Kitty, I’m not normal.’
‘You’ve got that right!’ I gesture to the elaborate set-up behind us.
‘What I mean is, I don’t have a normal life. I’m not like guys you’ve dated before. I can’t promise you that you’ll never again be photographed on a beach or that my more, er, enthusiastic fans will treat you with the respect you deserve.’
‘I know,’ I say quietly. It’s like he’s been reading my thoughts.
‘But I can get a window guy out here at a moment’s notice on a Sunday afternoon. A window guy who charges like a wounded bull, by the way. I can have a bodyguard here round the clock. I can have restaurants and cinemas closed so that no one will be able to ogle us if we feel like dinner and a movie. I can buy you the car from your favourite terrible film.’
My jaw drops. ‘You bought me this car?’
‘I bought you that car and I’ll buy you ten more if you want me to. And next time anyone threatens you – though of course I hope there won’t be a next time – I’ll be here in a flash with my own private army. I’m not a regular guy, Kitty, I’m a movie star. I figured it was time I started acting like it.’
I can barely comprehend everything Mitchell is saying, all that he’s offering me. I look at the little slice of Hollywood he’s fashioned in my garden. I gaze at the Plymouth. My Plymouth. All of it is, of course, way too much; the grandest of grand gestures. I should tell Mitchell I can’t accept any of it. But I already know I’m not going to. I’ve been resisting stepping into his world, hoping instead that he’d step into mine and feeling let down when he wouldn’t – because he couldn’t.
‘So what do you think?’ he asks, those melancholy green eyes searching mine.
‘I think . . . I think . . .’
I can’t find the words. In the three days since I met Mitchell, my world has been irrevocably altered. I don’t know how to explain to him that I’m both consumed with misgivings and absolutely, positively falling for him.
I don’t know what I think, so I kiss him instead.
Sensible? Who needs sensible?
9.
By the next morning, the media outlets that hadn’t been able to run with the story in their Sunday editions are all over ‘Brickgate’. One breakfast TV show actually calls it that, which genuinely makes me despair for the future of journalism.
At lunchtime, a gaggle of women on a panel-style chat show that wants to be The View but is really just a shrill imitation earnestly debate Mitchell’s decision to date a ‘civilian’ instead of another international beauty like Vida Torres. The talking heads are particularly obsessed with one thing: Mitchell’s drunken vow six months ago that he could never love another woman the way he loved his ex. How must poor Kitty Hayden feel, the pundits wonder aloud, knowing that, no matter what she does, she will never, ever hold a candle to the woman who broke Mitchell’s heart?
The truth is that Kitty Hayden hadn’t even thought about it until it was repeatedly pointed out to her via the world’s media that she’s very much second in line to the throne. And yet now she is – I am – struggling to think about anything else. I know we’ve all made sweeping declarations in the heat of the moment. If I had a buck for every time I swore a solemn oath never to drink again while wrestling with a shocking hangover in my early twenties, I’d have a nice little nest egg indeed. But I have to admit the ceaseless banging on about it – not to mention the replaying of that blurry paparazzi video of a tipsy Mitchell stumbling out of the bar – has got me wondering whether he was sincere in his pledge after all.
I bang my tea mug on the coffee table in frustration, making Carl and Dolly jump in fright. They haughtily climb down from their napping positions on the sofa next to me. Why do I keep doing this to myself? Last night Mitchell was very clear about his feelings for me. What’s more, his statement was public. He could have staged his little makeover in the privacy of my backyard, but he chose to do it where he knew it – and we – would be seen. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before pictures of his transformation of my garden appear online. There’s absolutely no need for me to be sitting in my living room the morning after wondering if these self-important TV harpies are right. Why do I keep second-guessing myself any time some total stranger suggests I’m not Mitchell’s first choice, but merely the next best thing?
Perhaps it’s because, while Mitchell’s intentions couldn’t have been more explicit last night, nothing else about the evening was. After those delicious kisses on the front lawn, Mitchell departed almost immediately for a night shoot, leaving me to enjoy the Golden Age ambience with Frankie and Adam, who turned up out of the blue to remind me of my dinner invitation and tell me he was free for dinner two weeks on Thursday. Mitchell’s quick exit had left me wondering how celebrities ever managed to earn their promiscuous reputations – when did they have time to play Lothario when they apparently have to work every minute of the day and night?
Work. My mood this morning isn’t helped by the fact that this is the first weekday morning in months that I haven’t had a job to go to. Sure, having downtime between projects isn’t uncommon for me, but I’ve always had my next gig lined up or at least the sniff of a project on the horizon. As it stands right now, my business is on an unscheduled hiatus – and who knows how long it will last once word gets around that Kitty Hayden can’t control her temper on set?
Compounding my irritation is the fact that I woke up this morning determined to be productive, and foolishly fired up the Excel spreadsheet on my laptop that keeps track of the household expenses. So far, it’s not making for pleasant reading. We don’t have a mortgage, thanks to Mum’s meticulous saving, but our outgoings are through the roof. The latest electricity bill, in particular, is terrifying – no doubt thanks to Frankie’s habit of having every home appliance running simultaneously and never switching off a light. My earnings in recent months have been reasonably healthy, but my sister’s contribution to the domestic coffers has been precisely zilch. I guess that’s what happens when all the ‘independent fashion designers’ and ‘emerging artists’ whose social media presence she manages are in fact old school friends running T-shirt stalls at Manly Markets or selling whimsical greeting cards on Etsy. Which is to say that her ‘clients’ don’t have any money, and neither does F
rankie.
Danica Keane’s shiny black business card lies in front of me on the coffee table, spattered now with drops of my tea. Accepting her offer would certainly solve my immediate cashflow problems, but I’m still not sure it’s the right decision. I don’t want to do something as huge as walk away from my business just because I’m in a financial bind. I might have decided to jump in feet first with Mitchell, but I can’t afford – literally – to be rash where business is concerned.
As if I’ve summoned her with my fretting over her role in the sorry state of our finances, the front door bangs and my sister comes bouncing into the living room clutching a large cardboard box. Her cheeks are flushed and her blue eyes glitter as she sets the box on the table.
‘Ta-da!’ Frankie says.
I eye the box suspiciously. Something tells me whatever is in it was expensive. Frankie doesn’t issue ta-das lightly.
‘What’s that?’
‘That,’ says Frankie triumphantly, ‘is a George Nelson sunburst clock.’
I grab the TV remote and hit the ‘mute’ button, plunging the shrewish TV panel into merciful silence.
‘But we already have a clock.’ I point to the Alessi timepiece, just a couple of months old, that takes pride of place on the wall above the gas fire.
‘This isn’t just a clock, Kitty. This is the clock. I’ve only been looking for one, like, forever. It’s pretty much the Everest of my mid-century design collection.’
She opens the box and carefully lifts the prized clock out and lays it on the table. It has a small, round face surrounded by blue, green, orange and black spikes. It can’t have been that difficult to find; I’ve seen a million like it in those ads for replica furniture stores in the interiors magazines she hoards. Unless . . .
‘Frankie, please tell me that’s a replica. It’s not original, right?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Of course it’s an original. Made in 1957. What would be the point in buying the same cheap plastic one everyone else has?’ Frankie’s expression tells me she finds it tiresome having to explain herself to such a philistine.
The Ex Factor Page 10
