‘But it looks exactly like the cheap plastic one everyone else has. No one will know it’s the real deal.’
‘I’ll know,’ she says, as if this unequivocally justifies her extravagance.
I’m already dreading the answer to my next question. ‘How much did it cost?’
‘Kitty. This is one of the most sought-after pieces of mid-century design out there. It’s not about what it costs; it’s about what it’s worth.’
I’d put money – if my sister hasn’t spent it all – on that being exactly the spiel the salesperson gave her.
‘Did you use your own money to acquire this worthy piece of junk? Does it even work?’ The hands are set to the wrong time and haven’t moved at all since Frankie has been cradling it.
She pouts and casts her gaze to the floor. ‘I bought it for us, for our home.’
So that’ll be a no on having paid for it with her own funds. As well as the small sums Mum left to each of us in her will, there’s a joint account for household expenses. Of course, Frankie’s definition of a legitimate household expense tends to differ wildly from mine. I think boring things like insurance and paying the guy who mows the lawns qualify, whereas my sister is more of the ‘wildly overpriced trinkets’ and ‘designer wallpaper’ school of thought.
‘Seriously, Frankie. How much was it?’ Her steadfast evasion is making me feel panicky.
Frankie looks pained. ‘It’s going to double – maybe even triple – its value within a few years,’ she says sullenly.
‘Frankie . . .’ There’s an unmistakable note of warning in my voice.
She sighs noisily. ‘Six,’ she says at last.
‘Six hundred bucks? You paid six hundred bucks for a manky old clock that doesn’t even work?’ I shake my head in disbelief.
Frankie mutters something under her breath that I don’t quite catch.
‘What was that?’
She repeats it in a voice only slightly louder than a whisper. But she might as well have hired a plane to skywrite it, because it comes through loud and clear.
‘Six thousand dollars?! You have got to be kidding me!’
‘It’s an antique,’ she replies meekly.
‘I don’t care if it’s come out of Tutankhamun’s tomb. We don’t have that kind of money, certainly not to waste on useless crap like this. What are you thinking, Frankie? Oh wait, how silly of me. You don’t think, do you? Not about anyone other than yourself, anyway.’
I’m bellowing at an almost inhuman pitch, once again startling Dolly and Carl, who get up and actually leave the room this time. The small part of my brain that’s still thinking rationally knows that screaming at my sister will get me nowhere. Frankie’s default response when confronted is to shut down; it’s the young-adult equivalent of clamping her hands over her ears and singing ‘la la la!’
But I don’t feel at all rational. All I can think about is the fact that Frankie has spent six thousand dollars we don’t have. If it were business as usual, that would be six grand I’d have to go out and earn, but since I don’t have a job, it’s six grand we currently have no way of recovering. I want to take her pointless, ugly clock and stick it where the sunburst don’t shine.
‘You’ll have to take it back to the shop. Like, today. Right now. This instant.’
‘I can’t. I bought it at auction. All sales are final.’ Frankie juts her chin out defiantly.
‘Well, then, you’d better use your social-media wizardry to sell it online, because I don’t want to see it again.’ I’m suddenly aware how like my mother I sound. ‘And then you’d better get on Seek and find yourself a job. A real job,’ I add pointedly. ‘I’m sick of being the one to bankroll your shopping sprees, Frankie. I’m taking your name off the joint account. From now on, if you want to throw money away, you can go out and damn well earn it.’
‘You can’t do that!’ Frankie protests. ‘Mum left that money to both of us.’
‘Exactly. It’s my money too, not that you ever seem to think about that. And Mum also appointed me power of attorney and executor of her will, so I can make decisions regarding her estate.’
‘Why don’t you ask Mr Moneybags Movie Star for the money? If he can buy you that hideous car parked outside, six thousand dollars must be like small change to him.’
‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it, Frankie? Just get someone else to clean up the messes you make. I’m not asking Mitchell for anything. This was your stupid decision and you can take responsibility for it.’
The silence that descends between us is poisonous. Frankie stares at me through narrowed eyes. I cross my arms in front of my chest and stare right back. I’m not backing down. Not this time.
