I jump in the shower, but the thought of dressing in yesterday’s clothes makes me feel slightly seedy. Plus, my blouse no longer has any buttons, so that’s not an option. I go to Mitchell’s walk-in wardrobe and pick out a red T-shirt, which I pair with my pencil skirt. Scraping my damp hair back into a ponytail and sliding on a pair of emergency ballet flats I always keep in my handbag, I feel at least vaguely presentable.
Taking the lift back down to the lobby, I’m aware yet again of the hush that descends as I cross the marble floor and hand my parking ticket to the valet.
‘That’s Mitchell Pyke’s girlfriend,’ a middle-aged woman wearing too much makeup stage-whispers to her companion.
And for the first time since I met Mitchell, being talked about as though I’m invisible doesn’t make me recoil inside. Mitchell wants me to move to Los Angeles with him. He chose me. I slip on my sunglasses, offer the old birds a dazzling smile and strut out into the sunshine.
By the time I get home, I’ve compiled a mental to-do list a mile long. First, I need to talk to Frankie. Part of me still wants to strangle her for buying that ridiculous clock, but I’m determined not to spend the few weeks before my departure on bad terms with my sister. Besides, she’s going to have to take responsibility for running the house while I’m gone and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to some misgivings about that. We have a lot to talk about.
Then I need to get online and investigate the visa situation, as well as figure out how to get Reggie, Dolly, Carl and Bananarama to America with me. Mitchell and I haven’t exactly had a chance to discuss the dogs coming too, but if he knows me at all then he knows leaving them behind is not an option.
But as I park the van in the driveway behind the Plymouth, I realise all that’s going to have to wait. Before I can do anything else, I’m going to have to battle through the media scrum assembled on my front lawn. What tasty morsel has the vultures salivating this time? As I step out of the van, my thrown-together outfit and makeup-free face suddenly seem less ‘modern woman owning her sexuality’ and more ‘walk of shame’.
‘Kitty! Do you have anything to say about the rumours?’ Erin McInerny, the same perky blonde reporter who felt my wrath via the dogs, thrusts a microphone in my face. If she’s feeling even vaguely sheepish or apologetic, it doesn’t show. In fact, she’s looking at me as if she’s never seen me before.
I know I should ignore them all and just get inside the house, but I can’t help myself. ‘What rumours?’
There’s a flash of something in Erin’s eyes. If that look could talk, it would say, ‘Gotcha.’ The half-dozen other reporters present also wave their mics at me, but seem content to let their towheaded ringleader do the talking.
‘The rumours about Vida Torres separating from Ellis Chevalier because she’s still in love with Mitchell Pyke,’ Blondie goes on.
‘They separated?’ For sobbing out loud, Kitty. Don’t engage with these people!
She nods. ‘They released a statement overnight.’ Well, that certainly casts the timing of Vida’s email to Mitchell in a whole new light.
Erin casts a critical eye over my clothing. ‘Were you with Mitchell last night, Kitty?’
As a matter of fact I was, Erin. We were at it like rabbits. Multiple orgasms like you would not believe.
‘I don’t have any comment to make,’ I say, pushing through the pack and striding to my front door.
‘No words of advice for Vida?’
I turn to face her, my mouth agape. ‘What could I possibly have to say to that woman? I’ve never even met her.’
I step inside and slam the door behind me.
‘They’ve been there since before dawn,’ Frankie calls from the living room. ‘It’s lucky you’re home. I was about to turn the hose on them.’
I go in to find her in her customary position on the sofa, computer whirring on her lap.
‘The dogs went sick at them when we went out for our walk,’ she says, looking up at me.
‘You walked the dogs?’ That’s a turn-up for the books.
Frankie nods. ‘I thought it was the least I could do. Considering . . .’
I sit down next to my sister. ‘Look Frank, about yesterday. I didn’t —’
But she holds up her hand, motioning for silence. ‘Please don’t apologise to me, Kitty. I should be grovelling to you. Everything you said was absolutely right.’