Finally, Frankie picks up the clock and shoves it indelicately into its box. Without a word, she spins on her heel and storms out. Seconds later, I hear her on the phone to one of her friends.
‘You won’t believe what my bitch of a sister just did . . .’ Then her bedroom door slams shut and quiet is restored.
I don’t feel good about our fight. In the past few days, when everything has been so crazy, I’ve felt as if Frankie has been a confidante, an ally. But this is just so typical of her. Every time I start to think of my sister as an equal, she does something to remind me that our nine-year age gap might as well be ninety years. Does she think I want to tell her how to live her life? Does she honestly not appreciate that I have better things to do at the age of thirty than parent my little sister?
Our screaming match hasn’t resolved anything, anyway. We’re both still unemployed and, thanks to Frankie, we’re now six thousand dollars in the red. And while my sister is right about one thing – I’m sure Mitchell would loan me the money if I asked – there’s no way I’m about to risk having him think I’m a gold-digger.
No. There’s only one option. Until Frankie gets a job – and I will make sure she applies for anything that might be even remotely suitable – the buck once again stops with me.
I scoop up Danica’s card from the coffee table. With the other hand, I pick up my phone.
10.
The deed is done. I’ve sold my soul to corporate slavery. Danica sounded pleased but genuinely shocked when I called to accept her job offer, as if she’d convinced herself I would turn her down. And if it weren’t for my sister’s latest pricy indulgence, I probably would have. Instead, I have a ‘getting to know you’ meeting with the Really Good Ads team tomorrow and we shoot our first ad early next week.
Frankie still hasn’t emerged from her bedroom, though every now and then a burst of her lilting laughter drifts from the other side of her door. The friend she’s called to share her wicked big-sister woes with is obviously saying all the right things.
With my income at least temporarily assured, I close the mocking Excel spreadsheet and shut down my Mac. But I still feel antsy; I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. Grabbing the remote control, I reactivate the sound on the television.
‘Of course, Kitty is pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way, but Vida Torres has graced the cover of every international edition of Vogue magazine. It’s apples and oranges,’ says a bone-thin panellist with a bleached blonde crop. Presumably I’m the orange – complete with dimply orange-peel cellulite. ‘Let’s take a look at some other celebrity couples who aren’t quite a perfect match in the beauty stakes.’
Up flashes a picture of me and Mitchell next to a snap of Mad Men stunner Christina Hendricks and her wild-haired, bespectacled husband Geoffrey Arend. Wow. So now not only am I nowhere near as attractive as the preternaturally beautiful Vida Torres, I’m apparently on par with a guy who looks like a mad scientist. Way to kick a girl when she’s down.
I turn off the TV entirely. Taking the sudden silence as an indication of imminent activity, all four dogs assemble at my feet and stare hopefully at me. They’ve already had a walk today, but they’re not the kind of hounds to pass up an opportunity.
‘We’re not going walking right now, puppies,
’ I tell them. ‘You wouldn’t want to be seen in public with a shoddy replacement for a world-famous supermodel, anyway.’
As soon as the words leave my lips I find myself giggling at my own self-pity. The skinny blonde on the TV is right: Vida Torres is a model. It’s her job to look beautiful in pictures. She might be a total hag away from the camera – I doubt it, but it’s possible – but regular folks like me don’t get to see that because appearing to be effortlessly radiant at all times is Vida’s bread and butter. Comparing myself to her really is like comparing apples and oranges. We’ll never be the same because we’re not supposed to be.
Anyway, Mitchell seems to appreciate the way I’m put together, if the urgency I felt in his embrace last night is anything to go by. A shiver ripples down my spine as I remember the unyielding way his lips met mine, and that conspicuous firmness as he pressed his hips against me.
Suddenly, I know exactly how I want to spend the rest of my morning. I glance at the clock – the one that works – and see that it’s almost eleven. Mitchell will have had a few hours’ sleep following the night shoot. He might be just about ready for a wake-up call.