For the second time in as many minutes, my jaw hangs open. This may literally be the first time Frankie has ever uttered the words ‘you’ and ‘right’ in my direction.
‘I have been irresponsible since Mum died,’ she goes on. ‘I haven’t been pulling my weight around here and I do expect you to sort my life out for me. At least, I did.’
I frown. ‘You did?’
Frankie nods. ‘Yes, but that’s all going to change. I’ve been talking to . . . my friends, and I realise now that I need to grow up. Think things through a bit more. Make a valuable contribution.’ She sounds like she’s reciting a checklist. I don’t know which of my sister’s friends is so wise, but I’d like to shake her hand.
‘I’m applying for jobs, too,’ she says, nodding toward her laptop.
‘Well, that sounds amazing, Frankie. I look forward to seeing this new you in action. Though it’s totally bizarre that you’ve had your Oprah “aha!” moment now.’
The irony of Frankie’s about-face is too extraordinary to ignore. Just as I decide to take a leaf out of my sister’s life handbook and live my life a little closer to the edge, she resolves to take a more softly-softly approach. Who’d have thunk it? Not me, that’s for sure.
‘What do you mean?’ my sister asks.
‘Well . . . Mitchell and I . . . we sort of . . .’
Understanding dawns in an instant. ‘Ohmigod! I wondered where you were all night, you dirty stopout! So?’
‘So what?’
‘How was he?’
‘I can’t tell you stuff like that, Frankie!’
‘Uh, yeah you can. And you’d better. Like, right now.’
‘It was . . .’ I try to find words that won’t sound as if they’ve been lifted from the pages of a Danielle Steel novel. ‘It was un-freaking-believable.’
Frankie gives a low whistle. ‘High praise indeed.’
‘The highest.’
‘So where to now then?’
‘Funny you should ask. Los Angeles, as it happens. Mitchell’s asked me to go back with him when he finishes up on Solitaire.’
Now it’s my sister’s turn to look aghast. ‘Like, for a holiday?’
‘No. Permanently.’ At least, I think that’s what Mitchell meant. Who knows how long ‘permanent’ will be when you’re chasing a man you’ve known five days halfway around the world?
‘That’s pretty huge, Kitty. Are you sure it’s the best decision? I mean, the media intrusion has been incessant for the last week and that’s just here in little ol’ Sydney. What do you think it’s going to be like on Mitchell’s home turf?’
‘Couldn’t you have turned over your new, sensible leaf after I decided to shack up with a virtual stranger in a foreign land?’ I say with a wry smile.
‘I’m sorry, it’s just that —’
‘It’s okay. You’re a hundred per cent right – it’s not sensible or logical and it could all end in disaster,’ I say. ‘But I don’t care. I want to try. And I’d really like to know that my little sister is on my side.’
Frankie’s brow furrows. ‘I’m always on your side, Kitty. You know that.’ She purses her lips and I know she wants to say more.
‘Go on, let’s hear it.’
‘Does he love you?’
I blink at the candidness of her question. Does Mitchell love me? He hasn’t said so, but his actions in the past few days certainly seem to suggest he’s smitten. And his, uh, performance last night was more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. I shiver at the memory of his frantic kisses, his whispered words, the way his gaze seared into mine as he
made love to me.
I mean, you just don’t buy a vintage car for a woman, make her moan in ecstasy and ask her to pick up and move across the planet with you if you’re not head over heels, right?
Or maybe you do when you’re one of the most famous men in the world. ‘Let me be a movie-star boyfriend,’ Mitchell had said a couple of days before. Maybe buying expensive cars and shacking up in a heartbeat are the same in Tinseltown as buying a bunch of flowers or booking a weekend away in Sydney.
‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I tell Frankie honestly. ‘It’s all so new. We haven’t got to that stage yet.’
She raises her eyebrows and I know what she’s thinking: You haven’t got to the ‘I love you’ stage, but you have got to the ‘Sure, I’ll abandon my life and scurry along after you’ stage.
‘It’s not that I doubt that Mitchell has strong feelings for you,’ Frankie says carefully, ‘but you’ve got to admit this is all happening very quickly. A few days ago he was just some famous guy whose picture you used to mop up Bananarama’s pee.’
‘Frankie, don’t you think I’ve gone over all of this in my head already? It is fast. It’s so fast I practically have whiplash. But it just feels right.’
‘But have you stopped to wonder why Mitchell wants to move so quickly? I mean, he just came out of a five-year relationship with a woman who humiliated him so thoroughly that he publicly swore off love. Why is he ready to put his heart on the line again so soon? Surely the man has trust issues.’
‘Wait, let me see if I understand you,’ I say, trying to process Frankie’s worries. ‘So your problem with all of this is not that I’m going to go live in America. It’s not that he hasn’t said he loves me. It’s not that I’m going to be hounded by the paparazzi on a daily basis. It’s not even that you doubt that Mitchell is genuine. You’re telling me your biggest issue with the whole scenario is that Mitchell isn’t some baggage-laden, commitment-phobic ball of neuroses? You’re worried he’s too normal? Frankie, I think most women in their right minds would agree that’s a good thing.’
And yet I find myself thinking about how Mitchell needed me to reassure him of my feelings for him before we slept together yesterday. Does he see my acceptance of his crazy ‘move to Hollywood’ proposal as proof that I won’t be as cavalier with his feelings as Vida was? Maybe Frankie has a point – perhaps, despite his assurances that he wants to make a go of things, he is wary of being hurt again.
Still, my answer seems to have satisfied Frankie and her frown gives way to a smile at last. ‘Well, when you put it like that,’ she says. ‘Of course I’ll be your cheerleader. I’ll help you however I can. I mean, it’s not like having a megastar for a brother-in-law is going to be too horrible for me.’
‘Brother-in-law?! How about we just take this one step at a time?’
With a wink, Frankie gets to her feet. ‘Fair enough. The first thing we need to do is toast your impetuous, foolhardy and possibly catastrophic quest for love.’ She disappears into the kitchen and I hear glasses clinking.
‘Um, Frankie? It’s nine in the morning. A little early for booze perhaps?’
‘Fine,’ she calls out. ‘Coffee then. But seriously, Kitty, you’re definitely going to need a substance-abuse problem if you’re going to succeed in Hollywood.’
12.
The next ten days pass in a blur of organising and preparation for my big move. With trembling hands, I call Danica and tell her that I can’t accept her job after all. She’s disappointed, but remarkably understanding. She even books me to train the four-legged stars of the first two pet-food ads her company is making, which are shooting before I go. I’m secretly grateful for the work and the unexpected cash injection – it turns out moving countries is really expensive.
I’ve shown Frankie where all the household paperwork is filed – not that I expect my organised system to last long once I’ve left – and set up half-a-dozen direct debits for the monthly bill payments. I’ll be paying my share of the expenses out of my inheritance to begin with, until I manage to line up some work in Los Angeles. Another perk of having a movie-star boyfriend: his team of outrageously expensive lawyers was able to secure a working visa for me in no time flat. I feel a bit bad about queue-jumping, but hey, a girl’s got to earn a living. Although Mitchell has made it clear he’s happy for me not to work at all. ‘Take some time to find your feet,’ he’d said. But I know I’ll go stir-crazy without something tangible to occupy my time.
I’ve booked an international removals company to ship six enormous cartons of my stuff to California, but I’m leaving all of my furniture and most of my clothes and other possessions behind. Scribbling Mitchell’s – soon to be my – Hollywood Hills address on the labels is definitely one of the more pinch-worthy moments of my life.
Even the dogs are good to go. I’d been worried they’d have to spend months in quarantine once they get to America, but because they’re coming from a rabies-free country, I can pick them up right at LAX and whisk them off to their new home. And if MTV’s Cribs is anything to go by, I predict even laidback Carl is going to be impressed by his new abode.
When I’m not packing, I seem to be perpetually coiled around Mitchell in his bed or mine. Discovering who we are and how we fit together in the bigger sense may be a slow process, but we’ve shared a crash course in learning every curve, plane and touch-me-there spot of each other’s bodies.