Forty-five minutes later, I pull the van into the valet parking bay at Mitchell’s city hotel, the Shangri-La. I thought about driving my new-old Plymouth, but figured I should try to stay under the radar. My assignation feels deliciously illicit, right down to the black trench coat I’ve belted over my sexy outfit, and I’d like to keep it that way.
I throw my keys to the parking attendant and sashay inside, my spike heels clicking against the marble floor. Striding up to the reception desk with my black sunglasses still on, I’m aware of a hush falling over the lobby. I turn to see everyone in the immediate vicinity casting surreptitious glances in my direction and trying not to show it.
‘How can I help you?’ asks the immaculately groomed Asian woman at the desk.
I remove my shades. ‘Could you tell me which room Mitchell Pyke is in, please?’
‘I’m sorry, madam, we don’t have any guests by that name,’ she replies, as smooth as silk. I don’t think she even blinks.
I’m momentarily taken aback. Then realisation dawns. ‘Oh, I understand,’ I say, flashing the clerk my most knowing smile. ‘But I’m a . . . friend of Mitchell’s. He’s expecting me.’ That’s not strictly true, but I’m pretty confident he will be happy to see me.
‘I wish I was able to help,’ she says pleasantly. ‘Perhaps you have a telephone number for your friend?’
Despite her rigid smile, I can tell I’m not going to get anywhere with this one. Damn. I should have known Mitchell would have barred unannounced visitors. Of course the hotel isn’t about to rattle off his room number to any random who should happen to ask for it. Especially one dressed like a member of the Gestapo.
He’s probably checked in under a pseudonym, too. I rack my brain, trying to think of people, places, stuff we’ve talked about in the few days we’ve spent together. We’ve covered a lot of conversational ground but, now that I think about it, a lot of it seems pretty superficial. Mitchell’s work, my work, the fame game, his ex. Somehow I don’t think he’ll have chosen ‘Vida Torres’ as his nom de plume. And checking in as Ellis Chevalier would just be sick.
I take a stab in the dark. ‘Perhaps you have a Jack Hansen staying here?’ Jack is Mitchell’s character in Solitaire.
Ice Woman shakes her head. Of course not. Way too obvious.
‘Hmm . . . Arnie Cunningham?’ I know even before I’ve said the name that it’s not it. Arnie is the main character in Christine, and Mitchell didn’t know about my obsession with the film until a couple of days ago, long after he checked into the hotel.
‘No, madam. I am sorry.’ Is that a twinkle I see in her eye? Suddenly I’m aware that this woman knows exactly who I am – and probably what I want from Mitchell this morning. I think she probably would tell me which room is Mitchell’s if it wouldn’t most definitely cost her job.
I’m embarrassed to find I can’t think of anything Mitchell and I have talked about that’s truly meaningful; something in his life that was significant enough – not to mention impossible for a twisted fan to guess – for him to use as an assumed name. It’s yet another reminder that I really don’t know anything about this man. I’m standing in the lobby of this fancy hotel ready to seduce a virtual stranger.
I feel a sharp pang of longing for my little house and my dogs. I should have ignored my baser desires and stayed cocooned at home with them instead.
Then, suddenly, inspiration strikes. ‘Perhaps you’d be so kind as to direct me to the room that Mr Hugo . . . Hugo . . .’
‘Yes?’ says the receptionist, leaning forward slightly. So I’m on the right track. The first part of Mitchell’s fake name is Hugo, after his beloved childhood dog. But what surname has he adopted?
‘Indianapolis?’ It’s the capital of Indiana, Mitchell’s home state.
Ice Woman visibly defrosts. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have a Hugo Indianapolis staying at the hotel,’ she says.
For sobbing out loud. Why didn’t I pay closer attention in my high-school geography classes? I pull out my phone, ready to google every single suburb of Indiana if I have to.
‘Good morning, Miss Hayden,’ says a voice from behind me. I whirl around to see Mack, Mitchell’s monolithic bodyguard, looking thoroughly amused. ‘Would you like me to show you to Hugo Richmond’s room?’
I nod gratefully as Mack tosses a wink over my shoulder to the receptionist. He grips my elbow and steers me towards a bank of lifts.
‘Richmond?’ I whisper as we wait for the elevator. ‘Is that in Indiana?’
‘Sure is,’ Mack says. ‘Mitchell’s hometown. Right on the border with Ohio. It’s the birthplace of recorded jazz, you know.’ There’s a definite note of pride in his voice.
‘It wouldn’t happen to be your hometown too, would it, Mack?’
He shoots me an impish grin. ‘Born and raised.’
The lift arrives with a ding and the doors slide open. Mack hands me a swipe card.
‘He’s in the penthouse. You’ll need this to get up there. I was just on my way out for my lunch break.’ This time I’m the recipient of his wink, then the doors close and he’s gone.
The elevator shoots upwards, my heart rate increasing with every passing floor. By the time I’m deposited in the plush hallway that leads to the penthouse suite, I’m sure the thunderous beat must actually be audible to people in the adjacent rooms.
I tiptoe down the hall to the mahogany double doors at the far end. Crap. There’s a ‘Do not disturb’ sign hanging on the handle. But I press the buzzer anyway, confident that Mitchell won’t object to this particular kind of disturbance.
I press my ear to the door, but don’t detect any signs of life from the apartment within. The silence stretches on for what feels like hours. I press the buzzer again and hear it reverberate through the penthouse. Maybe Mitchell is a heavy sleeper. Or maybe he’s just ignoring the doorbell because he genuinely doesn’t want to be disturbed.
From the moment I stepped foot in the hotel, it seems the universe has conspired to prevent me from seeing Mitchell. Maybe it’s a sign that I should just cut my losses and go home. I turn to leave.
But wait.
Was that a muffled thump on the other side of the stately doors?
More endless moments pass and then, at last, there’s a click and the door swings open to reveal a bleary-eyed Mitchell – with a face like thunder.
‘What?’ he barks.
So he really was serious about the ‘do not disturb’ thing. It’s a shame, because he looks good enough to eat with his sleep-mussed hair and five o’clock shadow. He’s wearing only a pair of jeans, and the smooth expanse of his torso is indented with the pattern of wrinkled sheets. I imagine his bed, just a few metres away from where we’re standing, the warmth of his body still clinging to the linen, his pillow infused with his unique, heady scent.
In a split-second, the las
t of my reserve vanishes. I know where I want to be.
‘Hello,’ I say.
Mitchell’s eyes widen. ‘Kitty! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you. I’m not quite with it yet.’ A sleepy grin spreads across his face.
‘I woke you up?’
‘Yeah, but it’s fine. You’re better than the dream I was having.’ He reaches out and takes my hand. ‘Come in.’
Mitchell pulls me into the penthouse and closes the door behind us. A cursory glance reveals his temporary digs to be wildly more luxurious than anywhere I’ve ever been. There’s tasteful, modernist furniture; a full kitchen with marble benchtops; a flat-screen TV that takes up almost an entire wall. Recessed spotlights softly illuminate the gorgeous fresh floral arrangements that adorn virtually every flat surface. The thick cream carpet extends to the floor-to-ceiling windows, which reveal utterly breathtaking views of the Opera House, Harbour Bridge and the glittering harbour itself.
‘Wow,’ I breathe. ‘This place is amazing.’
Mitchell blinks in surprise. ‘You think?’ he says, casting a critical eye around the space. ‘I guess it’s okay, for a hotel. I much prefer your place.’
‘My place? My messy little cottage, which stinks of dogs and has tumbleweeds of their hair rolling down the hall?’
Mitchell laughs softly and pulls me close. ‘Your place, which smells like you and reflects all the things you love,’ he says, nuzzling my neck. The sensation of his stubble against my soft skin is intoxicating. I feel his hands drift to the belt of my trench.
Suddenly, he takes a step back, holding me at arm’s length. The moan that was building at the back of my throat turns into an indignant squeak.
‘What are you wearing, Kitty?’ he says, looking me up and down. ‘Did you do a spot of espionage on your way here?’
I might be insulted were it not for the cheeky glint in his eye. If he wants to play, then it’s game on. I untie the belt, shrug the coat from my shoulders and let it drop to the floor, pooling around my ankles.
The Ex Factor Page 11