Mitchell hasn’t mentioned the email from Vida and, through sheer force of will, I haven’t asked.
‘Hey, have you seen this?’ says Frankie, wandering into my bedroom as I touch up my makeup in front of the mirror. ‘Ooh, you look nice. Another hot date with Mitchell?’
‘Actually no, I’m having dinner with Adam.’ I twist my hair, still damp from the shower, into a haphazard bun.
‘Oh, that’s right. I forgot that was tonight,’ she says absently, staring at the iPhone clutched in her palm.
‘Seen what?’
‘Huh?’ She looks up, confused.
‘You came in and said, “Have you seen this?” Seen what?’
‘Oh. This.’ She holds out the phone.
I glance over, my mouth full of bobby pins, and see a gaudy gossip website displayed on the screen. It’s open to a story with a typically understated headline: Vida’s war of words with Mitchell’s new squeeze hots up!
I groan. What now? ‘Why don’t you précis it for me,’ I say.
‘Apparently Vida’s been on her Twitter account all “Who the hell are you?” because you said you have no idea who she is.’
‘What? I never said that.’ How could I possibly fail to know who Vida is after having her existence constantly shoved down my throat the past couple of weeks? ‘Let me see.’ I grab Frankie’s phone and scan the story.
Looks like there’s no love lost between Solitaire star Mitchell Pyke’s former love, model Vida Torres, and his new flame Kitty Hayden.
Just days after her split from hubby Ellis Chevalier, Vida’s taking aim at the Aussie sheila, who made a pointed dig at her love rival last week. Kitty told local media she’s ‘never met’ Vida and has nothing to say about ‘that woman’ – and Vida’s not impressed. Taking to Twitter, the Brazilian glamazon wrote: ‘Never met me? Maybe because I’m shooting an Elle cover in Bora Bora while you pick up dog poop. LOL.’
An hour later, Vida fired again: ‘“That woman” is the one he said he’d never get over. You might want to think about that #onetruelove.’
There’s been no word from Kitty on Vida’s barbs but her—
I look up at Frankie with fire in my eyes. Through gritted teeth, I read the rest of the story aloud. ‘“But her loyal younger sister, Frances, hit back on her own Twitter feed, saying, ‘Move on, girlfriend. Desperation is so not a good look for a supermodel’.”’
Frankie offers a hopeful smile. ‘Well, it’s not,’ she says meekly.
I throw her phone onto my bed with more force than I’d intended. ‘I appreciate you defending my honour, Fr
ankie, but you shouldn’t engage with this . . . this crap. It just adds fuel to the fire and helps them sell more of their hideous magazines. Vida probably didn’t really say any of that stuff.’
‘Oh, she definitely did,’ Frankie says vehemently. ‘I follow her on Twitter and she’s been making cryptic comments about you and Mitchell since day one. It’s amazing I managed to hold back for this long.’
I cast a sidelong glance at my sister. I hate myself a little for what I’m about to ask her, but I have to know. ‘Cryptic comments? What else has she been saying?’
‘Well,’ says Frankie, perching on the end of my bed. Why do I get the feeling she’s enjoying this? ‘First she posted all these quotes about lost love and not knowing what you’ve got til you lose it.’
‘Deep,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
‘Right? Then there were the read-between-the-lines ones implying Mitchell drove her into the arms of his best mate.’
‘Such as?’
Frankie scrolls through her Twitter feed with her index finger. ‘“Some people could use a reminder that it takes two to tango. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone #youllbeback.”’
‘I wonder if she actually speaks in clichés, or it’s just her tweets?’
Frankie stifles a smile. ‘But lately she seems to have moved on to phase three, which mostly seems to involve sticking the boot into you as often as she can without ever actually mentioning you by name. Like this: “They say never work with children or animals. What kind of masochist would want a job that requires both?” Masochist is spelled wrong, by the way. Oh, and this one is a particular favourite: “Wonder if the drapes match the carpet, haha”.’
The Ex Factor Page 13
